Work Text:
The whistle doesn’t sound and Cristiano thinks for a second, rather gleefully, that they’ll get away with it. But then Alves is shoving Luka, Sergio is quick to defend him, someone is shouting for the referee, and a fight breaks between the two teams. It’s not pretty. Everything happens so fast in front of him. Cristiano stands rooted to the ground, appalled. The crowd is whistling and booing in complaint.
Then Messi pops up in front of him, lips pressed into a thin, angry line. His eyes are blazing, and he’s shoving an accusatory finger in Cristiano’s face. “I saw it! You played it with your hand!”
“It barely grazed my shoulder! You saw nothing! Not from your angle!”
“What are you saying?”
“Guys, guys,” someone is trying to tear apart the fight behind them and Cristiano turns his head to look. The people from the security are up on their feet, too, and Cristiano really, really hopes Sergio won’t add another red to his collection.
All of the sudden, Messi slams hard into him, that bastard, and it catches Cristiano completely off guard, so they both go down on the grass. He cries out, outraged, Messi crushing his ribs. He thought they were above this. He thought he was above this but his hand itches to take a swing at Messi’s stupid fucking face.
Messi’s face is twisted in an ugly grimace, his lips are parted and he’s panting heavily, cheeks flushed.
Cristiano grabs Messi’s shoulders to shove him aside, and then Cristiano notices the uproar around them. People in the stands are screeching but it’s not like before, when the Barça’s fans though they deserved a direct free kick. It’s like the whole stadium is on its feet. The sounds they make are panicked rather than furious.
On the pitch, no one is fighting anymore, instead staring at him and Messi and while Cristiano admits they must make quite the sight, their reaction seems a little odd at best.
He makes a move to finally push Messi off – Why on earth hasn’t he gotten up yet? – when someone stops him.
“Lay still. We can’t flip him over.”
Cristiano blinks, turning his head towards the medic that appeared at his side. “Huh?”
“Just lay still. Don’t worry, it will all be okay,” the medic says loud and slow. Then, quietly, to one of his assistant, “I suspect a shock, take him in as well. We’ll do the basic check up but it doesn’t seem he got to him too.”
The medic pries Cristiano’s fingers off Messi’s shoulders; he didn’t realize he was still gripping them. He makes to slip from beneath Messi and sit up but the medic catches his hand and squeezes.
“You need to stay sill, we need to transfer him as soon as possible. Please, just a moment.”
Cristiano’s gaze lowers to where the man is gripping him. His fingers are covered in blood. Cristiano stares and stares.
One of the medic’s helpers sighs, “Definitely a shock.”
But Cristiano isn’t in a shock, not yet. He’s just confused, staring at his arm, where the bloody imprint of the medic’s hand ruined his white shirt.
Messi is finally moved and Cristiano is helped to his feet and taken by the medical.
It’s only later when he watches in puzzlement as a lunatic fan breaks free and runs onto the pitch, dodging the security, that the shock sets in. The camera zooms in at the fan running across the pitch and it’s clear he’s not there to get a praised picture taken. There is a knife in his hand, an ordinary kitchen knife with a row of small teeth on its blade and Cristiano feels sick when he notices that.
The camera then captures Messi’s eyes widening as he spots the running madman, his hands reaching for Cristiano. He launches seconds before the man raises his hand to stab Cristiano. The man is wrenched away by the security and a medic rushes in, running in that funny cartoon-like manner, his knees high and all his limbs uncoordinated as he tries not to drop his medical kit.
The camera zooms out only then, in a shitty attempt of giving the injured some privacy. Too late now, though. Cristiano is pretty sure half of the world saw the tip of the knife blade buried into Messi’s back. The knife dislodged when Messi landed on Cristiano. Which explained the blood. The blood that was seeping everywhere and Cristiano didn’t notice, how did he not notice, too angry at Messi and too busy hating him.
The video ends and he hits the play button again, this time focusing on how the rabid fan managed to sneak onto the pitch. Cristiano can already see himself talking at numerous events promoting higher security during the matches. Suddenly, Cristiano has to stop the video, unable to watch the events unfold again.
With a shaking hand, he reaches for his phone and calls Iker. If someone is in touch with the Barça squad, it would be Iker.
Iker doesn’t pick up but there is a knock on Cristiano’s door a few minutes later.
“How is he?” Cristiano asks, throwing the door open. No hello, no specification to his question.
“They don’t know yet,” Iker says promptly and he is looking at Cristiano worriedly, like he is the one that was injured.
“I should–”
“Cris,” Iker interrupts him, clasping one hand on Cristiano’s shoulder, “you really think it would be wise to show up your face there? It wouldn’t help anything. Most of them think it’s your fault.”
Cristiano shakes off Iker’s hand and avoids his eyes.
Iker sucks in a breath. “Cris. Did you smuggle the knife in? No. Did you stab him? No. Did you tell him to–”
“Shut up!” Cristiano says vehemently. “I’m going.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Iker says and steps aside to let Cristiano pass.
Cristiano returns three hours later to find Iker still in his house, quietly talking on his phone to Sara, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him on the coffee table.
Cristiano walks over to him and takes a sip out of Iker’s cup while Iker finishes his call.
“I see it went well,” Iker remarks.
“They didn’t even let me in. They’re guarding him like a, like a...”
“Treasure?” Iker supplies and he is way too amused for Cristiano’s liking.
“Yes,” he snaps. “Like a fucking treasure. I’ll go back tomorrow, it’s not like they’ll be putting him in a plane anytime soon.”
“If you feel like you have to,” Iker shrugs. Cristiano hands him the cup back, it doesn’t taste like he likes it anyway. Their eyes meet and Cristiano realizes that Iker can’t understand this.
“I have to,” he snaps, irritated.
“You really, really don’t.”
“Then I want to!” Cristiano is being irrational but Iker is the only one here, watching Cristiano like he is some interesting TV mockumentary, like nothing Cristiano shouts at him can spike through his calm. Over the brim of his cup, Iker raises one eyebrow at him. Cristiano purses his lips, and repeats, quieter: “I’m going to check on him tomorrow.”
:::::::::::::::
The funny thing is, thinks Leo as he lies on his stomach, shifting his head from left to right, unable to find a comfortable position because his nose keeps getting buried into the soft fluffy pillow, that you can live your life more intensively in ten fleeting minutes than in the past ten years.
He isn’t in pain, the painkillers kicked in nicely. Mostly, he just feels numb which is an odd sensation and everything feels plain wrong each time he moves. No pain though. He knows the pain would come later and it is not a comforting thought.
He’s been taken from the ICU to a regular room and he ordered everyone out because they have a plane to catch, the tickets already booked in advance. It’s not like he is in a life threatening condition (at least not anymore, he’s been told). The team of Care Bears is touching but really, he just wants to be alone when the pain comes.
“You can’t skip the training,” he admonishes Neymar. “Make sure to give the others hard time for me. No slacking off while I’m away.” They played like shit against Real but Leo doesn’t want to say it aloud because everyone would get those big, sad eyes and wouldn’t meet Leo’s gaze. They got a great start, Ney did really well and then there was the disruption and objectively, Leo can’t really blame his team for not managing to shake off the shock quickly enough. It was easy for Real, perhaps it was even more motivating with the feared Barcelona’s striker down.
“Fine, I will make sure of that. I just don’t feel okay with leaving you alone here.”
Leo forces a smile. “Madrid is just a city, Ney. And our people are staying with me. Go already or you’ll be late again. You’d better be in top condition when I come back or I’ll kick your ass. I swear I would.”
“Okay, okay. Take care, old man,” Neymar says and with that, he is out of the door. It wouldn’t be fair to ask for him to stay. Neymar has a family to look after back home.
Leo decides that it’s a good time to sleep while he can. Once the painkillers are out of his system, he is in for a few sleepless nights. He closes his eyes and tries not to imagine how he is suffocating against the pillow and tries not to think about how his own hot breath is uncomfortably warm against his own face.
His sleep is hazy and when he wakes, it is only to carefully shift his head to the other side and rearrange his arms so his neck stops killing him and then he is out again.
There is an IV in his right hand, that is the first thing Leo becomes aware of, because it itches. It feels so, so intrusive and uncomfortable and Leo hates it because it will fuck with his nutrition plan and because it always makes him feel weird, watching something foreign drip slowly into his system. It reminds him all too painfully of the days he used to spend so much time in hospital he tended to forgot what the sun dried grass smelled like.
Leo turns his head to his other side again, and is about to fall asleep when he realizes someone is there in the room with him. He blearily opens one eye.
It’s Ronaldo. Normally, Leo would laugh but now he barely manages a smile. They must be pumping him with some good stuff. Ronaldo looks awkward, sitting in the chair next to the bed, reading some glossy magazine. Leo sighs and falls asleep again.
He feels more rested by the next time he wakes up. He is facing the wall again, so he turns to look at the armchair next to his bed. Ronaldo is still there. “Hmmhff,” he says and Ronaldo’s eyes jerk up to look at him. Leo manages a weak smile but Ronaldo doesn’t smile in response. His expression is guarded, almost blank. He looks a bit too realistic for a pill-induced hallucination.
Leo wishes he could sit up instead of awkwardly cringing his neck to look up at the Portuguese. Flat on his stomach, he feels very defenceless. He attempts to shift one shoulder to relieve the tension in his neck without dislodging the IV but the strain it puts on his back has him blinking away tears of pain.
He sucks in a breath and lets his head fall back to his pillow.
“I’ll go alert the nurse.”
Leo doesn’t reply because speaking would take too much effort. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts.
:::::::::::::::
Cristiano watches the flurry of nurses and doctors gather around Messi. He is perfectly content to blend into the background, too glad no one is questioning him being there and no one is requesting he leaves.
The nurses rush in and out while the doctors examine Messi, talking quietly in a language that is definitely still Spanish but that Cristiano has no chance of understanding.
One of the nurses unwraps a syringe and draws a clear liquid from a purple tinted vile she holds upside down with a practised ease. Her movements are small, measured and routine. She wipes clean a spot on Messi’s lower back, waits for a few seconds and injects Messi with the medicine.
Cristiano can’t tear his eyes away from her. She is confident and looks almost bored. There is a polite, absentminded smile on her face. Cristiano can’t imagine doing her job.
The nurse turns to look at him and catches him staring. She puts away her supplies and makes her way to him. “He’s going to sleep for a little while.”
“I don’t mind,” Cristiano says carefully.
“It’s okay if you want to wait.”
“Thank you,” Cristiano says. A moment later the team of doctors and nurses leaves the room and he is once again alone with Messi who is sleeping soundly. The room is quiet, only the machines whirring around them.
Messi wakes up about two hours later, when the light outside starts to fade. At first there is a small movement of his shoulders, then a sharp hiss of pain. Obviously determined, he only takes a moment before he is trying to move again, wincing and pausing every few seconds.
“Are you okay?” Cristiano can’t help but ask.
Messi stills, then turns his head to Cristiano. “Why are you here,” Messi croaks, his Argentinean Spanish more prominent than ever. The tone of his voice makes Cristiano regret not getting away while Messi was still asleep.
Cristiano wonders if he should say he is feeling guilty then decides against it. Instead, he levels Messi with a withering look. “Looks good for the public. Just ask our PR.” The sad thing is that Messi believes it. Cristiano can see the anger flare in Messi’s eyes as the lie sinks in. Well, it’s not like Messi knows him, that’s the whole point. Messi knows shit about him and his life – and still his first instinct is to save the one person he hates.
“Whatever you tell yourself,” Messi rasps and Cristiano is torn between the urge to hand him a glass of water and punch him in the face. He decides storming off and slamming the door is the best option.
Cristiano returns home and does his best to forget about everything.
The next day, he tries to go on with his usual daily routine and tries not to think about how fragile and sick the tiny Argentinean looked in the hospital bed. He fails miserably on both accounts.
He gets zero of his chores done, his mind is not on the pitch, his thoughts are unfocused, his attention slipping. He gets told off by the couch and Sergio gives him a knowing look and Cristiano hurries home once the practise finishes because he doesn’t feel like talking about it. Mainly, there is nothing to talk about.
Apart from how Cristiano’s throat constricted when Messi blearily opened his eyes and looked over to Cristiano – and the way Messi’s expression closed off when he realized it was him. Cristiano decides to ignore it completely. Just ignore it.
They won, Cristiano reminds himself. The result should be what matters, that and the fact that Messi is going to be okay, back to his annoying scoring self in no time. The lunatic fan is going to face the charges. Everything should be fine. But the win doesn’t have that sweet flavour of beating golden Messi and Cristiano can’t say the victory is the same without it.
The day drags on forever.
Then, Cristiano admits defeat. He is crazy. He knows it but he still grabs his keys and arrives to the hospital close to the end of the official visiting hours. He doesn’t have to say much and no one asks for any explanations and Cristiano thinks that this would have been much harder to achieve had they been paying in Barcelona and then he is in Messi’s hospital room once again. Messi is sleeping like a baby. The IV is slowly dripping but Messi is not attached to any machines, which Cristiano thinks is a good sign.
It is almost peaceful here. Almost.
Cristiano sinks on the chair and waits for his racing heart to calm down.
Messi stirs, blinks his eyes open. “You, again?”
Cristiano presses his lips into a thin line.
“I can’t believe they’d just let you in.”
“I can’t believe they won’t just let you out, you look quite all right to me.” Cristiano says before he is decided whether he’s going for an insult or a compliment.
Messi gives him a look that would probably make a bigger impact had Messi not looked so tired and grumpy. “You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you.”
Cristiano studies Messi’s night stand. A plastic cup with water. A banana. Some pills. A TV remote. Some magazine that turns out to be a TV programme upon a closer inspection. An alarm clock that is running three minutes late.
“You don’t have to, you know,” Messi strains to say.
“Shut up. I’m not.”
“You so are,” Messi insists.
Cristiano doesn’t know what possessed him to come here again. “Who asked you, you bloody Latino,” he lashes out. He isn’t sure if he is more pissed at Messi or himself.
“Fuck off, just fuck off!” Messi cries out, voice hoarse. Cristiano winces, certain that someone is going to burst into the room any second and accuse him of making an attempt on Messi’s life. But the security outside must be probably used to many things by now, especially if Messi has been in this foul mood for a while now.
“Nah,” Cristiano says airily. “I like it here. The chairs are comfy. You get the best, I see.”
Messi fumes wordlessly and Cristiano tries not to laugh. He sprawls in his chair, causal as can be, arms crossed, staring Messi down.
Messi deflates.
“Whatever,” he says, closing his eyes. His face is twisting in pain and he isn’t saying anything and it hurts to watch someone else suffer when you are completely helpless about it. Of course, the guilt doesn’t help. It’s just guilt, Cristiano assures himself. Just guilt.
He wants to ask, Are you okay? but it’s clear Messi is not okay and he would probably only think Cristiano is being an ass for asking. It’s not like there is anything Cristiano can do for him.
Half an hour after the visiting hours should be over, he cannot stand the silence any longer. He gets up and leaves. He closes the door quietly behind him as he goes in case Messi hadn’t been faking the sleeping.
The next evening, Cristiano arrives with a newspaper gazette and insists on reading Messi the news. “I hear it’s hard to watch the TV if you’re laying sprawled on your stomach.”
Messi has his head propped on two pillows that definitely do not look like something that comes from a hospital ward. But still, it must get uncomfortable after a while. So Cristiano keeps reading. He absolutely refuses to get into an argument with Messi and since Messi can’t just get up and walk away from him, he listens begrudgingly.
“You’ve skipped Barça,” Messi objects drowsily several minutes into Cristiano’s awkward reading. Funny how strange it feels, reading aloud to the quiet room, with Messi actually listening. It is something Cristiano couldn’t have pictured prior to waking up to another unproductive day.
Cristiano indeed skips all the articles regarding Barcelona. Both because he doesn’t feel like reading about the bloody team and because it doesn’t sound like it would do Messi any good to hear about how his team lost against Sevilla without him. And the chances are good the newspaper is pretty biased, so no, Cristiano doesn’t plan on reading that.
“Did I? Hm,” he says and continues with the motorsport section. There is an interview with Zarco that is guaranteed to put Messi to sleep pretty fast.
“Read it,” Messi interrupts, his voice sounding quiet and distant. “I already know we lost.”
Cristiano sighs but flips to the desired page. His throat is dry, so he takes a sip of water out of the cup on Messi’s night stand table without thinking. When he realizes what he’s doing, he glances at Messi, eyes wide. But Messi’s eyes are closed. Cristiano is glad for that. He clears his throat and keeps reading aloud, voice softening.
:::::::::::::::
Leo hates being pampered. Leo hates being under the watchful eye of the doctors. He has had enough of hospitals in his life and if he never had to spend one more night there, he would be happy. Mornings he can endure but the time stretches into infinity between lunch and the late evenings. Even then he cannot be sure evenings will offer any entertainment. He sort of wishes they would but he is sort of scared to get his hopes up. That little charity project of Ronaldo’s can end any day and then it would be just him, the hospital staff and an endless row of worried faces.
Leo hates how quiet the room is. He hates how loud is the hum of the AC.
Leo hates the pain.
Most of all, Leo hates the doctors poking at his body.
He can’t stand it, he thinks he’ll go insane if he has to stay there another hour. He feels fine, he is fine. He just needs to recover for a bit longer before showing up to Barça’s morning practise. He can recover just fine anywhere else but in the hospital. He can basically hear his sanity tick away with each passing second.
It’s a torture.
The air is dry and smells of absolute nothing, the room is sickeningly clean and sterile, the TV remote is just three inches too far from his reach and he doesn’t want to bother any of the nurses for something this stupid but God does he want to get out of this madhouse.
A nurse comes in to take his temperature, just like she did a few hours ago. He isn’t running a fever now, he wasn’t running a fever before. The stitches are healing nicely, through they are itching so badly he wants to scratch them bloody raw. He is going stir-crazy, he is bedsore and he wants to scream with frustration.
Leo isn’t sure about the grimace on his face but the nurse picks up the chart and gives him a pitiful smile. “Just a precaution,” she tells him mildly, “one can never be too careful.”
Leo watches her write the temperature down in his diagram.
“Do you need anything?”
Leo shakes his head.
“All right. I’ll be back at five to check your temperature again and we’ll draw some blood samples to run a few more tests to make sure everything is fine.” She says it with that polite smile and that expression that says she’s already with the next patient in her mind.
Something in Leo snaps like a rubber band.
:::::::::::::::
Cristiano overdoes his training and he’s so tired when he comes back home that he just grabs a quick shower and decides to take a nap. The next thing he knows, his phone is ringing and when he fumbles for it, he realizes it’s already getting dark outside.
“’Lo?” He yawns into the phone.
“Hi. Aren’t you coming over to the hospital today?”
Cristiano is silent for a few seconds, rubbing a hand over his face and glancing at the clock. It’s past five, the visiting hours are basically over. “Missed me?”
“No. But are you coming or not?”
“Okay, I’m coming,” Cristiano says.
Maybe it says a lot about him that he just grabs his keys and comes running when Messi calls him out of the blue.
Messi is perched on the edge of the hospital bed, waiting for Cristiano.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” Cristiano returns, completely baffled. Messi is dressed in his regular clothes and there is a duffel bag at the feet of the bed. The nightstand is empty. “Er, are you going somewhere?”
With a wince, Messi slouches, dropping his shoulders. He looks even smaller than usual. He heaves a heavy sigh. “Okay, so, just. There was an argument and I ended up signing myself out of the hospital. I can’t just run around the city looking for a hotel room now. But you can take me in, right?”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Cristiano wails when he realizes Messi is being serious.
“I’m fine, really. Just need a place.” Messi closes his eyes and his head lolls a little from one side to the other. Cristiano considers turning on his heel and marching out of there without a single look back. Then Messi groans: “Please?”
Cristiano agrees.
He pulls the car over to stop in front of the hospital and watches with a hint of worry as Messi awkwardly climbs into the front seat, his breath catching on a small groan of pain. Messi slouches his right shoulder against the window, not leaning back into his seat. “I’m okay,” he insists when he catches Cristiano’s eyes.
Cristiano is very tempted to drag him back into the hospital, regardless.
“If you’re not taking me in, then I’ll find that hotel. I’m not going back in,” Messi grumbles as if he could tell what Cristiano is thinking.
Cristiano slowly drives them back to his home. He gets out of the car, snatches Messi’s duffel bag and goes around the car to stay close to supervise without looking like he’s looming.
Messi sways dangerously and Cristiano grabs him to keep him standing. “So, they just let you go?”
“Not… really,” Messi grits out. “They’re releasing me into your custody.”
“They’re what? I didn’t sign any papers!”
“You hate paperwork, I signed it all for you, it’s not like they questioned the scribbles.”
“No one found it–?”
“Strange? I told them we’re friends,” Messi admits.
“Are we?”
Messi doesn’t answer.
“If you drop dead on my watch–” Cristiano starts threateningly.
“You’ll kill me, I know,” Messi mumbles and though his expression looks pained, there is a small amused smile on his lips.
“Kill you dead,” Cristiano agrees, allowing Messi to lean on him as they move through the house to the guest room at a snail’s pace.
He deposits Messi on the bed and shrugs off his bag on the floor. “Should I get you anything?”
“I’ll unpack later,” Messi huffs, turning his head to look around the room. There is a small vase with some yellow flowers Cristiano can’t even name but his maid is obviously very fond of because Cristiano keeps finding them all around the house. Messi’s gaze catches on them, pensive.
Cristiano indecisively towers over the bed. “Okay, so. I don’t have anything to eat here,” he says, intently watching Messi’s solemn expression. “But there are some leftovers from the takeout I had earlier, I guess that will do.” Messi’s eyes darken and his expression turns judgemental and Cristiano bites down a laugh. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. We’re having a chicken salad. I haven’t actually eaten yet.”
“Thanks,” Messi’s eyes turn to him and there is a small uncertain smile on his face.
Cristiano finds himself smiling back and he darts out of the room.
:::::::::::::::
“Are you planning on staying up the whole night?”
“Yes,” Cristiano grits through his teeth and settles into his armchair, tugging the blanket closer around himself.
Messi settles against the pillows with a wince, then flips off the lamp on the nightstand table.
Cristiano’s eyes adjust to the half-light and he watches Messi’s expression even out as the pain passes. Then he realizes– “You’re smiling.”
“’Coz you’re being ridiculous,” comes the rich rumble of Messi’s laughter.
“I’m not.”
“Go to bed. I’ll be fine.”
What if not. “I’m staying here and I’m watching you. One more hiss of pain and I’m dragging your sorry ass back to the hospital.”
“Right now the only risk is that my stitches will burst open from all that laughing you’re causing me.”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
Messi chuckles but settles down and stays quiet. Cristiano spends the night in the armchair, nodding off every now and then.
The whole thing is just as bizarre in the morning as it was yesterday night. Only now there is an unpleasant stiffness to Cristiano’s neck that takes full five minutes to work out. Messi is still out cold but he is breathing evenly so Cristiano opts for a morning jog. When he gets back, he finds Messi up and awake. To make himself feel useful, Messi prepared breakfast.
“I could get used to this,” Cristiano says unthinkingly. A strange expression passes across Messi’s face.
“It’s my secret ploy to fatten you up so you can no longer get past our defence,” Messi says after a beat.
Cristiano chuckles nervously and keeps his eyes on his plate until the awkward moment passes.
They finish their meals.
Messi slowly raises up to deal with the dishes but he scarcely makes it three steps to the sink when Cristiano jumps up to relieve him of his burden.
“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Messi says mildly.
Cristiano takes the plates from him anyway and loads the dishwasher. When he straightens up, Messi is standing close, leaning against the kitchen counter, facing him.
Cristiano is the first to break the eye contact because Messi has that small smile on his face and his gaze is weirdly intent and Cristiano is prone to reading too much into things.
Messi huffs and walks back to the guestroom. Cristiano trails after him.
“Going to do everything for me now?” Messi arches an eyebrow, walking up to where Cristiano stopped. “Like, getting my socks for me?” His tone is more questioning than commanding but he points to the duffel bag that is still on the floor which means Messi would have to crouch down and put the strain on his back.
Cristiano frowns, indecisive.
Messi laughs at him. “You are–”
“Well?”
“Infuriating,” Messi concludes, leans in close to Cristiano and kisses him. When he pulls away, smirking, Cristiano just stands there, taken off guard by the sudden boldness but not about to complain.
Messi pushes him over to the bed, and Cristiano goes easily. But then Messi is on top of him, crushing his ribs, his cheeks flushed and his pupils dilated, and Cristiano’s breath hitches and his body freezes.
Messi pulls away a bit. “What?”
Cristiano can do nothing but stare at him, tongue-tied.
Messi harshly exhales through his nose. “Oh my God.” He scrambles to his feet, recoiling and wincing. “I’m sorry. Jesus, I’m so sorry. Cris– I thought… fuck.”
Blood. There should be more blood, Cristiano thinks hazily. The room starts spinning. His ears ring.
“Are you– Cris?!”
Cristiano blinks his eyes open, unsure how much time has passed. His breath comes in small shallow puffs.
His face is wet, sticky yellow petals are around him and one is even stuck to his face. The bed is wet, too.
Messi is holding the empty vase and a few lone stems, peering at Cristiano with an odd expression on his face. “Catina’s going to be mad about the freesias.”
Cristiano tries to imagine his good-natured motherly maid getting angry and he has to smile. “You could have put them aside,” he says, languid.
“I tried,” Messi grunts, setting the vase back to its place and disappearing into the bathroom. He comes back with a towel and a glass of water. “I thought you were supposed to take care of me,” he says, handing Cristiano the glass.
Cristiano accepts it gratefully but he has to wait a moment before he can drink it and not feel like he’d drown.
When he finishes drinking, he struggles to sit up. Messi is still there, not running away. “That went well,” Cristiano groans.
“What the hell happened back there?”
Blood. Screaming. Leo pressing against him, bruising his ribs, crushing him against the grass. The referee’s whistle blowing sharply.
A punch to his shoulder brings Cristiano back to the present. Leo is looking down at him, worried.
“I’m okay. Help me up,” Cristiano says and doesn’t wait for Leo to offer him his hand. He just grabs Leo's shoulder and hauls himself upright, mindful not to put much weight on him.
Leo doesn’t back away so they are standing close together, Cristiano’s hand resting lightly on Leo’s shoulder, his thumb brushing against Leo’s collar bone. Cristiano can’t make himself let go, overcome by the sudden need to reassure himself the Argentinean is indeed standing there, perfectly all right.
Or maybe it’s more than that.
When Cristiano’s hand moves from Leo’s shoulder to his neck, the dark brown eyes snap up to look at him. Cristiano stares back. Leo breathes out and shivers, melting into him though Cristiano’s fingers are barely grazing his skin.
Cristiano puts his left hand on Leo’s waist while letting his right one move to touch Leo’s face, thumb running along his jaw line. His fingers trail up to Leo’s lips, brushing against the bottom lip, tracing its outline.
Leo lowers his head, pressing a kiss to Cristiano’s knuckles. Cristiano’s world crumbles apart.
“Leo–” Cristiano’s left hand is now placed on Leo’s chest, feeling his heartbeat, strong, steady and quickening. Cristiano never wants to let go. It’s a ridiculous thought.
“Anything you want. Anything,” Leo gasps, pulling Cristiano closer until there is no more space between them, pressing insistent kisses to his skin. Cristiano’s hand drops to clutch at Messi’s waist again.
“Anything,” Cristiano echoes in shuddery breath, his hand helplessly convulsing on Leo’s hip.
Leo chuckles. “Just mind the stitches.”