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34
It's an unfortunate fact of life that all hotel rooms look the same. Beige walls and starched white sheets, strangely patterned carpet, and landscape prints. In the square four walls and with the curtain drawn, he could be anywhere - London, Barcelona, Buenos Aires.
Kun sets down his bag and looks up, finding Leo at the window, sitting in a generic hotel room chair. The light from the single lit-up bedside lamp casts his face in shadows, breaking the whole down into features - his jawline shaded in stubble, the bridge of his nose, the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek.
"So," Kun says, and turns on the overhead light, watching Leo's face rearrange into something more familiar. "Do you want to play some FIFA?"
*
17
Kun tosses and turns in his hotel bed. It's much nicer than the one he has at home, but he can't get comfortable. Across the aisle, Leo's body is a silhouette in the moonlight and Kun makes a face at his back. He seems like he's sleeping soundly, unbothered by the nerves that crawl up Kun's body and make him jittery.
It's the biggest tournament he's been in so far. He's not usually affected by things like this (15 and Independiente fans loud above him, trial by fire - nothing could scare him after that). Tonight is different. Tonight he can’t seem to settle.
He sighs for the umpteenth time, and buries his face into the pillow, frustrated with himself.
"Kun?" Leo's voice, quiet, not because it's nighttime, but because he usually is. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," Kun says, embarrassed to add to the frustration. "I just can't sleep."
Silence. Then: "Kun?"
"What?" Kun snaps, and turns around, and - Leo is looking at him, holding up the edge of his duvet. "Oh."
He gets up, tucking his pillow under his armpit. He's halfway through the distance before he pauses, cheeks a little hot. He knows this - has snuggled up with Garay on the bus, or with Oscar and Pablo after a rough match. But Leo is different.
Leo stands out - on TV, on the pitch. He stands out for Kun, too.
He takes the last few tentative steps and lays down on the mattress. He means to stay on the edge, but Leo is warm and it's easy to curl up around his compact body. His too-long hair tickles Kun's nose when he presses his face against his nape, smelling like generic soap and musk.
“It’ll be okay,” Leo says, quietly. “Tomorrow, it’s you and me. They don’t stand a chance.”
*
34
Leo does want to play FIFA. While the games sets up, Kun chats about his life. He tells Leo about the latest development project in Buenos Aires, the funny joke Benja told him the other day, and exactly how much money he'd spent shopping with Anto in a glittering shopping mall two days ago.
Leo listens. He talks much more than he used to but he's most comfortable like this, letting Kun blather on while he watches him with dark fond eyes.
By mutual agreement, they never play their national teams in FIFA after they almost came to blows once as teenagers, when Kun, a little cruelly, suggested that Leo could play with Spain instead of Argentina. Kun is halfway into locking in the teams when he realizes he's automatically put Leo in for Barca.
"Sorry," he says, "I wasn't thinking. Which team do you want -"
"This is fine," Leo interrupts him, not unkindly. He doesn't look upset but Kun decides to play with Independiente anyway, anticipating the ribbing coming his way.
*
26
Nights in Rio are burning hot, the kind of damp heat that leaves you drowsy and off-kilter.
Kun lets the hotel door click shut behind him, toeing off his sneakers. Three steps into the room and he finds Leo standing by the windows, looking out into the evening, his silver medal still clutched loosely in his hand.
"Leo?" Kun calls softly. "Do you want to take the first shower?"
They have an early plane tomorrow morning. In a few hours, they'll be back in Argentina.
Leo doesn't respond. "Leo?" Kun asks, injecting more worry into his tone. Leo turns around, letting the curtain fall shut.
He looks lost.
Kun bites back his panic response. He's put a lock on his pain, his own devastation, hours ago. He crosses the distance, and reaches out to take the medal from Leo's loose fingers, tossing it carelessly onto the table next to the flat screen TV.
Leo watches, still and silent, as Kun takes a change of clothes from his suitcase and sets it on the bed. He doesn't flinch when Kun comes up to him, reaching out to carefully unbutton his rumpled shirt. He barely helps when Kun pushes it off his shoulders, shrugging his shoulders. The motion makes him think of Benja, sleepy and grumpy, as Kun gets him ready for bedtime.
"This too," Kun says quietly, reaching out to tweak the waistband of his trousers. Leo obediently undoes them, letting them pool at his feet. He allows himself to be herded into the bathroom. Kun sets down the clothes on a closed toilet seat, along with a big fluffy towel.
"Shower," Kun says, and stays long enough to see Leo shrug out of his underwear and step under the spray. He leaves the bathroom door open just a sliver and then he spends the next five minutes taking deep breaths to get the tangled knot of his emotions under control.
An hour later, he emerges out of his own shower to find Leo already curled up in bed. He packs up the rest of their luggage with the efficiency of practice and turns off the lights. He hesitates for a moment, and then climbs into bed behind Leo, curling up against his back, and throwing an arm around his waist. They haven't done this since they were 22.
Leo comes alive underneath his arm, and then there's a moment where Kun is convinced that he will push him away. Instead, Leo turns around, burying his face into Kun's neck. It's uncomfortable and too warm but Kun stays as still as possible.
Leo shakes, so Kun holds him tighter. His tears soak the collar of Kun's pajamas, his damp huffing breaths loud in his ears.
*
34
Kun doesn't even bother with his own bed, just stuffing a pillow under his armpit and crossing the distance to plop down next to Leo, who grins and opens his arms. Kun arranges himself how he's most comfortable, face tucked into Leo's neck, leg thrown over his thigh. Leo's palm comes up to rest on his back, warm and familiar. The bed is a little small, and it's times like this that Kun is grateful that both of them never grew up very big.
"What do you think about tomorrow?" Leo asks quietly. Kun huffs a laugh against his collarbone.
"Tomorrow?" he pretends to think. "Well, Argentina will win, of course."
Leo lets out a hum, prompting Kun to continue. "And I'll tell my great-grandchildren that I stole a god's first kiss."
Leo pinches his side. "It was spin the bottle," he says, "that doesn't count." He's smiling so Kun laugh and elbows him into the gut, but gently, so he doesn't injure him before he can make history.
They settle into a comfortable silence. Surprisingly, it's Leo who breaks it. "I wish you were going out there with me," he says and Kun closes his eyes against a hot rush of emotions.
"Me too," he whispers back, nearly soundless in the dark.
"After the whistle, tomorrow, come down to the pitch," Leo says, almost imploring, as close to asking for something as he ever gets.
"Can I even do that?" Kun asks, turning the thought over in his head.
Leo shrugs. Kun waits for him to settle and presses his face into his collarbone. "You're Kun Aguero," Leo says. "You can do whatever you want. And if anyone tells you any different, they can talk to me."
Kun hums. "I won't wear your jersey," he says finally.
"Why not?" Leo asks, and he sounds curious rather than upset.
"It's already on a million backs," Kun explains, "a million and one might be too much."
*
33
Kun stares at the squiggle line of his EKG, listening to the doctor drone on about his options. He almost doesn't hear him over the rushing of his blood in his ears.
It's like the second before a game-winning penalty. The weight of the world on your shoulders.
The doctor stops. "Do you have any questions?" he says, almost impatient.
"Can I still play?" Kun says, and already knows the truth of it in his tired aching heart.
"No," the doctor says.
"Okay," Kun says, and, "Thank you, doctor," and "Yes, my assistant will make a follow-up appointment."
Kun's not sure how he makes it out of the clinic and into his rented apartment. It’s like he blinks, and he’s staring at a different beige wall. He hasn’t really decorated. Even at the start of things, he didn’t think he’d get to stay here for too long. He hates to be so right.
He zones out and comes back to awareness sometime later to the light changing. He went to see the doctor in the morning. It’s evening now, the sunlight painting the living room in gentle oranges, catching on the dancing dust mites. His phone is vibrating on the table. It’s been making sounds for a while.
Anto is calling him. He frowns at the screen. She doesn’t usually call him unless it’s about the kids. It could be something important.
“Kun?” and even through the static, he can hear the worry in her voice. “Leo, it’s Kun!”
It could be a minute, or it could be an hour. “Kun?” Leo sounds breathless, and frantic, 90 minutes down, and still a goalless draw. “Where are you? Are you alright? I’ve been trying to call you for hours.”
“I’m at the apartment,” Kun says, and for a moment he struggles. Manchester, Barcelona, Buenos Aires? His throat closes up around ‘I’m alright’ . “I’m sorry,” he says instead. He’s said it to Leo often enough over the years and it sits comfortably in his mouth.
“I heard,” Leo says and Kun doesn’t ask him how. Maybe he’d sensed it, Kun’s heart cleaving in two, the discordant note reaching him all the way in Paris. “I…I don’t know what to say.”
His voice breaks. It ripples against the numb surface of Kun’s mind, slicing through like a knife, exposing the nerve beneath. It wells up, the anger and the frustration, and the aching blinding grief. His heart beats hard in his chest. It hurts.
Leo’s breath is shaky in his ears. Kun’s heard it often enough to know he’s crying.
*
34
Kun turns his back on the pitch, pressing his face into his palms like a child that wants to hide. The stadium around him is alive, crackling with energy like an exposed nerve. His blood is rushing in his ears, so loud that for a moment he almost doesn’t register the roar of the crowd until the sound hits him in his bones, and then he’s running. His sneakers slapping against the concrete, the faces blurring around him. No one stops him, until he’s standing, frozen, at the edge of the pitch.
Kun sees him immediately, some almost forgotten instinct, his feet itching in anticipation of a pass. Leo stands out. He always had, for Kun. His silhouette is unbearably familiar against the bright green of the grass, the only thing in sharp focus.
Kun steps onto the pitch and it doesn’t hurt for the first time in what feels like a long while.
Maybe he calls his name, or maybe after more than a decade, it’s instinct, sense memory. Leo turns, and their eyes catch. Kun’s eyesight blurs, and the years fall away, and he could be 17 and dreaming.
Their bodies collide, a perfect first touch. Kun muffles his sob against the damp skin of Leo’s neck. Later, he won’t remember what he said. Tonight you become a god, or, You did it, you beautiful bastard , or just, I love you.
I love you.
“You and me,” Leo whispers against his skin, and he feels it more than hears it. “It’s you and me.”
They break apart, and Leo is wiping away tears. The expression on his face is something Kun has never seen. Unburdened.
It still feels like a dream up until someone puts the cup in his hands. It’s cool against his overheated skin, and for a moment he’s afraid he’ll drop it through his sweaty palms. Kun looks out, to the crowd, and finds Leo watching him, grinning.
The cup is heavy as he lifts it, up, over his head, and towards the sky. Except it’s not the sky at all, it’s thousands, millions, dressed in blue and white. The color of the Argentine sky in late summer.
He presses a kiss to its golden surface, marred with fingertips, and allows himself to believe that he deserves it too.
Kun puts Leo on his shoulders and he’s heavier than the cup but infinitely more precious. Kun’s glad that he’s kept up his workout routine. Leo laughs through it, shining brighter than the lights, brighter than the stars.
Around them, the world roars, laughing and crying and singing. Their song echoes in his bones.
Messi!, it goes, to the rhythm of his bruised and patched-up heart. Messi!
Messi, in the hearts of the old and the young. Messi in a hundred songs. Messi on a million backs. Messi, the greatest of all time.
And Kun, who followed, who held him up, who loved him, as long as he could.