Work Text:
It becomes a regular thing, kissing Leo. So long as nobody is around, Jordi can kiss Leo Messi whenever he wants. Jordi can kiss him chastely on the cheek and neck during games and when they celebrate; when Leo saves them. Leo pulls the team from the fire when they play Alaves, and then again when they play Valencia. Leo makes a ridiculous assist to Luis and doesn't seem to understand what the big deal is. Luis spends a long time in the locker room after the game describing the pass, and then finally just waves at Leo with both hands dismissively.
"You are impossible. Go away."
"Luis, you are being ridiculous," Leo tries.
"No, no. Impossible. Be quiet."
Outside of game time, the kisses are different.
At Leo's house when nobody else is there. In the dark on their sides in Leo's big bed, knees knocking together.
It turns out Leo is actually a competent kisser when he's not nervous, when it's not a new, surprising thing. Leo doesn't like changes or anything new, really. Well, he didn't use to, Jordi amends. But Leo has changed recently, hasn't he? He's covered in tattoos; he's dyed his hair blond; he's happily sat on the bench for Valverde, a thing he never would have done for Lucho. So maybe kissing Jordi like this is all part of the New Leo Messi. It's a laugh.
Jordi has heard the press talk about it before: Leo drifts out wide to the right and suddenly he's the "New Leo Messi."
The press are all fools. Every last reporter he's ever met. But maybe there is something to it after all. He's the New Leo Messi, but the press would never have meant it this way, Jordi is sure.
There's been more tongue, lately. Leo opens his mouth wide, angles his head, licks into Jordi's mouth. His beard is soft, which is strange, and Jordi finds the texture of it appealing against his skin.
Sometimes, if it's just the two of them, they kiss in the shower in the locker room, wet skin slipping together. No one has caught them yet, but Jordi figures they'd have nothing to say if they did. He's seen Pique grab Leo and kiss him full on the mouth before. Cesc, too. There is something very kissable about Leo, so who can blame him?
He finds Leo practicing alone on a Tuesday night. It had been a warm day, but now the air is cooling. Leo is practicing free kicks, dummies lined up to aim for. Jordi stands back, holds his breath, and watches.
A ball dances off Leo's left foot with a thump, makes an elegant tumble through the air in an arch, and bounces off the centermost dummy's head. The ball plops to the ground and rolls a meter or so.
Leo laughs a little, then grabs another ball to try again.
"If it could have jumped and angled it down, it would have been a goal," Jordi says. Leo doesn't startle, but he does swing around in surprise as Jordi approaches.
"Ah, yes, yes," Leo agrees once he sees it is Jordi. "I was thinking about what Diego used to tell me back in the day. We should score more this way."
Light dances off the tips of his blond hair. His eyes seem small and impossibly dark as he squints in the bright stadium lights. The practice pitch is too small for him. Sometimes Jordi thinks that only the Camp Nou is the right place for him, the dimensions of the enormous stadium curling and folding around him like an embrace.
Jordi stands beside him, perhaps a little too close. Who all is around to see? A groundskeeper or two? Nobody who hasn't seen it all before — how Leo makes difficult things look easy.
"Do it again," Jordi says. "You can aim for me."
He jogs over to the cluster of dummies before the goal. He's just wearing a pair of fashionably worn jeans and a plaid shirt, but he feels like he can jump and move.
Leo checks the ball then Jordi's position. He does it twice more. Then with only a single step, he sends the ball up in another beautiful arch. Jordi's feet lift off the ground. Yes, he is small, but he is cocky. He believes, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He feels the shirt, even when he's not wearing it. He believes in Barcelona. He believes in himself. He believes in Leo Messi.
He makes contact with the ball and feels and hears the thump of it on his forehead. He swings his head to the side, twists his whole body to the goal.
The ball smashes into the side netting. Unsavable. Jordi imagines a keeper — a big one like Jan — diving desperately only to hit the ground with an empty, outstretched hand, the ball still bouncing behind him.
Jordi celebrates like it is a cup final. "Goal!" he shouts, then jumps into Leo's arms. "Goal for Barcelona! Jordi Alba has scored an amazing header! What an assist from Leo Messi!"
"You're an idiot," Leo laughs, but hugs him back and pats his head. Leo smells a little of cologne and sweat. His shirt is just a little damp. He feels warm and solid.
They pull apart and Leo has that small, embarrassed smile he sometimes wears, the ghost of a nervous childhood, an adulthood hunted down by the press.
Then Leo kisses him. And Jordi realizes that, usually, he's the one kissing Leo. He's the one that starts it. So this is new. Not unwelcome. Just new.
And soft, and sweet. It tastes like how scoring the goal felt.
Jordi pulls back and lets his arms fall to his sides. He only licks his lips once, just for one more taste. "Well, it is a good technique. I see no Diego in it at all. I mean, it's with your left foot, but that's the only similarity. Trying something new?"
Leo runs a hand through his new hair, then one over his new beard. He shrugs, laughs, and his eyes drop to Jordi's mouth. "Yes, yes. Something new. Everything these days is new."
"The New Leo Messi?" Jordi asks.
Leo steps close and drops an arm around Jordi's shoulder. "That is what they say. Come on. I can drive you home."
"Ah, thank you. If it's no trouble."
Their steps are mostly silent on the damp grass; their shadows are faint in the blinding, electric halo of stadium lighting. Leo keeps his arm around Jordi's shoulder all the way to the dressing room. He changes before Jordi as he always has — into some ugly shirt with a skull on it and jeans that cost a small fortune — as if nothing is different at all. But things are different.
Jordi wonders if Leo will really take him home. Or maybe Leo will drive straight to his own mansion, invite him in by offering a beer, and then take him upstairs and taste it on his mouth and tongue.
That would all be new, too. Maybe the press aren't wrong. Maybe the 'New Leo Messi' headlines are on to something. Jordi liked the old version just fine.
Leo takes his hand just briefly as they head to the parking lot. He gives it a small squeeze and Jordi squeezes right back.
He's rather fond of the new version, too, blond hair and all.