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“Marcelo, have you seen Ricky?” Cristiano asks.
“Ricky?” Marcelo gives him a blank look.
“Yeah, Ricky, Ricardo,” Cristiano says. “Kaká. You know, our bible-loving friend?”
“Cris,” Marcelo sighs, shaking his head. “I knew we shouldn’t have let this go on for so long.”
“What do you mean?” Cristiano is starting to get annoyed. He’s been looking for Ricardo for the past twenty minutes, having absolutely no success, and now Marcelo’s talking in riddles.
“Kaká. Doesn’t. Exist,” Marcelo says, enunciating each word clearly, no hint of a joke in his voice. “The first time you mentioned him, we thought it was just a joke, so we played along with it. And then you kept going and going, and we figured it was probably a dare, or something exciting to you, or whatever, so we kept going along with your fantasy. But now – I’m tired. I’ve had enough. Kaká doesn’t exist, Cristiano.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cristiano says. “This isn’t funny, Marcelo. Is Ricky hiding somewhere? He’s in on this, isn’t he?”
“Cris,” Marcelo sighs, putting a hand on Cristiano’s shoulder. “I think you need some help.”
Cristiano searches Marcelo’s face. He looks 100% serious; there is no hint of a joke in his expression at all.
“I’m not playing a joke,” Cristiano whispers. “I didn’t make him up. I’m not a fucking psycho, Marcelo!” He takes a deep breath. “He played at the past three World Cups. He was the player of the tournament at the Confederation Cup. He won the Ballon d’Or and the FIFA Player of the Year in 2007. He exists.”
Marcelo’s expression fills with pity. “Luís Fabiano was the player of the tournament at the Confederation Cup,” he says gently. “You won the Ballon d’Or in 2007, and Messi won the FIFA thing. I don’t know why you’re making up all these lies, but I’m done with playing along. I think you need to seek out some help.”
Cristiano just stares at him, wild-eyed and in complete disbelief, and storms away. He can’t take this right now. He knows that Marcelo isn’t the type to play such a serious prank, and he wouldn’t take it so far, but there is absolutely no way that Ricardo doesn’t exist. Cristiano was talking to him the day before, for God’s sakes! They kissed, and Ricardo told Cristiano that he loved him, and Cristiano had the memory of Ricardo’s smile burned away in his mind forever. There is no way that he could have made up something so beautiful, so perfect.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to find out,” he growls in determination.
Cristiano is beyond relieved when he sees Ricardo, leaning by Cristiano’s car, an ever-radiant smile on his face.
“Hey,” Cristiano says breathily, fighting the urge to just grab Ricardo and kiss him senseless.
“Hey,” Ricardo says softly. “You okay? You look kind of…distraught.”
“Marcelo said the most ridiculous thing,” Cristiano snorts.
“Doesn’t he always?” Ricardo smiles. Cristiano almost wants to slap himself for believing Marcelo. How can this beautiful, amazing man in front of him be a figment of his imagination? He doesn’t even have an imagination; there’s no way he could have made up Ricardo’s giving nature and consuming kisses and the way his voice wraps around Cristiano’s name like a caress when he gasps it in bed.
Ricardo cocks his head to the side curiously. “What did he say?”
“That you don’t exist,” Cristiano says bluntly, figuring he might as well tell Ricardo so they can laugh over it together. “That I made you up.”
An odd spasm of emotion flashes across Ricardo’s face. “He’s not entirely wrong,” Ricardo says quietly.
“What?” Cristiano stares at him. “Oh come on, Ricky. Don’t tell me you’re going along with this ridiculous thing too. I’m going out of my mind here. It’s not funny.”
“You’re not crazy, if that’s what Marcelo’s suggesting,” Ricardo says. “It’s not that you made me up, but you are the only one that can see me.”
“But, but—” Cristiano knows he probably looks like a goldfish right now. “What are you talking about, Ricky? I wasn’t born yesterday; I’m not falling for this.”
Ricardo gives him a sad smile. “You know how you like to tease me that I’m so…perfect I can’t be human? How Marcelo and Pepe call me an ‘angel’?”
“Marcelo and Pepe can see you,” Cristiano says. “Everybody can see you. They pass you the ball. You score, for God’s sakes! You can’t make that stuff up.”
“It’s not made up,” Ricardo says calmly. “It’s just the way you’re thinking things.”
“I didn’t make you up,” Cristiano growls. “I didn’t imagine you. You’re real, you’re here with me. You’re really here.” He grabs Ricardo by his shirt and pulls him close, kisses him so hard he almost bites his lip. Ricardo’s hair is soft against Cristiano’s cheek, and he’s so warm, so solid, so real.
“I’m really here,” Ricardo says softly, cupping Cristiano’s cheek. Cristiano can acutely feel the weight of his touch, the sensation his skin leaves against Cristiano’s, like any moment, a wildfire might start in Cristiano’s body. “I really love you.”
“Ricky,” Cristiano whispers, a sob catching in his throat when he buries his face against Ricky’s neck. He knows that this isn’t a joke, that there’s something terribly wrong. Ricardo would never take things this far. He’s up for a good joke, but he would never hurt Cristiano.
“I’m here, I exist, Cris. I swear.”
That doesn’t do much to reassure Cristiano. “Well, at least now I know they won’t lock me up in a padded cell,” he says weakly. “You know, straitjackets don’t come in nice styles.”
Ricardo’s smile is half-fond, half-heartbroken. “I’m sure you could make it your style somehow,” he says softly. “They’re not going to lock you up, Cris. You’re not crazy, you’re just—”
“In love with someone who only I can see?” Cristiano chuckles bitterly. “Or is that even how it works? Marcelo tells me that you’re my imaginary friend that I made up, and they’ve been going along with it to humour me. But—how does that explain your…everything?”
“Humans are very complex creatures,” Ricardo says, “and yet, very simple in certain aspects. They see what they want to see. They twist the truth so it fits into their version of the world.” He searches Cristiano’s expression. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You talk about humans like you’re not one.”
“I’m not,” Ricardo says.
That’s when his wings burst out, large and white and beautiful, feathers shivering faintly, like they’re unused to the air.
And that’s when Cristiano faints.
When Cristiano wakes up, he’s lying down and there’s something soft and fluffy over him, like a really comfortable blanket.
“Ricky, I just had the strangest dream,” Cristiano murmurs. “Marcelo told me I was hallucinating you, and then I went to talk to you, and you had these wings, and—”
He freezes, eyes widening when a soft white feather from said wings pokes him in the cheek. He stares at Ricardo, and then Ricardo’s wings, and then Ricardo again. “You. Have. Wings.”
“Yeah, I do,” Ricardo says. “Do you like them?” One of them is folded over Cristiano, which explains the warmth and softness, and the other one’s fully out, white and radiant and—
Cristiano rubs his eyes, and then pinches himself, but Ricardo still looks the same. He still has wings.
“What are you?” Cristiano breathes, half-awed, half-terrified.
“I’m…” Ricardo frowns, looking like he can’t think of the word. “There isn’t really a word for what I am in your language, but I guess the closest would be ‘angel.’”
“You’re an angel,” Cristiano repeats. “Like, an actual angel.”
“What’s the other kind?” Ricardo smiles.
“Well, we all call you an angel anyway, but I had no idea…” Cristiano reaches out his hand, fingers shaking, and touches one of Ricardo’s wings. It’s extremely soft, almost satiny, and downy too. Ricardo just smiles at Cristiano, so he grows bolder, strokes his fingers along the arch of Ricardo’s wing, where his feathers begin to give away, and suddenly Ricardo moans. It’s low and throaty and so sexy Cristiano almost gets hard just from the sound of it.
“Sorry,” Ricardo says, his face turning red, looking mortified. “It’s just – I’m really sensitive there.”
“Oh, are you now?” Cristiano grins, a devilish spark in his eyes, and purposefully runs his fingers along that spot again. Ricardo bites down on his bottom lip, his eyes going half-lidded, obviously in pleasure.
“Cris,” Ricardo says, his voice lower by half an octave. “This isn’t the time for…doing that.”
“I think anytime would be great for ‘doing that’,” Cristiano says innocently, Ricardo folding back his wing abruptly when Cristiano tries to touch him again.
“I see fainting brought you back to yourself,” Ricardo remarks dryly.
“I didn’t faint,” Cristiano says indignantly. “I just… My brain took a little break.”
Ricardo smiles fondly at him, eyes filled with warmth, and Cristiano realizes that he really doesn’t care whether Ricardo has wings or isn’t human or can only be seen by Cristiano, because Cristiano loves him more than anything in the world and that’s never going to change.
“Your wings,” Cristiano says, clearing his throat. “They’re really beautiful.”
“Do you think so?” Cristiano can tell from Ricardo’s expression that he’s been told that many times before (and the thought of that makes Cristiano frown, because he doesn’t like the idea that other people have seen his Ricky’s wings), but he’s still very happy to hear it from Cristiano. Like Cristiano’s opinion is the one that counts.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says with an emphatic nod. “I mean, you’re always hot, but with these babies, your sex appeal just multiplies.”
“You have such a way with words,” Ricardo says wryly.
Cristiano grins. “I know,” he says, pressing closer to Ricardo. “I’m a man of many talents.” He kisses Ricardo, tasting the sweetness of his smile, and when Ricardo’s wings fold around him, softer than any set of arms, he feels like it shouldn’t be possible for somebody to be as happy as he is.
“Ricky,” Cristiano says sleepily, running his fingers down Ricardo’s bare back. Ricardo had retracted his wings (there’s nothing left behind, no feather or imprint) when they got too much in the way of…things. Cristiano likes Ricardo’s reaction to being touched there very much though, and he intends to see it again. Soon. “Tell me about…things. What you said before. About human perception.”
“It’s like this,” Ricardo says. “Being…what I am, I have great control over what you see me as. What you see me doing, scoring and things, it’s real. But when my presence fades from your minds, everything just…shifts. It’s like a veil comes over people’s minds. They forget my existence, because I don’t exist on the same plane you do.”
Cristiano frowns. He gets it a little more but he still doesn’t get it. “How come I’m the only one who ‘sees’ you then?”
“Because you have something for me that the others don’t, something that not even my powers can control.”
“What?” Cristiano asks, confused.
“You love me,” Ricardo says simply, as if it explains everything, and it doesn’t really, but it does too.
“But why did you come in the first place?” Cristiano asks, runs his thumb over Ricardo’s knuckles, a gradual stroke of a caress.
“Because you needed me,” Ricardo replies. “I don’t mean just you, I meant…everybody. Real Madrid.” He smiles suddenly. “You’re taking this very well.”
“Because I’m not freaking out and calling the white coats to take you away?”
“Because you didn’t question a single thing I told you,” Ricardo says. “It’s almost like this…makes sense to you. Although I don’t know how it possibly can.”
“I’ve always thought you were something special,” Cristiano says with a shrug. “Something more. Something better.”
Ricardo’s eyes soften; he puts his hand over Cristiano’s and squeezes gently. “Just because I’m not a human doesn’t mean I’m better than humans, you know.”
“You are,” Cristiano says. He wants to tell Ricardo that Ricardo has a bigger, purer heart than anyone Cristiano has ever known, but the words get all caught up in his throat, and he can’t get them out. He thinks that Ricardo knows anyway, not because he’s an angel or anything, but because Ricardo’s always had an incredible aptitude for understanding Cristiano.
Ricardo smiles and leans into Cristiano, skims his nose along Cristiano’s cheek. “Out of all the humans I’ve ever known – and I know a lot more than you realize – you are the most…the bravest and most amazing and most beautiful, and I’m not talking about looks.”
“But I totally own the looks department too,” Cristiano says cheekily. He thinks he’s glowing from Ricardo’s words, possibly literally. Certainly he feels like he’s been lit up from the inside out.
Ricardo humours him. “That, too,” he agrees, and presses his lips to Cristiano’s once again.
“Are you going to leave me?” Cristiano asks, trying to hide his fear behind the bluntness of his words.
“Not for a while, no,” Ricardo says. “The conflicts that I was supposed to help resolved are still present. There’s too much discord in Madrid.”
“If you’re waiting for the discord to disappear, then it might take a few centuries,” Cristiano jokes.
“I have many, many centuries left in me,” Ricardo says, and there is something tragically beautiful about his smile. “Don’t worry,” he says gently. “I’ll stick around for a while. I’m still needed here.”
“I’ll always need you,” Cristiano says, quiet but full of steel, full of heart.
“I need you too,” Ricardo murmurs. “I need you more than you can possibly imagine, and that’s not. We aren’t supposed to need things. We aren’t supposed to love humans.”
“I guess I’m just an exception to the rules,” Cristiano says with a wry smile.
“That you are,” Ricardo says softly. “You’re an exception to everything.”
And before Cristiano can try to decipher what those words mean, Ricardo kisses him again, and steals everything from him with that kiss: his breath, his thoughts, his entirety.
But then again, Ricardo’s owned all of him for a long, long time now, and maybe that should bother Cristiano, but the only thing he thinks is that he hopes it won’t change.
When Cristiano wakes up, he’s surrounded by warmth, but not the velvety softness of Ricardo’s wings. “Ricky?” he murmurs in confusion, turning his head, his nose bumping into a hard chest.
“You’re finally awake,” Ricardo says. “I told you not to have one of those ‘virgin’ margaritas. Nothing Marcelo would make is actually virgin.”
“Huh?” Cristiano asks, confused. His head hurts like hell.
“The party yesterday,” Ricardo says, sounding amused. “Don’t you remember?”
Cristiano opens his eyes, seeing Ricardo smiling at him, with no shirt on and the sexiest bedhead known to man. “What happened to your wings?” he asks, running his hands over Ricardo’s bare back.
“My what?” Ricardo gives him a blank look.
“Your wings,” Cristiano repeats. “I like them, why are you hiding them?”
“Cris, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I think you’re still feeling the alcohol.”
“I’m not drunk,” Cristiano says with a frown.
“Not anymore. I think we…um, burned the alcohol off.” Ricardo’s cheeks turn red.
“Well, I remember that part.”
“Cris, are you okay?” Ricardo looks at him with concern. “You don’t remember? Marcelo had a party, and you got really drunk on what you thought was juice, and then we went to my place. And we…”
“Had amazing sex,” Cristiano says. “I can tell from your hair.” He grins, and Ricardo flushes even darker.
“What do you mean by wings?” Ricardo looks at him with obvious bewilderment.
“I thought you were an angel,” Cristiano admits. Ricardo puts a hand over his mouth, looking like he’s going to burst into laughter. “What?”
“I think we’ve been over this. Just because I tell you to do nice things a lot doesn’t mean I’m an angel.”
“I just can’t believe it’s a dream. It was so real.” Cristiano is already beginning to accept it though; this is so much easier to believe.
“Dreams often are,” Ricardo says. “You dreamt that I was an angel?”
Cristiano nods. “And you had these awesome wings.” He smiles at the memory of the sounds Ricardo made when he stroked said wings. “You sounded sexy as hell when I touched them.”
“Cris!” The blush is back again, and Cristiano loves it. His Ricky’s really too adorable for his own good.
“Okay, okay. You know what, I think I do need some Advil.”
“Okay,” Ricardo says with a smile. “I’ll go get it. Stay put, okay?”
Cristiano returns the smile, staring unabashedly when Ricardo gets out of bed and pulls on a pair of jeans, running a hand through his hair. Cristiano wants to pin him onto the bed and mess it up some more.
“Not now,” Ricardo says without turning around. “We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
“There’s only one thing I’m hungry for,” Cristiano says, and Ricardo turns around to roll his eyes at him before walking out the door. Cristiano stretches leisurely, reluctantly getting out of bed to put on some clothes. He finds his phone in his pants pocket, and sees a new message from Marcelo:
dude, can’t believe you actually fell for the ‘virgin’ thing. even ricky knew there was vodka in it.
Cristiano rolls his eyes at the phone, but…well, it’s definitely confirmed now. It was all a dream, something Cristiano’s deluded head made up. “Why do I trust anything Marcelo tells me?” he mutters.
“That’s a good question,” Ricardo says, coming back with a glass of water and two pills. “You’re usually smarter than that.”
“I think I get dumb when I haven’t had sex in a while,” Cristiano says. When Ricardo walks up to him to hand him the water and Advil, he tugs Ricardo’s pants down without even bothering to unzip them. “Oops,” he says at Ricardo’s raised eyebrow. “See? Dumb.”
Ricardo laughs, setting down the things in his hand on the dresser. “You are so insatiable,” he murmurs.
Cristiano kisses him, tongue flicking against Ricardo’s bottom lip. “That’s because I just can’t get enough of you.” He cups Ricardo’s ass through his half-off jeans and tugs him back onto the bed. He finds a feather caught between Ricardo’s hip and waistband, a large, downy white feather just like the ones that he touched in his dream, but when he blinks, it’s gone and his hands are full of Ricardo.
“I love you,” Ricardo says.
Cristiano rubs at his eyes, wondering if he’s lost his mind.
“What’s wrong?” Ricardo asks, sounding concerned.
“Nothing,” Cristiano says, and kisses him again. Maybe he really is losing his mind, but at the moment, he really doesn’t care.