Chapter Text
"Kaká came over yesterday for rehab—you know, because I've got the latest hydrotherapy ultrasonic rig at my place," Cristiano explained to Marcelo, tone completely deadpan, while crab-walking sideways toward the closet.
He stretched his arm high, pulling a fresh pair of briefs from the very top shelf.
"Why on earth do you keep your underwear up so high?!" Kaká's pitch spiked.
"Because bending over to grab my underwear makes me feel deeply unsafe!" Cristiano shot back, raising his voice to match.
"Okay, guys, I just remembered—my flowers at home need watering, gotta bounce." Marcelo held up both hands in a quick, mock-defensive gesture, giving them a tiny wave. "No need to see me out, you're both on the mend. I get it, patients helping patients. Bye!" He slipped out the door before the crossfire could escalate any further.
Hurrying down the stairs, Marcelo couldn't help but recall how his parents used to fight when he was a kid—raising their voices just to shut everyone else out, like a weird display of how private their bond was. Nope, stop thinking about it! Standing outside Cristiano's front door, staring into the empty driveway, Marcelo realized he hadn't driven here. He'd planned to borrow one of Cris's supercars to get home, and now—"Ugh, damn it!"
"I'm getting dressed," Kaká said loudly, glaring over with narrowed eyes.
Cris blinked in confusion and turned around.
"Why are you turning away?! It's not like we haven't seen each other in the dressing room!" Kaká's voice climbed another notch.
"I thought you didn't want me looking..." Cris didn't yell back this time. His voice actually dropped into a sheepish mumble. He turned back, but his eyes darted around the room, desperate for a normal place to land.
Wait, shit! Cris realized a second too late that he'd messed up. He should've just acted natural instead of being so overly sensitive, as if something real had actually happened. Normal teammates do not act like this!
He snapped his gaze back to read Kaká's expression. Kaká's brows were pressed low, his lips pursed slightly to one side, his whole face practically screaming suspicion.
Kaká didn't know what was making him so irritable and panicked, either. Was it waking up in an unfamiliar place with zero memory again? Was it waking up completely naked again? Or was it having Marcelo stumble upon this bizarre scene, leaving him with no idea how to explain it later?
And then there was Cristiano—what was with this timid, guilty act? What actually happened? Kaká was suddenly reminded of Inzaghi's dog: usually proud and fearless, but the second it did something wrong, it would look at its owner sideways like a nervous little Oreo, afraid to make direct eye contact.
Kaká's gaze drifted to the black tracksuit laid out on the bed. Scanning the subtle white fuzz clinging to the fabric, his heart sank bit by bit. Those clothes had been completely clean when he took them out earlier. Which meant those hairs could only have picked up from the mattress.
Which meant a white dog had definitely slept on this bed.
Cristiano had never owned a dog. Even if friends brought one over, he'd never let it onto his bedroom bed. And on Cris himself... Kaká swept his eyes over Cristiano from top to bottom. The plain white T-shirt was the ultimate giveaway; under the bright bedroom light, several strands of white fur were visibly clinging to the cotton, swaying with every small movement.
Just how many times did he roll around holding that dog?!
At the thought that the dog might have been himself, Kaká wanted to do nothing but sigh. Then again, considering his own personality wasn't exactly passive, maybe he'd transformed into a dog and pinned Cris down to bite him. God, poor Cris.
Cris watched as Kaká's cheeks puffed out angrily for a few moments longer before letting out a long, heavy breath, finally exiting 'pufferfish mode' to speak.
"We need to talk. Tell me what happened today, and we need to break down every detail from yesterday too." Kaká took the lead, stepping toward the bedroom door.
Cristiano was thrilled by this turn of events—Kaká hadn't slammed the door and stormed off! He scrambled to follow Kaká downstairs, ending up in… the kitchen?
Kaká pulled open the double-door fridge, stared at the wall-to-wall stack of top-tier ingredients, gave a steady nod, and slammed it shut with a crisp clack.
"There's no food."
"What?" Cris leaned over, bewildered, pulling the door back open. It was packed with fresh, premium groceries the housekeeper had stocked just this morning. "What do you want that isn't in here?"
Kaká walked over to the kitchen island with a pout, pulled out a high stool, and sat down. "There's nothing ready to eat." He looked up at Cris with absolute confidence, as if waiting for his move.
Cris was thoroughly baffled until a shocking realization crossed his mind—his usually calm, composed teammate, three years his senior, was still throwing a tantrum. And he was using this incredibly childish routine to demand a home-cooked meal as compensation.
Cris turned his upper body slightly, keeping the fridge open while tilting his head to gauge Kaká's expression.
He reached for a bell pepper; Kaká kept his poker face. He reached for the broccoli; Kaká's brows knit together. He reached for a carrot; Kaká's brow relaxed!
Cris suppressed the urge to test every single vegetable in the fridge. Armed with his carefully selected ingredients, he stepped over to the counter and announced loudly to himself, "Guess I'll just have to make some pasta!"
He stole a side glance at Kaká. The corners of Kaká's mouth had returned to their usual subtle curve.
Pasta it is! Smug as could be, Cristiano turned around and got to work.
Watching Cris happily cooking, clearly pleased with his own cleverness, Kaká let out a quiet smile. Let him think his efforts paid off, he thought; hopefully it would ease some of his panic. If he really had turned into a dog twice in the past two days, the shock and effort Cris bore weren't any less than his own—protecting him, keeping the secret from everyone, even skipping training.
Kaká rubbed his face. Once they sorted out the main issue, he was going to give Cris a proper apology.
Watching Kaká polish off a massive plate of pasta, Cristiano didn't even notice his own eyes practically flashing like hazard lights. Basking in that intense, shimmering gaze, Kaká felt a little self-conscious. "Cris, it was delicious. Thank you."
Forgiving someone after waking up naked beside them twice in 24 hours AND complimenting his cooking... Kaká was an absolute angel! Cris was touched by Kaká's boundless grace for a brief second before Kaká continued: "Let's trace back what we did before and after I turned into a dog. Where are pen and paper?"
Cris volunteered to go fetch them, his mind racing into panic mode. We have to talk about what happened AFTER he turned into a dog too?! What did I do? If I cut out the parts where we snuggled and rolled around together, what else is even left to say?!
Sitting back on the sofa together, there was no longer an Atlantic Ocean of space between them. Looking at Kaká right next to him, Cris found it even harder to open his mouth.
"Day one, we were at the training center. The last thing I remember is praying." Kaká drew a simple timeline table, breaking it into time slots. In his own row, he wrote Praying, then slid the pen tip to Cris's row, tilting his head to look at him.
"I... was praying too." Cris looked back at Kaká's serious face, bit his lower lip lightly, and added after a beat, "I was praying for God to ease your pain."
"Thank you, Cris."
Kaká's embrace came so fast. It wasn't a polite, formal hug; Cris could distinctly feel the powerful heartbeat inside Kaká's chest, sending his own pulse spiking wildly.
The hug lasted far longer than he anticipated. Long enough for him to smell the familiar scent of his own laundry detergent on Kaká's clothes; long enough for the breath brushing against his shoulder to turn scalding hot.
Right. Kaká was dealing with something this bizarre during an already difficult time, and he was the only person Kaká could rely on right now. Cris thought about it, but didn't dare tighten his arms. He settled for patting Kaká's back gently. "You'll recover soon. Until then, I'll stay right by your side."
Kaká gave an almost imperceptible nod, the space between them breathing again. "And then, I turned into a dog. What breed was it again?"
"A Samoyed."
Kaká nodded, gesturing for him to elaborate.
Cris traced a shape in the air. "Just a tiny little thing, all white." Seeing Kaká stay silent, he quickly added, "Super thick fur, felt amazing to touch, really bouncy ears. Soft paw pads, but really strong lower legs, haha... just like yours."
No! Cris snapped his mouth shut, not daring to look at Kaká. Why was he getting more excited as he talked?! Say less, Cris!
Fortunately, Kaká just calmly recorded it on the sheet. "What did I do after turning into a dog?"
"You slept most of the time. Very well-behaved, very cute." Cris looked back at Kaká. "Do you really believe me when I say you turned into a dog?"
"I can't think of any other way you could've carried me back and forth without getting caught," Kaká said, spreading his hands. "Besides, it's easy enough to verify—just ask Marcelo and Dr. Carlos if you actually brought a Samoyed around yesterday. I trust you, Cris."
Kaká filled in the timeline as Cris talked, finally reaching the moment he turned back into a human for the first time. Cris pouted, brows slightly furrowed, trying hard to recall. "I was just giving you a bath in the tub…"
Following his words, Kaká recalled the comfortable feeling right before he regained consciousness—a sense of total, whole-body relaxation. It was the exact same feeling he had when waking up in Cris's bed at noon today. Maybe that's the key trigger for changing back?
"Next is today." Kaká drew another table, the memory of this morning still making his chest tighten slightly. He wrote down the last moment he remembered, then turned to Cris again.
Cris laced his fingers together, tightened his grip, and unlaced them. "I turned around and saw your clothes sitting on the back seat, and you'd turned into the Samoyed. So I drove you to the training center." He laced his fingers again. "We got there in half an hour."
"Half an hour? Traffic shouldn't be bad at that time," Kaká asked, puzzled. "It usually takes me twenty minutes."
"Because... there was an accident on the highway, caused a bit of a jam." Cris nodded earnestly. Thank God I only kissed the dog for ten minutes, not longer.
"Oh God, bless them. Is everyone okay?"
"Nobody got hurt." Cris kept nodding to reinforce his own cover story. "Then I carried you around the medical facility for a loop, repeating everything we did that day."
"You made a dog do physical training?!" Kaká's pen stopped.
"I didn't! I just put you on the equipment!" Cris adjusted his posture, pulling his body into a tighter posture. "Then I called in sick to the team doctor and brought you home. We had some friendly interaction, you fell asleep, and I carried you to the bedroom to rest." He didn't even notice the faint smile quietly tugging at the corner of his lips.
Looking at his teammate's softened profile, Kaká pulled a cushion from behind him into his lap, settling in to hear whatever long-winded story Cris was about to 'casually' drop next—until his fingers brushed against the fluff on the fabric, and a few... holes?
"What's the story here?" he asked instinctively.
Cris blinked in confusion, then remembered the cushion that had turned into a dog toy at noon.
"Did I… bite this?" Seeing Cris stay silent, Kaká's brows drooped. "Oh God, I'm sorry. Did I bite you?"
"No! Of course not! Kaká!" Cris instantly threw his arms wide to demonstrate. "Look, no marks anywhere! You were very good—I mean, the puppy was very good! I was the one using the cushion to tease you..."
Kaká forced a small, crestfallen smile. "That's good. I just didn't expect that turning into a dog would actually make me act like an animal, tearing things up."
Cris hated seeing that expression on Kaká's face more than anything. He immediately wrapped an arm around Kaká's shoulder, pulling him closer. "Even as a puppy, Kaká is incredibly lovable. You didn't do anything wrong, you healed everyone around you. Really! You were so cute that I swallowed who knows how much dog hair while kissing you today—do you think humans need to take hairball paste?"
Kaká pursed his lips, tilting his head with a helpless laugh. "Should I say thank you, Cris?"
Damn it! Every time Kaká had an emergency, Cris lost his composure. He realized he'd just exposed his own stupidity all over again.
"I think both transformations were somehow tied to training and football!" he blurted out, trying desperately to change the subject. "Should we head to Valdebebas tonight after the main squad finishes evening training, just to check it out?"
"Alright. But there's one thing to fix before that. Do you know where my phone is? Did you see it when we went to the training center today?" Kaká gestured hopelessly. "I've been off the grid for almost two days. I need to contact my family."
Normally, Cris would have remembered something like that. But holding a Kaká-puppy wasn't a normal situation—his mind had been entirely wrapped around the little dog the whole time.
"Let's head over there again then. We'll stop by my place first to grab my car, otherwise if someone snaps a photo of 'Cristiano taking sick leave to visit training center, suspected to see Kaká', José might literally tie us up and use us as footballs."
Kaká stood up, tugging at his waistband. "And while we're there, let me change into my own clothes. Your pants are way too tight."
Following behind Kaká, Cris let his eyes dart quickly over the thick thighs and sharp lines outlined by the denim, secretly resolving to buy a lot more tight pants in this size going forward.
Night had fallen completely. Evening training for the first team was long over, and the training ground, stripped of its daytime noise, was bathed in stillness. To avoid security, the two parked outside the private access lane and used their player credentials to slip into Training Pitch No. 2.
The massive, match-grade floodlights surrounding the pitch had gone dark, leaving only the dim, amber footlights along the grass edges burning low. Their soft, golden glow washed over the turf, making the dew on the grass blades glisten like pearls.
The night breeze carried an October chill mixed with the damp scent of crushed grass, brushing through Kaká's hair. He took a deep breath. The crisp air felt like it was washing his soul clean, and the anxiety that had been hovering in his chest for the past two days seemed to gently settle, caught by the vast green expanse beneath them.
He stepped on the ball, executed his signature effortless touch, and tapped it smoothly across to Cris on the far side. Cris took it in stride, and under the dim lights, the two began a series of effortlessly synchronized short passes. The ball made a steady, rhythmic thump, thump against their boots.
Taking advantage of a run, Kaká turned to face Cris against the hazy glow, tiny flecks of light reflecting in his eyes.
"Thank you, Cris... seriously. If it weren't for you these past two days, I don't know what kind of mess I'd be in."
There it was again—that fragile, helpless smile.
Cris couldn't even count how many times he'd heard Kaká say 'thank you' today. Every single time the word left Kaká's mouth, it felt like a polite, unmistakable boundary drawn between them. Cris stopped his feet, letting the ball slowly roll away.
He took long strides straight toward Kaká, closing the distance until they were close enough to feel the heat of each other's breath. In the hazy dark and the low light, Kaká's hair looked like Sif's golden strands, wrapping tightly around his heart.
Cris stared directly into Kaká's eyes. He felt as though the voice wasn't even coming from his own throat:
"Stop saying thank you to me."
The words tore out from the very bottom of his heart; he couldn't control what he was saying at all.
He stepped in just a fraction closer, his tone carrying an unshakable stubbornness and a truth he had suppressed for far too long:
"I didn't do any of this just to hear you thank me. I just… really like being with you. Whether it's playing football, or just living life."