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It’s only once they get a short break during training that Leo can check the match on his phone. Before it has even loaded, Angel is already saying, with a sympathetic look at Leo, “Looks like Portugal and France are going to penalties.”
“Can’t believe Ronaldo’s getting kicked out in the quarterfinals again, huh?” someone says.
Leo’s not sure who, too absorbed by the screen, but he says “Shut up,” before he can stop himself.
Normally, he ignores these occasional comments from the younger guys who can’t imagine that he doesn’t want to hear it, but he can’t today. Not with how Cristiano called him this morning to check on him after Leo’s missed penalty last night, how Cris was so focused on Leo despite his own upcoming match. The memory of Cristiano’s voice, warmth covering up the tension of the tournament, just for five minutes, just for Leo, makes it impossible not to say anything right now.
Leo blends out his surroundings, drops onto the bench, and watches Portugal lose on penalties.
It’s only a few minutes after he’s watched Cris walk off the pitch, alone, face blank, that his phone rings. The call screen reads Scheduling – important, because it can’t very well read Cristiano <3 – but he call’s already dropped again after just one ring.
Leo isn’t someone who can sneak away from training for a minute, so he mutters something about urgent calls and heads back into the building, finds an empty room, hits dial. He’ll get a talking-to later, but he doesn’t care right now.
“I shouldn’t have called,” Cris says as soon as he picks up. “You’re training, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Cariño,” Leo says.
“Don’t,” Cristiano says, and starts to sob.
Leo hates that he can’t do anything except listen while Cristiano cries and says all the things Leo has thought so often after his own matches – It’s my fault, why can’t I make them win, it’s over, I should have been able to fix it. – It’s almost unbearable, but he stays silent until Cris slows down, still crying but more quietly now.
“I should have been able to make us win,” he says again, “why couldn’t I – ever – it’s humiliating -”
“France is a tough opponent,” Leo says automatically, even though he knows it won’t make a difference.
“You beat them to win your cup -”
“So did you, before,” Leo says. He forces himself not to pace the room, tries to project calmness into his voice.
Cris laughs, cold and sad. “I didn’t.” Leo feels something stab somewhere between his ribs at his tone. It’s rare that Cristiano admits any weakness, any doubts, but when he does, it’s always bad.
“Don’t say that, please,” Leo says. “I watched the match back then. You did as much as anyone. More.”
Cris doesn’t say anything for a minute, just breathes hard. “It’s all done now,” he says. “I won’t – I won’t have another chance.”
Leo has no clue what to say, but Cristiano keeps talking anyway. “And then no one is going to love me anymore -”
“I am,” Leo cuts him off. Finding those words will always be easy.
Cris swallows, but he doesn’t speak.
“Cristiano?” Leo asks. “You know that, yes?”
“Yeah,” Cris says unconvincingly.
“You don’t – you don’t think I’ll only love you as long as you play football. You don’t, right?”
“No, of course not,” Cristiano says, but his tone hasn’t changed.
Leo sits down on an empty cleaning bucket. “You can play or not, and I will love you the same. You can win or lose hundreds of matches and it won’t change, yeah? You can play or coach or run charities or do ads, and it won’t make a difference to me.”
He can hear nothing but Cris’s breathing for a moment, but then Cris mumbles, “Love you,” and he sounds much more like himself again. “Sinto saudade hoje, querido,” he adds, speaking slowly for Leo’s benefit.
Normally they speak Spanish, Leo’s Portuguese is not good enough for a real conversation. But he knows that sometimes there are things Cristiano needs his native language to describe. Leo remembers a stolen afternoon in Paris, not that long before he had left for Miami, the two of them lying tangled up in bed, the sun not yet down. Cristiano had traced Leo’s tattoos and explained saudade, speaking deliberately, like he was choosing every word with care.
Leo drops his head against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He think he might be feeling saudade as well.
“Look,” he says. “I know you can’t take your mind off the match right now, but try to do something for yourself, okay? Something to make you feel normal.”
“I don’t need that,” Cristiano says.
“Cristiano,” Leo says. “It’s me. You don’t have to – you can tell me the truth.”
Cris sighs. “I keep thinking that it was all so easy, back then. Even when the games were difficult, playing was easy. Now after ninety minutes, it’s like – I can’t even describe it. When did I get so old?”
Leo sighs. “Well, you’re not the only one. I’m so tired between matches, and I’m always in pain -”
“Are you?” Cris asks, sharply. “Are you taking care of yourself?”
“Cristiano,” Leo says. “Are you serious right now? You want to ask me this, when I know for a fact you’ve pushing yourself way beyond what is sensible for so long?”
Cris goes quiet, and Leo is already regretting his words. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t trying – I just – I worry, okay? You’re not invincible.”
“No, I – it’s fine,” Cris says. “I know you’re only – it’s – sometimes, in the moment, it feels right, and then I rest and it’s. Well.”
“Yeah,” Leo says.
They’re silent for a moment. The familiar ache of missing Cristiano that he usually feels when they’re apart is becoming more acute with every second they’re speaking. Sometimes, he fantasises about being able to see Cristiano whenever he wants, to be together for longer than a stolen couple of days here and there, of being able to take Cristiano’s calls without pretending it’s someone else.
“Remember the first time we met?” he asks.
“’Course I do. You were so above wanting to be my nemesis, it drove me insane.” He can hear a smile in Cristiano’s voice now. There’s no surprise at the change of topic. Maybe Cris was thinking about the same thing, with all their talk of getting old.
“You were such an arrogant dickhead,” Leo says fondly.
“Fine, fine,” Cris says. “But I did it well.”
“You were distracting,” Leo says. “The way you looked when you played.”
“Distracting, huh?” Cris teases, and Leo smiles. Teasing is good, even if Cris still sounds like he’s got a head cold.
“Stop fishing.”
“Never,” Cris says. “Am I still distracting now?”
“More every day,” Leo says, still smiling. “Your hair is nicer nowadays.”
“My hair,” Cris repeats.
“Mhm,” Leo makes. “Among other good things.”
“Okay, now you’re just complimenting me to cheer me up.”
“Yeah,” Leo says. “Is it working?”
“Yes,” Cristiano says. “You know damn well taking compliments is about ninety percent of my personality.”
Leo can hear Cris get up from what he assumes is a similar empty room a continent away. “I have to get back, I think,” Cristiano says. He sounds slightly down again at the thought. Leo knows the feeling of facing the world after a loss, and he hates it just as much as Cristiano does. But there’s no way around it.
“Go comfort your team,” Leo says, softly. “And come see me as soon as this thing is over, yeah?”
“You’re going to have a lot of media attention, we should wait,” Cris mutters. “It’d be safer.”
“Fuck it,” Leo says. “I’m not waiting any longer than I have to until I get to see you.”
“Right, good, yeah,” Cris says. “I want – I love you. You know, what you said earier, all that stuff about how it doesn’t make a difference – it’s the same for me.”
“Okay,” Leo says, trying to put all the warmth and longing and love and sadness at being apart into the word. Cristiano knows him well enough to understand it all from two syllables.
“Alright, go,” Cristiano says. “Train. Win your cup.”
“Well,” Leo says. “Since we’re together, you know it’ll be half yours, don’t you?”
Finally, finally, he’s rewarded with a real, if still slightly watery, laugh. “Oh, Leo,” Cristiano says. “What would I do without you? All those trophies and all that saudade.”
“All those trophies and all that saudade,” Leo echoes. Cristiano will understand it’s a promise.