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Leo always knew that Cristiano Ronaldo would be the end of him.
He just thought that the aforementioned end would be on a football field, and not in his own kitchen baking cookies in the middle of the night.
Leo is good at a lot of things. He is good at football, taking care of the eight hyperactive children running around his house, and dealing with Cristiano’s unpredictable mood swings.
What Leo isn’t good at is baking, which is what he repeatedly tried to tell Cris as the man shoved a bowl into his hands and ordered him to start mixing the cookie dough.
Cookies. His delightful husband, who won the most recent Parent-Teacher Association election by a landslide, had taken on the task of providing cookies for the bake sale tomorrow at the children’s school.
Why the most exclusive private school in the continent needs to sell anything when they have millions of euros at their disposal, Leo doesn’t know. All he knows is that the slave driver he decided to marry is working him harder than any coach Leo has ever trained under— which is saying something considering he played under Pep.
Leo wipes off the sweat on his brow with his sleeve. He's been mixing bowls of cookie dough for what feels like hours now. Sure, Leo may be able to run on the pitch for hours, but the strength in his arms leaves a lot to be desired.
He thinks about suggesting a break— maybe he can get a sweet little kiss or two if he's lucky— but by the looks of it, Cris is not going to stop baking until he solves world hunger through his homemade organic dairy-free, gluten-free, cruelty-free, and fun-free cookies.
For somebody who avoids sugar like it’s the plague, Cristiano takes baking cookies very seriously. In fact, he takes all of his PTA duties extremely seriously.
Not for the first time, Leo wonders what his husband is like at those PTA meetings Leo has successfully managed to avoid. He does a silent prayer for anybody and everybody who refuses to do exactly what Cristiano has planned. Just last month, Cristiano refused to be in the same room with the mother who brought Coca-Cola instead of freshly squeezed juice for the school play refreshments.
“Make sure you don't overmix the dough, Leo,” Cristiano says sternly, because this bake sale is that serious for him. “If the cookies come out too crispy then we have to remake the entire batch.”
Leo’s eye twitches. Perhaps the worst part about this experience is that he couldn't even taste the damn cookies because Cris insisted that the ones on the wire rack had to cool down properly before anybody could eat them.
“Mi vida,” Leo starts, slowly and gently as to not poke the bear. “We should take a short break.”
Cristiano looks up from his measuring cups to narrow his eyes at him. Leo has never seen anybody look so intimidating in a frilly pink apron and matching oven mitts. “Why?”
Because neither of us are bakers and we have to get up early to take our fleet of small children to school in the morning. “My arms hurt.”
Cristiano raises a threaded eyebrow. “You won the World Cup and you can’t mix cookie dough?”
Leo resists the urge to groan. The last World Cup is a sore subject in their household, but Cristiano is more than happy to bring it up when it's convenient for him.
Why are they even doing this anyway? They have more than enough money to hire a team of professional bakers to make the best cookies known to mankind, but no, Cristiano decided that he had to do everything himself. He’s insane like that.
“We could have bought cookies from somewhere,” Leo says, which is a huge mistake because Cris is looking at him like Leo stole one of his Ballon d’Ors (again).
“How can you say that?” Cristiano questions, dramatic as ever. “The point of this bake sale is for parents and children to work together and make special memories.”
All of their wonderful children are upstairs asleep in their beds, not working with them nor making special memories, but Leo does not want to subject any of those poor kids to their father’s crazy perfectionism; hence why he is taking one for the team and stirring sticky cookie dough when he could also be asleep in bed.
“Can I at least have a kiss?” Leo asks. It's the least he deserves after getting eggs in his hair, flour up his nose, and risking his shoulder to injury.
His drill sergeant— no, his husband’s expression softens at the request. “Fine,” he says, leaning down to give Leo a brief kiss on the lips. “Happy?”
Leo groans. He was hoping for much more than a miniscule peck. “Not really.”
Cris isn't even looking at Leo anymore, busy scraping a knife across the top of a measuring cup to level the flour. “I will give you more if you do a good job.”
“I am doing a good job,” Leo grumbles, setting the whisk down on the counter. It's a good thing he isn't a goalkeeper because he doesn't think he can move his arms properly anymore. “Why did I agree to do this again?”
“Because if you don’t, I am not letting you near my cookie.”
Right. Leo may not like eating sweets, but he does like eating Cris’ cookie.
He picks up the whisk and gets back to work, making sure he doesn’t overmix the dough.
The scent of baked goods wafts through the morning air as small children scurry between tablecloth-covered tables, helicopter parents and frantic teachers running after them to make sure that no little heads split open on the shiny floor tiles.
Cris and Leo’s own armada of children are already making use of their early football training by chasing each other around the room, ready to stick their fingers in the assortment of cupcakes, custards, and cereal treats that will undoubtedly give them cavities.
Socially awkward as ever, Leo shakes teachers’ hands and puts on an expression he hopes doesn’t read as constipated. He’s dressed in an outfit Cris insisted would look good on him and his arms still hurt from last night’s mixing.
Despite being in the spotlight for years, Leo has never gotten comfortable around hoards of people and cameras. He can get away with not saying much during his media duties, let his football do the talking and all that, but he doesn't know how he is supposed to act at these school events where everybody, Hollywood A-list parents included, is staring at him like they're expecting him to score a winning goal or perform the other party tricks he has in his arsenal.
Leo shifts in discomfort, trying his best not to look at the hoards of people trying to catch a glimpse of him like this is a free Messi meet and greet and not a school bake sale.
His husband does not have the same problem. Leo would be damned if he lived in a world where Cristiano Ronaldo Dos Santos Aveiro was not the main character. Like always, Cris basks in all the attention, wrapped in a tight designer shirt and glittering jewelry, smiling for selfies, and soaking up all the compliments like a sponge.
“These are fantastic cookies, Mr. Ronaldo!” A woman Leo knows is named Sofia due to the numerous times Cristiano has ranted to him about her always being late to PTA meetings. According to Cristiano, her blonde highlights are ugly and cheap-looking. “You have to give me the recipe!”
Cristiano gives her a tight smile, the one he reserves for journalists who ask him stupid questions. Nothing like the sweet ones Leo gets to see in the mornings when Cris is still sleepy and cuddly. “I can’t reveal all my secrets, can’t I?”
The woman’s laugh is high and obnoxious, even going so far as to snake her bright pink fingernails around Cris’ bicep, as if Cris hasn’t made a formal complaint to the teachers about her son spreading head lice to the other children in his class. “You are so funny, Cristiano!”
Clearly, this woman has not seen Cris running their household kitchen like the military last night. Leo doesn’t think he will ever be able to look at another cookie ever again. Except Cristiano’s, that is.
Thankfully, Cristiano manages to pry the woman’s claws out of his arm to make sure that the rest of the bake sale is going as smoothly as his homemade CR7 cookies.
Leo sighs, more fond than exasperated as he watches Cristiano’s broad back march around the room to judge whether or not the other tables are up to his standards. He knows Cristiano, and he knows that there will be Hell to pay if the man finds anybody using single-use plastics.
“Papa?”
Leo looks down to find Thiago staring at him with a cupcake in hand, the corners of his mouth stained with chocolate frosting.
Well, at least somebody in their family is enjoying this bake sale. The boy has clearly taken advantage of Cristiano not looking in his direction by stuffing his face with cupcakes and candy.
“Yes?”
“Is Pai mad?” Thiago asks as Leo cleans up his face with a wet wipe, getting rid of the chocolatey evidence before Cris scolds them both.
“No, Pai is not mad,” Leo says, but through his peripheral vision he can see his husband verbally eviscerating some poor housewife for using boxed cake mix instead of making her own cakes from scratch.
“Seriously, Brenda?” Cristiano questions, folding his arms over his (very well sculpted) chest. If looks could kill, the woman would be dead three times over. “If you knew you didn’t have the time to make the cakes from scratch, then you should have let me know beforehand.”
Leo feels bad for Brenda. Nobody wants to be on the receiving end of Cristiano’s ire. Really, she should have known how particular Cris is when it comes to food and health.
Already Leo can hear the whispering of bored millionaire housewives— not too different from their footballing husbands— gossiping about Cris’ diva attitude and how he should be more of a team player. Leo isn’t really surprised. Wherever Cris goes, people will always talk about him. Even people who hate Cristiano love talking about him.
Sighing, Leo tells Thiago to go find his other siblings and to not make himself sick by eating too much.
He decides to go over where the drama is happening and save poor Brenda before Cris makes yet another woman cry.
As the expert in handling Cris’ moods, Leo places a careful hand on his husband’s waist. “I’m sure there is nothing wrong about using boxed cake mix, Cris.”
“But—”
“—It will be fine, Cristiano,” Leo interrupts, escorting Cristiano away from Brenda’s pink tablecloth-clad table before he makes headlines with another scandal. “Now come on, the kids are wondering where you went.”
Cristiano frowns. Well, it looks more like a pout, but Leo is not going to tell him that. “I just can't believe her,” he scoffs under his breath. “Seriously? Boxed cake mix? Is she trying to poison everybody here?”
Leo highly doubts Betty Crocker has ever poisoned anybody. He places his other hand on Cristiano’s shoulder, massaging the tense muscles underneath Cris’ shirt. “Relax, mi vida.”
“Relax? How am I supposed to relax when these PTA people clearly do not listen to anything I tell them? God, they’re worse than the Portugal national team.”
It is a testament to Leo’s maturity that he does not comment on that, nor does he even let out a chuckle. Instead, he moves his hand down to the small of Cristiano’s back, guiding him to their own table where their ethically sourced cookies (made from the best local ingredients, as Cris likes to remind everybody) are literally selling better than hot cakes.
“Give them a break, Cris. I’m sure everybody is doing the best they can.”
Cris’ pout deepens. A man of his age and stature should not be so cute, but he is. Even if he is a mouthy brat.
“Tell you what,” Leo starts, getting on his toes to whisper in his big brat’s ear. “If you promise to be nicer to all the hardworking parents here, then I will give you something sweet later tonight.”
He watches Cris’ face morph from surprise, to consideration, then finally, the determined expression he makes after making a decision.
“Okay,” Cristiano says, his features softening into a smile. “I promise.”
Leo smiles back at him. Cristiano can be sweeter than dessert after all.