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Pablo has fallen asleep on his shoulder.
Robert can’t blame him. The boy had spent the majority of the match pushing and being pushed— his kit stained green and brown from rolling on the grass so often. Not for the first time, Pablo had completely tuckered himself out.
Away from the pitch and prying camera lenses, Pablo looks young— so young that Robert is hyper aware of the sixteen years between them.
He's seen the jokes people make about them, how he could pass as Pablo’s father because he's so much older and bigger. Age hardly matters on the pitch, not when you can still keep up with all the young star boys they have running around.
Robert doesn't make a habit of thinking about his age— but now, he can't help it. Not when Pablo looks so much like a child when he's asleep.
Eyes closed shut, Pablo’s long eyelashes rest against pink cheeks, his nose pressed against the fabric of Robert’s jacket. It's adorable.
Robert won't ever tell Pablo that out loud though. He doesn't want to be on the receiving end of Pablo's infamous temper.
Robert shifts in his seat, carefully so that he doesn’t accidentally wake Pablo. If the little snores coming out of his mouth are any indication, Pablo is deep in dreamland.
Like this, Pablo reminds Robert of a kitten, one with sharp claws and a penchant for getting into fights with bigger animals.
His shoulder will undoubtedly ache later, but Robert doesn’t dare interrupt Pablo’s rest. Not when he looks this calm and peaceful.
And so Robert resigns himself to his fate of being a human cushion. It isn't the worst thing in the world.
Smiling, he leans his own head back on the headrest, careful not to wake Pablo from his slumber.