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When the ball falls gently, almost artistically, on Leo’s thigh, bouncing up softly into space and then lightly rebounding off Leo’s magical, genius, untouchable left foot, Kun knows. He can see it, can see it as if it’s already happened, as if he’s in Messi’s super brain, as if Kun’s a psychic.
Sure enough, it seems as if he’s gone deaf, or maybe the stadium has fallen utterly silent, spellbound in anticipation, as Leo vaults the ball off his weaker foot, his right one, except it’s the wrong one, and in it goes. And then it’s roaring—the roaring of a country, the roaring of relief, the roaring—in Kun’s own heart—of Messi’s name, over and over and over again, like a drumline, like a chant, like the endless rhythm that’s been playing in Kun’s veins since he was only 17 years old.
Messi Messi Messi
And so it’s been since they lifted that first trophy together—only teenagers, long-haired, fresh-faced—their hearts like fresh cream, brilliant and pure and untouched.
Kun only knows that he wants to touch Messi, not just now but forever. Eternity stretching both ways—past and present. Because he’s always wanted Leo, hasn’t he?
He doesn’t get his chance because they’re tied on goals now and suddenly there is silence in Kun’s heart—he can hear Leo’s name, but only faintly. It sounds like a plea now, like a wish, like maybe a sigh into the void—they’ve been here so many times. Maybe… maybe they’ve lost all their nine lives, maybe they won’t stop landing on their feet… maybe it is finally, completely, over.
When Rojo scores, Kun’s feet move of their own volition, thundering into the grass, eating up the distance between them as he runs to Leo. His heart has begun the tattoo drumline again, the underlying chorus of his life: Messi Messi Messi.
When he jumps on Leo, he feels weightless—even as the rest of the blue-and-whites fall on them, even though it is hard and painful and crushing and how can joy feel so palpably weighted when they’re all like feathers, floating in the wind?
He hugs Leo after the game, feeling the hunger pulse through him, the roaring in his head, his stomach turning and turning and turning. He has to have Leo or he’ll go mad—has to have him now now now. Hasn’t he waited long enough? Hasn’t this tournament taught him that everything should be savoured? That time is precious? That this is the last tournament for them both together?
There’s nothing to say, even as they clutch each other, as Messi closes his eyes in the embrace like he always does. There are too many hands reaching for Leo—as always—and Kun gives in, but only now, only this moment, this second. He’s done waiting—today is Leo’s day, Argentina’s day, but most of all, today is Kun’s day.
There’s nothing to say, but the words come unbidden. “Hoy por vos," he whispers. Today for you. For you. He could have said todo por vos, all for you, and it would have been true.
Maybe Leo understands, or maybe Leo already knew—maybe Leo, with his dark eyes and his quiet mouth—maybe he can see better than others can. It seems like it on the pitch, but maybe that skill translates here too—maybe it sees Kun’s yearning, his hunger, his ache, his everything—all for Messi, todo por él.
“Que hombre,” Leo whispers back. What a man. His eyes are fierce and liquid, flashing and bigger than Kun has ever seen before, the pupils dilated in emotion, and Kun feel the depth of Leo’s hunger suddenly, the breadth of it—the scope of it, surrounding and enveloping Kun in its red snapping claws, devouring anything in its way.
Calm steals over Kun because it’s all he’s wanted, isn’t it? That return, the reply, the regalo, the reward for all those years. Maybe Leo, too, has yearned—maybe, suddenly, what so many lost finals couldn’t do, maybe this one—won—game does. Maybe they are too old for games, maybe too jaded and cynical to give up another chance.
Kun wonders, how long did Leo wait? Did he think, after Ecuador, no more, bastante, enough?
It doesn’t matter. None of that has ever mattered.
There are too many cameras now so instead, they speak with their hands, their hugs, their bodies. They speak with their eyes, covering lips and talking about celebrations and players. Kun feels the heat of Leo like a pulse, like a ray of sunshine lighting him up from within, not merely warming him up, but firing his very soul—and he feels his mouth turn downward with want, biting the inside of his cheek for comfort, for patience.
In his head, the chant continues:
Messi Messi Messi
The rest of the journey back to the hotel is a blur. There are some grabs and touches, some swipes of heat as Leo brushes his pale fingers over Kun’s neck, a caress—but more, a promise. Kun shivers because he’s ready—he’s never been so ready.
Kun doesn’t jump on Leo—he’s too smart for that, he knows better. Instead, he waits, watching Leo run his fingers through his hair, damp from a shower, watching Leo’s eyes as they move over Kun’s body.
“Hoy por vos?” Leo questions, his elbows on his thighs, spread wide apart, leaning forward to look at Kun. He is sitting on Kun’s bed and Kun is standing by the TV, too wired to sit, too exhilarated.
Kun shrugs, faking a casualness he doesn’t feel. Every moment here is weighted with promise, feels powerful and special—every moment feels like a shimmering door. “Hoy,” he replies. “Mañana. Ayer.” Today, tomorrow, yesterday. His voice is very quiet, but Leo can hear him because Kun can see his eyes go darker, go wider. “Cada día es por vos.” Every day is for you.
Leo stands very slowly and Kun knows it is coming, like the goal today, like the win. But he waits and Leo approaches him, his steps measured, his eyes intent and his gaze fiery. “What about me?” Leo murmurs, his voice soft, his Rosarian accent stronger than ever, just as it is when he’s emotional.
Kun doesn’t understand. He shakes his head even as Leo presses his thighs against Kun. “What about me, Kun?”
“Qué, pa?” What? Kun feels the confusion flutter through him, just as Leo flattens a palm against Kun’s stomach, reassuring, anchoring, possessive.
“Preguntarme.” Ask me.
“Ya sé la respuesta.” I already know the answer. Now Kun is confident, smiling, because he gets it now, because there is honey trickling down his throat, a feeling of utter and complete peace.
“Dime.” Tell me. Messi is smiling back, even as he moves closer, his mouth warm and so close to Kun’s, lips mere inches apart.
But Kun isn’t good with words. So he kisses Leo, their mouths soft and warm and full of light. Me ama, his mouth says. Me ama. You love me, you love me. And Leo’s hands, as they come up to Kun’s neck, warm and possessive, as if Kun is his because hasn’t he always been, are what Kun has wanted all his life, for as long as he could remember.
He leans back, breaking the kiss, eyes closed and lets the tears fall. And when Leo kisses them, salty and sweet, he hears Leo whisper the answer:
Todo por vos.
All for you.
And Kun smiles because he can hear the chant in his head go louder and he knows, finally, he’s come home:
Messi Messi Messi