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The sound of heavy footsteps rouses Leo from a dark and dreamless sleep.
He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who those footsteps belong to. Only one other person has a key card, and everybody knows when Cristiano Ronaldo walks into a room.
Still, Leo wants to see him. He always wants to see him. Even if Cris might not want to look at him right now.
It takes a moment for Leo’s eyes to adjust to the bright orange lamplight, his eyelids heavy from slumber as Cristiano toes off his shoes and socks beside the bed.
Cris has been crying, that much is clear. His eyes are swollen, there are dried tear tracks on his cheeks, and he’s letting out quiet sniffles through his nose.
Leo has seen the videos from earlier. The yellow card and the crowds chanting his name to strike where they know it will hurt Cristiano the most. Leo felt like throwing up when he saw them, pointedly ignoring the messages from Kun who was quick to forward the videos to him with multiple laughing emojis.
Cristiano is uncharacteristically silent as he crawls under the sheets to take his place beside Leo.
Leo opens his mouth to say something, anything to make the pain go away, but like always, he doesn’t know what to say.
Instead, he spreads his arms in invitation, hoping that Cristiano would accept.
He does, even if Leo doesn’t deserve it. His body trembles like a leaf in the wind as Leo holds him.
It’s an awkward position. Cristiano is much taller and broader than him, and Leo is bound to get pins and needles in his arms, but he makes no moves to leave. He made the mistake of letting Cristiano go once, and he is never doing that again.
Cristiano buries his face into Leo’s shirt, tears dampening the fabric as Leo rubs comforting circles into his back. His shoulders shake with the force of his sobs, his breathing so deep and rapid, Leo has to look down thrice to make sure he isn’t hyperventilating.
Leo holds him tighter in his arms. He has never hated football so much in his life, detests it for making Cristiano feel like this, curses it for bringing them together and ripping them apart again and again.
Cristiano hiccups, wrapping his arms around Leo and holding onto him like he’s a lifeline.
There is an apology at the tip of Leo’s tongue, threatening to spill out of his mouth before Cristiano stops him.
“Don’t,” is all he says against Leo’s chest, and the sound of his voice is small.
Cristiano Ronaldo should never sound small.
Leo feels useless. He wishes he was better with words. Wishes he knew how to express himself in as many languages as Cristiano so he has more words to tell him how much he means to him.
Leo leans down to bury his nose in the dark curls of Cristiano’s hair, inhaling the scent of him. He smells like grass and home.
Cristiano unsticks his face from his shirt. There are tears and snot all over it, but Leo doesn’t care. All he cares about is Cristiano. “Why are you crying too?”
Leo wipes his wet face with the back of his hand. Fuck. He didn’t even realize that. “Because you’re upset.”
“You just have to make everything about you,” Cristiano says, unable to cork his snarkiness even with a reddened face and watery eyes, and God, Leo is so utterly gone on him. “This was supposed to be my moment.”
Leo lets out a gurgled noise. Damn this man for making him cry and laugh in one sitting.
“You’re laughing at me?” Cristiano attempts a joke, but Leo can hear the fatigue in his voice. “Do you think I’m a joke too?”
Leo would never dare think such a thing. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he slowly brings his hands to Cristiano’s face, gently wiping away the tears with the pads of his thumbs. “No,” he says, voice as quiet as a whisper. “I think you’re beautiful.”
A small smile appears on Cristiano’s lips.
It’s far from perfect, but it’s good enough for now.