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“I’m telling you, Zlatan did score in El Clásico!”
“I never said he didn’t!” Neymar protests. “I just said it was not that Clásico!”
“But it was!” Geri throws his hands up in the air, looking way more worked-up than someone should be over such a simple argument. “Leo!”
Leo tries to ignore him. Maybe if he pretends to not hear them, Geri will leave him alone.
It doesn’t work. “Leo!”
Leo sighs, pulling his headphones down. “What?” He asks patiently, turning to look at the table Neymar and Geri are sitting at.
The two exchange glances.
“Leo,” Neymar begins, looking at him with a serious expression, as if the question he’s about to ask is a matter of life and death. “Did Zlatan score in the first Clásico of the 2009-10 season?”
Leo blinks. He stares at them both for ten solid seconds, internally wondering what kind of answer they were expecting. “I.. Don’t know?” He tries sheepishly. It’s true - he remembers for sure Zlatan scored during one of the encounters with Madrid, but how in the world would he know what game exactly it was. “Maybe?”
“Leo!” Geri is looking at him with betrayal written all over his face. “How can you not remember?”
Leo shrugs. “It’s not like I have the report of every single Clásico I’ve ever played saved in my head.” He replies, voice a bit defensive.
“It’s not just some Clásico!” Neymar exclaims, joining Geri in his frustration. “It’s the first Clásico Madrid played with Ronaldo!”
Geri picks up from there. “And the first Clásico we beat Ronaldo!”
Leo’s lips form an “oh”. So that’s what the big deal is about.
“It was a pretty eventful one, too,” Neymar goes on. “I remember watching it. Pepe and Arbeloa got a yellow. Diarra got a red. Puyol got a yellow, Busi got a red--”
Geri interrupts him. “And Zlatan scored!”
Neymar scowls at him, puffing his chest out to make up for the height difference. “No, he did not!”
That’s when Luis chooses to enter the room. He’s carrying a mate cup in one hand and a laptop in his other. “Fortunately for us,” He says calmly, sitting down on the couch next to Leo and placing the laptop on the table. “We live in the era of internet, where every argument can be resolved by spending a few minutes in google.”
Geri and Neymar both scowl at him, clearly not appreciating the lecturing tone.
“What do you think you are,” Geri asks, raising an eyebrow. “Smart?”
Leo uses the moment of distraction to snatch the mate cup from Luis’ hands. He sends him a sheepish smile when the other looks at him, but Luis doesn’t seem to mind all that much.
“Let’s see,”
Neymar and Geri settle on the couch next to him, and Luis opens the laptop. Leo expects him to just go to Zlatan’s page, but he chooses a different path. Leo watches in amazement as he loads a wikipedia article titled “Messi-Ronaldo Rivalry”.
“There’s a wikipedia page about me and Ronaldo?” The question is out before he has the chance to stop it. He knew there was an article about him. And about Ronaldo. But for there to be an article about the two of the, together, is honestly a surprise for him.
Luis looks at him in amusement. “Of course there is. You’re pretty clueless, huh?”
Geri lets out a bark of laughter. “He didn’t even know when their first match with Ronaldo was, earlier when we talked about it. Leo is so out of his league he doesn’t even bother with this kind of information!” Geri grins proudly and claps Leo on the back.
“Just read it already!” Neymar urges him, tugging on Luis’ sleeve.
“Alright,” Luis clears his throat and focuses back on the screen. “In the first league meeting of the two players, on 29 November 2009, it was Messi's Barcelona who came out on top, winning 1–0 with a goal from…” He glances up at Geri, smirking at him “...Zlatan Ibrahimović.”
“Ha! I told you!” Geri jumps up, clapping his hands and laughing madly. “I told you!”
“Oi, come on!” Neymar exclaims in disappointment, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “There gotta be some kind of mistake in there, I was so sure!”
“I knew it!” Geri yells at nobody in particular, still celebrating the won bet. “Nobody knows Barça’s history better than me,”
Neymar starts protesting, but Leo tunes them both out. He places the mate cup on the table and turns to Luis. “Can I see the article?”
The striker shrugs, passing the laptop over to Leo’s lap. “Yeah, sure, why not.”
Leo goes through the text slowly. He can recognise some of the pictures - the famous photo of them standing together in their countries’ colours before the international in Switzerland, the ones from the Ballon d’Or Gala.
There are a lot of firsts - the first club match, the first international game, the first award ceremony. So much information, so many records about the existence of some Leo didn’t even know.
It doesn’t have the most important firsts, though, he thinks.
Their first real match is the Champions League semi-finals between Barcelona and Manchester United.
They don’t talk, don’t exchange any greetings, their paths don’t cross on the field much, but Leo remembers looking at him with the ball between his feet and thinking that there was something special about the way he danced with the ball.
They lose. He should be used to it by now, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Semi-finals are so close to the first place, yet so far.
He places his head on Xavi’s shoulder and mumbles a soft “sorry” into his jersey. Xavi sighs and runs a hand through his hair gently. “Don’t apologise.” His voice is soft, yet he makes it sound like a command. “We can always try next year. Right?” He turns his head to look at Andrés, fingers still caressing Leo’s hair.
Andrés smiles kindly at both of them. “Always.” He looks at Leo, and his staring may be just a tiny bit too obvious because suddenly Andrés tilts his head, looking in the same direction Leo is. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” Leo hurries to avert his eyes but it’s too late.
“Ah,” Xavi clicks his tongue “Isn’t it the Ronaldo guy?”
Andrés hums in response “The press has been talking a lot about him lately. If a record was broken and it’s not our Leo, it’s most likely him.”
Leo bites his lip and shifts his weight from one leg to the other, not really knowing what to do with himself. His eyes find their way back to Ronaldo - he’s talking about something with Nani and some of his other teammates, laughing and smiling.
“I don’t know,” Zambrotta chimes in suddenly, joining their conversation. “We just saw him play - I don’t think he’s all that special.”
Leo doesn’t say anything, but he thinks he disagrees.
Xavi shrugs. “Only time will show, I guess.”
It’s a surprise even for him when, a month later, Leo finds himself sitting on the couch of his living room, preparing to watch the Champions League final between Manchester United and Chelsea with Geri. Well, actually, the act itself is no surprise at all - he’s just as much of a fan as anybody else, after all, he always watches the finals - but he usually does it without taking sides.
He kind of scares himself when he realises just how badly he wants Manchester to win.
Geri complains from where he’s lying on the couch next to Leo, feet propped up on a pillow. He curses at the TV, but the words are muffled from all the chips in his mouth. “God, Scholes is so fucking useless.” Two minutes later the previously mentioned midfielder crashes into Chelsea’s Makélélé mid-air and both get booked. Scholes has blood pouring out of his nose. Geri collapses face-down into the pillows and laughs.
“This team is a mess, god help them.”
Leo glances at him curiously. It’s nice to have him back in Barcelona. “Shouldn’t you be a bit more supportive of your former team?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He stuffs his mouth with more chips. “I’ve never played for any team except Barcelona.”
Leo shakes his head fondly and turns back to the screen. Five minutes later Manchester gets back to Chelsea’s side of the field. After a series of passes between Brown and Scholes they finally manage to set up a header.
It’s none other than Ronaldo.
The poor goalie has no chance, the forward sends the ball straight into the far bottom-left corner of the net, far away from the keeper and the defenders.
Leo’s heart does a funny flip when the ball hits the back of the net. He raises a fist in the air, mouth forming a victorious “si!”. He realises what he’s done only when he catches Geri staring at him.
“Dude,” He drawls. “They kicked us out of the CL and you’re cheering for them?”
Leo leans back into the pillows. “I’m not cheering for anybody. It was just a good goal.”
Geri mumbles something more under his breath, looking annoyed.
“Oi, come on, Geri. Their forward, Ronaldo. He’s..” Leo waves at the screen, where Ronaldo is hugging his teammates, celebrating the early lead. “He’s good.”
Leo isn’t sure how to interpret the grimace Geri makes. “I never said he’s not good. He’s just.. Kind of an asshole in real life.”
Leo shifts closer, nudging him with his shoulder. “You’re kind of an asshole too, Geri, but I still like you.”
“Hey!” Geri pulls away to look at him in disbelief. “Don’t compare me to Ronaldo!”
Leo laughs and throws an arm around Geri’s shoulder to pull him into a hug.
The next time Barcelona faces Manchester is in the Champions League final, the next year. It’s the last time they’ll get to face each other without every movement they make being coined as the “biggest rivalry in the history of football”, but neither of them knows it yet.
The pain from losing the semi-final is still there - they’re Barcelona, they’re invincible, they bleed blaugrana, and there’s absolutely nothing that can stop them this time.
When Leo is shaking hands with Ronaldo, he lets the contact linger for just a second longer. He may be imagining it, but he thinks it’s not only him.
Eto’o gives them the lead over Manchester, ten mere minutes into the game.
A little over five minutes after that Geri gets a yellow for bringing down Ronaldo. The two keep sending each other venomous glares, but before it has the time to dissolve into a fight their teammates arrive, dragging them both away. Manchester gets a free-kick. Leo makes a mental note to ask Geri about it later.
He scores in the second half. Xavi delivers the ball straight to his feet, and from there it’s just a matter of speed and skill.
Ronaldo is becoming visibly frustrated very fast. Eight minutes later he gets a merciless yellow from the ref for fouling Puyol. Even from the other side of the pitch Leo can feel Geri fuming, and he thanks the stars for Busi who’s there to hold him back from getting another yellow to both himself and Ronaldo.
The score doesn’t change until the end of the game, staying 2:0.
The moment the whistle blows Leo collapses onto the grass, smiling happily. Geri is all over him in a matter of seconds, pulling him up and yelling his ears off.
He wants to go straight to the dressing room, change, and go celebrate already, but reminds himself to shake hands with the opponents before doing so.
He can’t really say anything to most of them, even if he really wanted to, because of the language barrier, but that doesn’t seem to be a problem in most of the cases. Giggs and Rooney both clap him on his back, babbling something in English. Leo supposes they’re congratulating him on the win.
“Eh… Yes, thank you.” He responds in his heavily accented English, using about half of his five-words vocabulary. It’s not a lot, but the two seem to be very content with the little he has to offer.
“They said your goal was good.” A third voice suddenly speaks up, in Spanish. “And that you have a lot of potential and will definitely do great.” Ronaldo steps closer, clutching a half-empty water bottle in his hand. His eyebrows are furrowed together and his hair is wet from sweat. He isn’t smiling, unlike Giggs and Rooney. If anything, he looks tired, completely worn-out, highly upset and, more than anything else, angry. Yet, his words don’t sound hostile, he seems to be angry at the way things are, not at specific individuals. Leo can understand it. “Your goal, by the way, really was good.”
“Oh.” Leo fiddles with the hem of his jersey, not sure how to reply to that. All of it is still so new for him. He doesn’t have Geri’s big personality or Xavi’s calm confidence, he never knows how to react. “Uh, thank you. You.. Played really well too.” He looks up. “I watched the final last year. You header was amazing.” He searches for something in Ronaldo’s eyes - he’s being one hundred percent honest here, and he needs the other to believe him.
Ronaldo straightens his shoulders out a bit. Unlike him, he seems to have absolutely no trouble accepting compliments. “Thanks. I guess you could say so, yeah.” It isn’t accompanied by a smile or anything, but the frown on his face seems to soften. “Here,” He says suddenly, holding out the water bottle for him. “Splash some water on your face, you look..” He raises a hand to his own face, gesturing at it with his free hand. “Almost as red as your shirt.”
Leo raises a hand, pressing it against his cheek. It does feel hot, indeed. “Right.. Thank you.” He accepts the bottle, splashing some onto the burning skin. It does immediately make him feel better. Ronaldo is much darker than him, he notes, so the blush from all the running they did today is less obvious, but when he looks closer he can see that the other’s face is, in fact, just as flushed as his own.
Just as Ronaldo’s expression seems to turn into a more casual, relaxed one, his eye suddenly catches something behind Leo’s back that makes him frown again, body tense. Leo doesn’t get to wonder what it is for too long because the next moment Geri’s long arms are wrapping around him, pulling him into another hug.
“Leo! I was looking for you.” He looks over at Ronaldo casually, as if he just noticed him. “Oh. Hello to you too, Cristiano.”
Ronaldo isn’t trying to hide his displeasure. He glares at Geri accusingly, a hand resting on his hip. “Gerard.” He greets him coldly. “Good game.”
“Why, thank you!” Geri smiles widely and places a hand over his heart. “So glad to hear that, you too.” He waves a hand in Ronaldo’s direction, then in Leo’s. “Cristiano - Leo, Leo - Cristiano. Leo, me and Cristiano used to play together in United. Cristiano, this is Leo, my Barça teammate and football’s future.”
Leo really wishes Geri wasn’t as blunt as he is about some things. Still, he raises his hand up timidly, and lets out a small “hi”. Ronaldo isn’t looking at him, though, he just keeps staring at Geri coldly. “Yeah, I already know, thanks.” He replies dryly. Geri keeps grinning. Leo wonders if he’s the only one feeling super uncomfortable (it does look like that).
“Fine. I won’t keep you waiting, enjoy the win.” Ronaldo says finally, giving up on continuing the conversation. “Gerard,” His eyes move back to Leo again “Messi,” He raises two fingers to his temple, sending a small salute their way. “See you, I guess.”
Leo watches him walking away into Manchester’s dressing room. He groans, slumping back against Geri’s wide frame. “Why do you have to be such an ass all the time? I was trying to make friends.”
“Make friends?” Geri’s voice is almost a screech. “Then I saved your life, mind you. Talking to Ronaldo after his team just lost is the worst idea you could ever get. He’s annoying enough in his normal state, but after losses he’s simply unbearable.”
Leo tilts his head back, looking up at Geri. “You’re unbearable when you win.”
Geri’s lips twist into a smirk. “Damn right.” He sends a hand into Leo’s hair, ruffling it playfully. “Seriously though, leave him alone, he’s just in a pissy mood. He’ll calm down, Rio will talk him out of it. Talk to him some other time.”
“Some other time” comes much sooner than any of them could imagine.
Ironically, the first time he hears about the transfer rumours it’s from Geri. They’re at Xavi’s place, sitting outside on the grass, Leo sipping a banana shake and Geri babbling non-stop about everything at once.
“...Speaking of transfer rumours - do you know who’s Madrid trying to buy?”
Leo isn’t actually listening, just putting in the right questions at the right moments. “Who?”
“Ronaldo! Manchester’s Ronaldo!”
That does the trick. The name catches Leo’s attention, making him look up from the glass and look over at Geri. “Ronaldo? To Madrid? Real Madrid?”
“Yeah! And for some absolutely ridiculous price, too. I heard they’re gonna pay a hundred million for him or some shit. Can you believe that?”
Leo goes back to fiddling with the straw in his shake. But this time his mind stays in the subject, not the glass. “Ronaldo to Madrid..” He hums. It means a lot of things: it means harder games for Barça, more competition for him. Leo likes competition. “And how...likely is it?”
Geri shrugs. “I know? Ask Xavi. But we’ll just have to see, I guess.”
Leo stays silent for a moment, thinking. “Hey, why can’t you just ask him? You still have his number, don’t you?” He says finally.
Geri’s eyes widen comically. “Dear god, no!” He presses a finger to his mouth, as if Leo just said something very offensive. “What if it turns out to be true and he’s a blanco now? I can’t risk it!”
Leo shakes his head. Well, if Geri says so...
Ronaldo transfers to Madrid that summer. Together with him come Kaká, Benzema and Alonso. Geri keeps ranting about how spending so much money on players is just a sign of lacking good “team material” in the youth teams, but Leo finds it hard to focus on that part.
He’s scrolling through the long list of articles, each trying to portray Ronaldo’s transfer in a different light. They all have one thing in common, though: every single one of them has his name. They’re all talking about Ronaldo and Messi, about the upcoming El Clásico. Everyone is excited to see the best come head-to-head in the most popular game in football history.
Leo thinks he’s just as excited as them, maybe even more.
There are some (a lot of) people who seem to not share his positive sentiment, though, because the day of the game Camp Nou greets Ronaldo with a wave of hostile whistles. Ronaldo takes it on with pride; with a raised chin and a puffed out chest, like the culés’ whistles are just another award he came to receive.
The game is intense, with too many fouls and too many cards, but for El Clásico it’s really nothing new.
They win with a goal from Zlatan in the second half.
Leo shakes hands with Iker, exchanges a few friendly words with Higuain, but before he can even begin to try and search Ronaldo out, the Madrid forward stomps by them, heading straight for the dressing room. It’s like he has a huge grey ball of negative energy around him, screaming “don’t talk to me”. Geri was right about this then, he does have quite the temper after losses. There is always next time, Leo decides. It looks like they’ll be seeing each other more and more often these days.
Madrid loses the next two games too. It’s a very bad run (Geri keeps insisting it’s Mourinho and the way his tactics just don’t fit Madrid), not that Leo is complaining. But even he knows better than to approach Ronaldo after that, especially after Barcelona completely trashes Madrid with a humiliating 5-0.
The first time they get the chance to really talk is after an international friendly between Portugal and Argentina.
Ronaldo puts in a quick, sharp goal only six minutes after Ángel’s. You could easily say he got lucky - appeared in the right place, in the right time - but anybody who plays the game for long enough knows there’s no such thing as “lucky” in football. This “in the right place, in the right time” is a matter of skills, experience, instinct and deep understanding of the game.
Leo almost feels disappointed when, mere minutes before the end of the match, he is fouled in the penalty box and Argentina gets a penalty.
Standing there, in front of Portugal’s goal, he almost wants to miss, almost wants the game to end in a draw. It’s just a friendly, after all, what does it matter?
But football has always come first, it’s not going to change now. Leo shoots. The ball goes in. Argentina wins in the last minutes.
Leo sits down on the stairs in the tunnel with a towel hanging around his neck and a cold water bottle by his side. When Masche and Rojo both pass by him to the dressing room, they clap him on the shoulder, congratulating him on the goal.
Leo isn’t expecting anything, but, surprisingly, it’s Ronaldo who reaches out first.
“Good goal.”
Leo feels a body sit down next to him on the stairs. When he turns his head to look, he’s facing Ronaldo.
He looks different from when they last talked, during the CL final against Manchester. His hair is neater, jaw sharper. He looks older, too, but it looks good on him.
“It wasn’t a goal, it was a penalty.” The words are out before he can stop them. Turning down compliments is probably not the best way to deal with them, but it’s too late now.
Nevertheless, Ronaldo doesn’t seem to mind. He shrugs lightly. “So what? Penalties are still goals.” He states it casually, yet with a hundred percent confidence in his words. Like it’s a fact to not be arguing with. “It requires no less skill and concentration than any other type of goal.” He reaches out a hand to give Leo’s shoulder a light squeeze. Leo finds himself noting mentally that it’s their first real physical contact outside of the necessary match handshakes. “Don’t ever let anybody convince you otherwise.”
Leo nods slowly, eyes studying the pitch in front of them. Almost everybody left right now, the only people that are still there are the staff who have to take care of the pitch and the equipment. “I guess.” It does sound pretty convincing when he says it like that. “Hey,” He says, turning back to look at Ronaldo. “Are we even allowed to talk to each other?” It’s a joke - of course they are - but at the same time it isn’t. Leo thought it will end after Ronaldo comes to Madrid, he thought people will get tired of comparing them, but the hype around their so called “rivalry” has only been growing ever since.
Ronaldo laughs. “God, now that you mentioned it, god help me if Mourinho finds out I was talking with the enemy.”
Leo chuckles. Pep probably wouldn’t mind, he always said that rivalry should not go beyond the sidelines of the pitch. Puyol, Xavi and Andrés are the same, and he knows for sure that Iker is as well. Overall, most of the players are not really as hostile toward each other as the press likes to make it out to be.
“You,” Ronaldo says, his words pulling Leo out of his train of thoughts. “You played for Barcelona your entire life, didn’t you?”
Leo nods. “Yeah, more or less. I moved to Spain when I was thirteen, and I never played for any other club. So yeah, most of my life.”
Ronaldo nods in understanding. “Thirteen, huh? That’s early.” He raises a hand to rub his neck. “I… I’ve never been big on the whole El Clásico thing, to be honest.” He admits. “I mean, I always watched the games, but I never actually associated myself with one of the sides until Madrid called. Sure, England has the Manchester derby, the London derby, but.. None of it is as big as,” He gestures at the space between them with his hand. “This.”
Leo nods. “Yeah, I get what you mean.” He really does. Spain’s football culture is very different from most other countries’, even Argentina’s. It can get a bit tiring sometimes, even for him. “Here in Spain people are very passionate about their clubs. Which is not a bad thing at all,” He hurries to add. “It’s good. But some people take it a bit too far.”
“Ooh, yeah, I noticed.” Ronaldo smiles cheekily. “Sergio and Pepe like making jokes at Barça’s expense. I don’t always get them, but they must not be very nice because Iker always yells at them.”
Leo smiles. It all sounds way too familiar. “Yeah, it’s the same thing with Geri and Xavi.”
They sit there for a few moments in a calm silence. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable. If anything, it’s pretty soothing.
All of a sudden, Ronaldo turns around to face Leo completely and holds out his hand. “Cristiano.” He says. “Cristiano Ronaldo. Cris for friends.”
Leo stares, not really sure what to do. “Um, yes? I know?”
Ronaldo raises an eyebrow. “Does it really count if you’ve only heard about it from other people?”
Leo ponders the thought for a moment. When he thinks about it like this, Ronaldo is right. They know a lot of things about each other, but it’s all from outside. Rumours, friends, teammates, newspapers. In reality, they don’t actually know anything about one another.
“Okay.” Leo smiles. “Then I’m Leo.” He says, reaching his hand forward to take Ronaldo’s. “Leo Messi.”
“Leo,” Ronaldo repeats slowly, tasting the sound of the name.
Leo nods. “Cristiano.”
“Cris.” The other corrects him quickly. “It’s Cris for friends.”
Leo’s eyebrows rise in surprise at the statement. But it’s a good kind of surprise. “Why, are we friends?” He asks with a smile, testing the newly discovered ground.
Cris returns the smile. “I mean… We could be.”
Leo thinks he would very much like that, and so much more.
“I’m not doing this.” Neymar glares at the shining, red chili pepper. It looks so innocent, so pretty, you could never guess how damaging it actually is if you didn’t know. “I am not eating this thing.”
“You lost!” Geri exclaims pointedly “That was part of the deal! Zlatan scored, I won, you do what I dare you to!”
Neymar changes tactics, pouting and looking up at Geri pitifully. “This is cruel! I would never do something like this to you!” He looks over at Luis for backup, but the striker just chuckles and shakes his head in amusement. Neymar sighs, looks back at the deadly fruit and pokes it tentatively. “Do I really have to do this?”
He’s saved from his horrible fate by a loud ring coming from the door. “I’ll open!” Neymar jumps immediately, dropping the chili and running off to the entrance door, making Geri let out a long, disappointed sigh.
“Go easy on him, will you?” Luis says, nudging Geri’s elbow with his. “Dare him to wear normal clothes for a week instead, let’s see how he manages.”
Geri gives him a funny look. “You guys are Latino, you’re supposed to like spicy stuff.”
Luis makes a face. “Well, I do, but that doesn’t necessarily-”
Leo raises a hand “I call bulshit.” He states firmly “It’s just a stereotype - I can’t stand spicy stuff.”
Geri smirks and reaches a hand to pinch Leo’s cheek playfully “I bet you turn all red if you eat this chili-”
“Leo!” Neymar’s voice echoes through the house, drawling out the name “This is for you!”
Leo raises an eyebrow at Geri and Luis in surprise “Me?” he looks down at his phone, checking the time. He can’t recall any visits scheduled for today. Either way, Leo jumps down from the counter, gets into his slippers and shuffles over to the door.
He’s greeted by a pleasant surprise. Cristiano is standing in the doorway, leaning against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, looking like his best self with the shiny sunglasses and the freshly cut hair. When he spots Leo he raises a hand to pull the glasses off and grins. “Leo,”
Leo feels his lips turn into a warm smile “Cris,” he replies “we were just talking about you.”
“That’s a lie!” They can both hear Geri’s loud voice yelling from the kitchen “We were talking about stereotypes and chili pepper!”
Cristiano cocks an eyebrow. “Ooh, I love chili.”
Leo turns his head back, yelling so Geri can hear him “See? Cris likes spicy food, and he’s not Latino.”
When he turns back to look at Cristiano, the Portuguese is smiling in amusement. “I’m not even going to ask what kind of conversation you were having that involved me, Latinos and chili pepper.”
Leo shakes his head “You don’t wanna know. But Cris,” he asks, suddenly remembering “I thought you had a photoshoot?”
“We finished early,” Cristiano replies easily “And well,” straightens up, a playful glimmer in his eyes “I just washed my car,” he points a thumb behind his back, where a loudly yellow car is standing in Leo’s parking, shining under the sun “Wanna go for a ride?”
Leo smiles. He would love to. “Of course,”