Work Text:
The prequel (part two)
"I want to die."
This is the only thought that Leo can voice, due to the circumstances. Circumstances are: horrible nausea, hammering headache, a big need to pee. The last point is incompatible with the first: raising up to go to the bathroom is off of the table. In fact, any kind of movement is impossible, and Leo just stays where he is, laying on his back, looking at the ceiling. Which is not his house's.
Observe. Think. Maybe even dare to remember. Maybe. Leo is not sure he wants to.
What is obvious: he had been drunk. This is not his house.
What he can remember: there has been a party organised by Marca, and there he met Di Maria, and then he went to a party at his house. So, he is in Madrid.
What he observes: this is not Di Maria's house. That house is in a rustic style, with old darkened wood furniture decorated with convoluted engravings and thick, brown curtains.
This is a room decorated in a modern style. As Leo slowly opens his eyes to capture a broad image of the room, without having his stomach screaming in objection, he can recognise furniture shaped with straight lines, and all the outside surfaces are in a reflecting material. Everything is black and/or white, including curtains: a set of black blinders now moved to the sides, and a set of thin white curtains, that are there only to create a suffused atmosphere.
Leo's headache is very grateful to their fair attempt of shielding the room from the sunlight.
Summing up: he had been drunk, he is in a foreign bed. But Leo could feel the touch of the fabric of some kind of clothes on his body. So, he’s not naked, and that is good news.
The bad news is that now he really needs to go to the toilet.
Slowly and carefully Leo manages to rise from the bed. Only then he notices that he is wearing a cotton tracksuit whose trousers are so long that the edges are below his naked feet, reaching the wood flooring. The sleeves on his arms are equally covering his hands, but he hasn't noticed as he has the habit of hiding his hands into his sleeves in any case.
Some alarm bells start ringing in his brain. Giving that he hardly went to a party in a tracksuit, someone must have undressed and put that on him. Someone considerably bigger and taller than him, considering the size of the tracksuit.
Leo doesn't feel any particular sore, though. Well, at least, not in his lower parts. And usually, if something had happened, people wouldn’t have bothered to dress him in pyjamas afterwards.
If only he could remember what happened. But his brain is still complaining about the pain, and his bladder is seriously threatening to explode here and now, so he has no other option than to stagger to the bathroom.
He tiptoes through the room and opens the door very slowly, afraid of disturbing, or waking up the landlord. Nobody can be viewed in the narrow corridor, but the numerous anonymous black or white doors are confusing. After some hesitation, he decides to head to the last door at the end of the corridor. The bathroom is always the last door, isn't it?
While walking he notices wooden stairs, and he hears some noises from beneath. Something like a TV program, some kind of news.
So, his host is awake.
Later. He needs to think about that later. First things first.
Leo ends up being right about the location of the bathroom, and he clumsily manages to reach the toilet, sitting on that. Giving his condition, he really doesn't want to risk to cause an embarrassing pool in a stranger's house.
While enjoying the relief, he looks around. The bathroom is on the same, luxurious and modern style. The walls are the brightest white, the tiles are black, made of a reflecting surface, and there are mirrors everywhere. Small porcelain pots are spreading some floral incense.
It's definitely not Leo's style, but he still likes it. Usually, modern style furniture gives him a sense of coldness, but he has to admit that he feels comfy in that mysterious house. He can try to guess the owner according to the style, but it's really difficult. Rich, of course. But who was not rich at that party, considering that there were only professional football players, famous journalists, and people from the show business in general.
Another hint: he's taller than him. But again, that probably includes whoever was at the party.
Leo raises up, feeling 10 Kg lighter. When he flushes, he is conscious that the noise is probably giving him away to his host. But there is not so much he can do: he needs to gather the courage and go to meet him.
As he goes to the sink, he tries to figure out a decent way to start a conversation with the mysterious stranger and makes a point in avoiding the reflection of his face. Really, he doesn't need to see that: he feels already nervous enough due to the entire situation without seeing the horrible way he’s sure he looks.
Instead, he looks down to his hands covered with soap and water.
It's only then that he notices writing on the back of his left hand.
"Kiss me."
That is what it says. And from the shape of the letters, Leo knows he hadn't been the one who wrote it. If nothing else, the little circle over the "i" gives it away.
Leo stares at it for good several moments. He ignores the hammering pain in his head and tries harder than ever to remember what happened the night before.
He can't remember images, it all blurred together in a dark, noisy room while he was sitting on a coach, so drunk that everything was spinning around him. But he remembers the sensation of his heart pounding in his chest as his hand was taken by big warm hands.
The writing is obviously what the stranger was doing. He thinks. If it were the same person that is hosting him now, at least it'd be pretty obvious that Leo liked him a lot, or so he remembers. So, he shouldn't worry too much. He should just try his best to be presentable and go down to face him.
A packed toothbrush, like the ones that are in the hotel, is there on the sink. Leo is not sure that his host has left it for him to use it, but he decides to take advantage in any case. His furred mouth is screaming for a good cleaning and some kicking strong minty flavour.
Leo completes the morning cleanings by washing his face with cold water, hoping it may help to wake him up. He lets some water drop on his hair and shakes it off like a dog, but still carefully avoids the mirror.
And then he gulps. He mentally boosts himself as if he were going to start a match, and leaves the bathroom.
Leo's bare feet are producing a soft dull sound on the wooden stairs. He can spot the living room, below: the style is the same, but this time white predominates, in the colour of the armchairs and the tea table. Decorations are black, and so are the frames of the big windows that head to a beautiful garden with a swimming pool.
He follows the noise, heading to what Leo imagines to be the kitchen.
When he crosses the doorstep, his host immediately perceives Leo's presence. He closes the laptop from where he was watching some tv show.
"Leo!" He greets him with a big smile, as he isn't expecting to see him there.
"Now I really want to die," is the only thing that Leo's brain can process. And not for the hangover. In fact, that is already gone, replaced by a more urgent current crisis. Because in front of Leo is Cristiano Ronaldo.
Now he can remember. Or at least he remembers that he had seen Cristiano at the party. And he remembers very well the heart skip that he feels every time he happens to spot him somewhere. The little panic attack that always catches him. The flush of blood running to his cheeks. Leo is sure it is happening even now, even if he has more urgent reasons to panic.
He remembers him, leaning on the wall on the opposite side of the room, next to the french door. He was impeccable as always in his blue navy suit, with the diamond earrings shining as he threw back his head, laughing at something that Marcelo had just told him.
And now he is there, smiling fondly at him. "Good morning," he says. "What can I offer you? Coffee? Tea? Croissant? I have the frozen ones, I just need to put them in the oven for five minutes."
"A hole to the centre of the Earth, thank you very much." Leo didn't say it, although he really wants that hole here and now. Instead, he hints at a greeting by waving his hand, while directing himself to the closest chair. He definitely needs to sit, or for one reason or another, he will faint on the floor, just in front of Cristiano.
This can't be real. Leo has patterns, has habits. He may or may not drink a little bit more to take the courage to interact with people to whom he is attracted. But this applies only to simple, physical attraction. Let's say when he wants to indulge in some bodily needs.
He has never been so stupid to drink to approach someone that he really, really likes. But apparently the previous night he had decided to raise up his stupidity to an entirely different league.
"Leo?" Cristiano is looking at him with a puzzled expression. He has even tilted his head, and Leo can’t help to notice how cute the gesture is. How cute he is even early in the morning, with un-gelled curly hair and freckles on a show –whereas Leo hasn't even had the courage to have a quick look at himself. Leo really, really wants that hole.
"Tea or coffee? Or maybe warm milk?" Cristiano asks again, and only then Leo can come out of his stupor and realise that he hasn't replied to any of Cristiano's questions. He manages to put a couple of words in a row, even if his voice sounds terribly husky to him.
"A coffee would be great, thank you very much."
And then his stomach betrays him, reminding him that he doesn’t know when the last time he ate was. If he hasn't vomited it. Leo is already too embarrassed by the noise of his belly to think about the disgrace of vomiting in front of Cristiano.
Cristiano now is openly laughing, but with a sweet tone. He isn't mocking Leo, that is clear and Leo is starting to consider if he may –in fact- be dreaming.
"And we can add a croissant."
Leo nods, too embarrassed by the entire situation to try and speak again.
He was not getting on well at the party. Angel was the only friend there, but he was too busy talking about a business project with an Adidas delegate. Leo was nervous, surrounded by Real Madrid players that were looking at him like he was an alien –or so he thought- and the presence of Cristiano was only increasing his discomfort. When he is around, not on an official occasion, usually Leo hides behind Geri, too embarrassed to talk. Yesterday, he only had a column. Whose frame was basically the same as Geri’s, but that couldn't occupy him with chats and jokes.
Leo understood that he couldn't just stay there leaning on a column: it would have looked too weird, even for his standards. And he couldn't leave just after ten minutes from his arrival: that would have been considered too rude.
The champagne, on the other hand, was really of a good quality. And being around the table of the drinks was more acceptable than being behind a column, wasn't it?
Leo notices that Cristiano, as well, is wearing a tracksuit, but his top –being on the right size- is not loosely falling over his arm. It suits him perfectly, drawing the lines of his muscles as he bends over the fridge to grab the croissants.
Leo pushes his eyes away. Really, the last thing he needs to make the situation completely unbearable is an epic case of morning glory.
"I like you." Leo now remembers himself saying the words in front of Cristiano. He cannot remember how he ended up on a small couch with him. He remembers the music in the background, the suffused lighting, and no one else next to him, only Cristiano who was looking at him with wide eyes while he was blathering what was, effectively, a declaration.
"I really really like you. Right from the beginning. When I saw you, and you were so beautiful and I thought, he can't be a serious footballer with that face. And that gel. But you are! So good! So elegant! Even when you fall or you whine. You whine. But it's cute. And if you fall it's just because you are sooo tall. I am shorter, that's all. I guess I just bunch better, like a little ball. You fall like a beautiful elegant tree. Are trees elegant? Well, you are. But in a professional way. An elegant professional tree."
Cristiano was laughing, but Leo furrowed his brow, trying to focus because he knew that he was saying something important there. There were some points that needed to be made, eventually.
"Because you are professional like me," Lionel stated. "You are as crazy as me for football. And I can only dream… of spending my life with someone that loves the same things that I love. And who is so beautiful, by the way."
Lionel had seriously said that. He said he wanted to spend his life with Cristiano. Now Leo's gaze wanders into the room, looking for a big, sharp knife that can put an end to his sufferings. He is captured instead by a board over the wall, where some notes are written. The "i"s have a circle on top.
Leo looks at his hand in shock. It can't be possible. This is really a dream. An alternate reality.
But he can remember now that Cristiano didn't send him to hell as he had deserved. He remembers him smiling.
He was probably mocking him.
But still.
Lionel remembers Cristiano's voice saying "I like you".
And his hand, cupping Leo's face. It was so soft and warm, Leo remembers how he was immediately soothed by the touch. Alcohol was making him sleepy, but he was still needy.
"Then take me," he said, leaning on a coach, like a rag doll. He knew he was making himself vulnerable and usable, and he just hoped that Cristiano would take advantage of him. He was ready to accept whatever was coming.
But there was only his hand on him, that had moved from Leo's cheek to stroke his hair. "I can't have you like this," he said.
"But I want you, you want me," Leo protested.
"I want you, but not like this. I want you to be one hundred percent yourself. I don't want regrets."
"I will not regret! I have always wanted you."
He remembers Cristiano laughing. He remembers that he liked the sound, even as frustrated and deluded as he felt.
"Then you will want me tomorrow, as well. When you will be completely yourself."
"You don't understand," Leo protested. "I will never find the courage to kiss you if I am sober."
"You will, if you really like me as you are claiming."
"No. Because I will be convinced again that it could never ever be possible that you like me."
"But I told you so! Don't you trust me?" He asked, but the tone was not offended. Rather, amused.
Leo, instead, was tremendously serious when he said, "I will forget. No. I could never forget this, but I will think it was a dream. Or I will convince myself that you have never said any of this, that my memory would create for me a fictional world based on my hopeless wishes."
"I see… then, let's find out a way to convince your little, overthinking brain that all of this is real, ok?" Cristiano said, still looking amused by the entire situation. Leo would have been annoyed at that point, feeling mocked. If only Cristiano didn't look so cute.
Cristiano struggled to check his pockets until he found what he was looking for, which it happened to be a pen. He grabbed Leo's hand and, again, Leo was mesmerised about how soft and big and warm Cristiano's hands were.
He wrote something on the back of Leo’s hand...
Leo jolts when a plate of croissants is driven under his nose. That makes him finally raise his eyes from his hand, to find out that he's face to face with Cristiano, who is looking alternatively at his hand and at his eyes with an enigmatic smile. Half amused, half challenging. Or maybe… expectant? Leo cannot judge, but what he can do very well is panic. He ruffles himself, squeezing his written on hand below his right.
The look on Cristiano's face immediately changes, and not for the better. A crease appears on his forehead and his gaze is suddenly glacial.
Leo could physically feel the temperature in the room dropping down. "No, wait! It's not. I mean…" Leo rises his hand, shaking it in front of Cristiano. "It's alright, I am totally alright with that."
Cristiano rises, stretching his entire body. He looks down to Leo still sitting on the peninsula chair, with a very judgmental face.
Leo has never felt so small, and that’s saying a lot.
"You are "all right" with that?"
"No!" He said, and now Cristiano really looks shocked.
"No, I mean, Yes! More, yes!"
Cristiano blinks a couple of time and then smiles a little smile with very little amusement in it.
"I wanted you to be sure of what you were doing, but apparently you are more confused now than yesterday."
Leo feels his heart sinking down into his stomach. He basically has just had the occasion to make all his love-dreams true and he has thrown it away.
"I told you that I was a disaster without some little help," he tries to justify with a little, whiny voice that really should make him ashamed of himself. But really he feels mortified.
And maybe Cristiano gets it because his expression softens a little bit.
"More yes, hmm?"
Leo gulps. He can see an opening there, and he is ready for anything to keep it open, now.
"I meant more than yes," he tries to explain. "I meant more than alright."
Cristiano crossed his arms. He looks less upset, but still not completely at ease. He is listening though and for Leo, this is an invitation to keep talking and explain himself.
"I really want to. I want to kiss you," he says. And –damn!- he can already feel that his blood is painting his face red.
But that has managed to make Cristiano smile a little smile.
"Then do it," he says.
"I can't, I…"
Leo looks horrified as the little crease on Cristiano's forehead emerges again.
He acts on impulse. He doesn't want Cristiano to be upset. More than that: he doesn't want to lose him.
Leo springs out of the chair.
It's more like a bumping into each rather than a kiss. But Leo has managed to get his point across.
Cristiano almost loses his balance, and he has to grab Leo's hips to keep him in place.
He is keeping him in place. He is not refusing him. Quite the opposite, judging from the grip on Leo's hips that is now more a fondle, really.
Leo wants to scream of joy, if only his mouth isn't occupied in a more interesting activity.
He moans instead, and the sound makes Cristiano smile. That's how the kiss ends, and Leo's moan is transformed into a protesting whine.
"What's up," Cristiano asks, amused.
"It was so good," Leo says, going down from his tiptoes.
"You can kiss me again if you want," Cristiano says, now massaging his sides, behind his jersey. Leo is mesmerised by the warmth of his hands against his skin.
"There is only on condition," he adds.
Leo tilts his head. Right now he is ready to do whatever Cristiano asks, especially if he doesn't stop touching his back in that way.
"You can always kiss me, as long as I am the only one."
Leo smiles. "this is really an easy request," he says. "As long as I will be the one for you," he adds, a little timid, weirdly feeling as he is asking too much.
But Cristiano's smile reassures him, even if Leo feels a little embarrassed when he adds, "Well, I am not the one going around drinking at parties and hitting on strangers."
"Oh, yeah, you are the one going around writing kissing invitations on strangers' hands," Leo protests.
Cristiano chuckles. "Touché," he says.
And then the mood changes again, and they just stare at each other, thrilled by the feeling of something that is about to happen, and still, it only exists in their wishes.
"I think I am still a bit nervous," Leo confesses.
"What else a boy should do to make you see that he wants to be kissed?"
Well, Cristiano is actually doing something more, because he has bent down, and the last words have been whispered brushing Leo's lips.
"You are like a dream come true," Leo says almost in trance. Finally, he finds the courage to make them both happy again.