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Cristiano said he was not going to cry.
He promised himself that. He told himself that none of it could happen. That the press is going to destroy him, the internet will mock his pain, that all the things that have been said and declared will end up being true. That crying will only make everything worse, that it's not better to not do it.
But Cristiano has been holding back tears since there were five minutes left. Since he realized that it was impossible, that they would be eliminated. That it would be his last World Cup and that he would leave with nothing, without a Cup, without an award. That he would have left his country with nothing.
And it's not until the whistle sounds and the game is over, that the whole audience screams because Morocco has won, that he ends up breaking. It is not until some players from the team he played against, who are young and in their twenties, and have beaten him, tell him that it's okay, that it was a good game, that they grew up watching him and that they love him and that it has been an honor… That he ends up crying.
He doesn't respond to anything they tell him. Neither the compliments of boys born in the nineties who have watched him play since they were kids, nor the words of his teammates who look dejected, nor the boys on the bench who call his name. Not his agent, or operatives, or his trainer. Nothing. He does not say anything.
He just cries. And there are a lot of cameras and people watching him fall apart. He doesn't pay attention to them. He keeps walking.
He walks until he reaches the dressing room, where he locks himself up and cries until all his teammates enter the room. Until everyone finishes changing and until Georgina has called him like a hundred times on the phone.
Then, he goes to his hotel.
...
Georgina is an angel. She's good and more understanding than people give her credit for. She doesn't hug Cristiano when they finally sit down together in the car to leave, she doesn't look at him unpleasantly when he refuses to take her hand, and she controls the children when they get annoying and constantly ask what is going on. She doesn't make the situation worse, like anyone else probably would.
She doesn't make comments or look at him pityingly. Cristiano knows that he has a woman by his side who loves him, who would give away everything for him and their children, and who will leave with grace and peace the day Cristiano gets bored of her, the day he no longer needs a partner by his side.
She just gently touches his shoulder when he asks her to sleep in another room with the kids, away from him, for at least tonight before leaving as early as possible in the morning. Cristiano is in a room that is too big in a matter of minutes. Bottled water with bubbles in the fridge. Pringles of exotic flavors in a night cabinet. Chocolate with peanuts, with strawberries, with oranges. All the sports channels in the on the TV screen.
It's like a jail. And it doesn't matter how cruel the fans, the press, the tabloid articles are. Nobody is ever as cruel with Cristiano as he is with himself. Watching messages from his family on WhatsApp where they encourage him, memes and destructive criticism of his game today on Twitter, on Facebook. Commentators who in their life have played soccer criticizing his performance today. Cristiano believes that he can handle hatred, resentment, jealousy and anger. He doesn't know if he can handle pity. All the "he deserved better", with "he's still the best that ever existed", the "I love you", "I admire you", "this doesn't change anything for me".
Because for Cristiano everything changed. Absolutely everything. Nothing is the same for him after today.
He's on a round of endless self-hatred for at least two hours, watching every possible sports channel at the same time, filling his mind with crap on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram. And that's when someone knocks on the door.
He finds strength from where he doesn't have it. He reluctantly gets out of bed. His cell phone keeps ringing on the table. They knock harder, but quickly, as if they are regretting it halfway. He thinks it's Georgina, dark circles under her eyes and worry seeping into her bones. But it's not her behind the door.
He looks smaller than he is in a navy-blue shirt and faded shorts that Cristiano swears he's seen before, at some point, some afternoon in Madeira or a night in Buenos Aires. He is wearing sandals with some logo from a sports brand that Cristiano is too tired to recognize.
Cristiano thinks of the thousand other situations that this could have happened. The other thousand in which they have passed. This is the part where Cristiano makes a horrible joke that will make him look back at him like he is insane, then kiss Cristiano between the eyebrows while he laughs anyway. But there's no humor in anything he's doing tonight, no witness, no connection. He simply looks into his eyes and says, tired, but sounding even more tired when he finally speaks: "What are you doing here?"
“Will you let me go in?”
Leo must have a problem. They've talked about it before, between sheets and between fights. That Leo must have something inside him that maneuvers him and makes him like this: Direct. Accurate. Consistent. He doesn't know many people that can say things to his face without fear of a reaction, but Leo has never been afraid of him. And he has never told him a lie. He says little and acts when he must and at the right time. It is what Cristiano loves the most about him, what makes his heartbeat like a machine. It is the same thing that makes them rivals.
“Vá em frente.” Leo walks in quickly, as if Cristiano is going to change his mind at any moment. Cristiano closes the door and turns to look at him, his hands on the sides of his body like a jug. His brown eyes wide and radiant and his tongue pushing his lip a little. Cristiano imagines that this is how he looks at his children when he doesn't know whether to reprimand them or comfort them.
“Thank you. Georgina told me you were here.”
"I'm sure she did."
"She's worried about you.”
“Not necessary.”
"I'm worried about you.
"Even less necessary."
Leo doesn't look at him with venom. Or resentment. Or pain. His gaze only seems to soften further. He has decided to comfort him, because he goes over to give him a hug. Messi. And the precision of him. And the right moments from him. And the perfect assists from him. Nobody knows a pitch like Messi. Nobody knows Cristiano like Leo.
Cristiano’s head ends up against his chest, his arms completely enveloping Leo in a soft embrace. And Cristiano breaks down again like a child, as if nothing matters. As if his father had just died again and as if he is leaving Real Madrid again. As if he had lost what he most wanted, what he always dreamed of and yearned for. As if reality is heavier than he ever was able to imagined.
There is an Argentinian commentator still talking about the game on the TV. There are Pringles crumbs on his bed. His cell phone keeps vibrating. None of that matters to him. He cares about the warm little body in his arms and how Leo holds the million broken pieces that are all of Cristiano's body before they hit the ground.
"I'm so sorry, Cris.” he says, against his chest. And another time, it would be the wrong thing to say. Saying something like that would only make Cristiano angry, offended and make him attack like a wounded animal on the sidewalk. But Leo's voice is honest and light, an Argentine accent that never goes away, and the way he drawls his words when speaking.
“It's fine- “
“No, it isn't. I know how difficult this must be for you.”
And he doesn't know if Messi knows, really. The wunderkind that everyone loves and admires and has come so far. That has been so close. That reached the final and that must swim, following the waves of many others before him who tried to give everything to his country.
Cristiano always wanted to be the best. Why do something if you are not the best? He wanted to be the first big star in his country, since Figo and Eusebio. And even much more before that. Break barriers, create his own schemes. Being a representative that there is talent, art and hard work in the souls of thousands of boys like him: poor, hopeless, abandoned to his fate. But with that comes helplessness, theories and disappointment. It is very lonely at the top and the fall only hurts more the bigger you are.
Cristiano is so big, so big that nothing really matters anymore. Nothing truly changes things and makes them better anymore. Nothing closes the wound anymore or kisses it or comforts it. He is a great one who has fallen, and it doesn't matter if he ever gets back on top. Even in doing so, his falling has done enough damage to weaken him.
He doesn't know if Leo understands. Probably yes. Who knows. Leo is the only person who truly understands him. And that really knows him. And that, probably, really loves him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Leo says. Cristiano shakes his head. “Do you want me to make you a mate?” Cristiano nods. Leo laughs against his chest, softly, and Cris thinks of all the mornings he's felt that laugh right there, against his chest and against his heart and soul.
Leo makes him mate. It smells too strong and has no sugar. Cristiano takes it while Leo moves and turns off the television and throws away the empty Pringles cans and alcoholic beverage containers. Cristiano continues drinking when Leo sits in front of him.
He doesn't have to look at him to know he's looking back. Little Messi, so quiet and cold-chested, if only everyone knew how he is when they are alone. Sentimental. Passionate. Impossible for him to hide what he feels. If only they knew what he was like since Cristiano touched him for the first time, at some halftime between Barça and Real, when he had long hair and no beard and Cristiano was the Portuguese sensation who came to Real Madrid. If they knew about Leo like Cris knows and vice versa. But no one ever will, no matter what. Neither the tabloid press nor the gossip or the rumors.
Leo looks at him and Cristiano finally looks back.
“Better?”
“Better.”
Leo sleeps in the room. Cristiano makes a horrible joke. Leo looks at him like he is insane and kisses him between the eyebrows before turning off the lights. Leo snores against his neck. Cristiano does not sleep. Not even one second the whole night.