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Leo’s happy. Somewhere, underneath the pain and exhaustion and desperation and shame, he’s happy. He is.
He celebrates with the team and he genuinely feels elated. It’s only once he gets a moment alone that his mood crashes brutally, and then he is sitting in some hallway by himself, and there is no bile rising in his throat, and his hands are not shaking, and he is fine, really, completely fine.
After recovering from what was definitely not a panic attack because he doesn’t have those nowadays, he leaves as soon as he can, shaking off everyone who tries to persuade him to stop. He knows it’s a shitty thing to do, he knows he should stay, but he also knows if he does he will completely fall apart.
His phone has died and he knows Ángel knows even though they’ve never talked about it, so he borrows Ángel’s phone and tries to ignore the urge to scream that he feels when he sees Cris’s number saved under Cristiano. Other people getting to have Cris’s contact on their phones under his actual name isn’t helping him feel any better. His hands are shaking when he hits call.
“Listen, congratulations, man, but I am actually waiting for another call so no offense but I have to hang up,” Cris says as soon as he’s picked up.
“It’s me,” Leo says, quietly, though Ángel is tactful enough to have left the room. Cris goes silent. Leo can’t blame him. “My phone is dead. Ángel – well, he won’t talk.”
“Yeah, true, he won’t,” Cris says. Leo thinks that sometimes it’s kind of scary how much they’ve stopped caring, but he’s immediately distracted by Cris adding, “I’m already at yours.”
Leo automatically starts walking. “I’m leaving now.”
“No, wait, you can go celebrate first -” Cristiano starts.
“I’m leaving now,” Leo repeats, not leaving any room for doubt or argument. “See you soon, I love you.”
He looks into the next room and offers Ángel the phone. He wants to say something like, It’s been a priviledge playing with you, but all he ends up saying is, “Thanks.”
“No worries,” Ángel says. Thank god for teammates like this.
Leo stares out the car window, city lights flashing by, and the match starts replaying in his mind. They almost always do, but today’s will be worse than usual, he knows. He’s craving distraction like water right before a halftime break.
He wonders whether football will still always be the first thing on his mind once he’ll have had to stop, and then he wonders if he’ll have to stop now, and then there’s a whole new blur of panicky thoughts until the car arrives in the parking garage and he stumbles out, the pain in his ankle white-hot. He blindly heads up, thankful for the discretion of his staff and pushing all thought about how reckless he’s being running to see Cris at his place after a major tournament final to the back of his mind.
He likes the house’s view, usually, and he adores it now, when it’s perfected by Cristiano standing in front of the windows, turning around at the sound of the door.
“Hey,” is the only thing Cris manages to get out, until Leo’s grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down into a kiss.
The kiss only lasts a moment, because Leo tries to push himself up on his tiptoes – since that’s the only way he can kiss Cristiano properly – but it doesn’t work with his ankle hurting like hell, and he gasps in pain.
“Leo,” Cris says strictly, putting his hands on Leo’s shoulders. “Queridinho.”
“Fine, I’m fine,” Leo says, trying to pull Cris back into the kiss.
“You’re not fine,” Cris says, walking him back and carefully pushing him onto the sofa.
Leo groans and buries his head in his hands. He can hear Cristiano leave the room and he’s so tired that he can’t even wonder why until Cris is already back, with an ice pack. “What did they say, ice it or keep it warm?”
“I’m fine,” Leo repeats, though he’s not sure why.
“You’re such a liar,” Cris says, a slight smirk in his voice. Leo knows Cris kind of likes it when he’s stubborn. Cris sits down and pulls Leo’s legs into his lap, giving him an earnest look. “Why didn’t you go out to celebrate? Leo, I would have waited here for you.”
“Okay,” Leo mutters. “I’m not fine. I didn’t want to celebrate. I’m ashamed. Happy?”
“No,” Cris says, lifting Leo’s chin to look him in the eyes. “Now, please tell me what the doctors said so I don’t make it worse.”
“To ice it,” Leo mutters.
“I thought so,” Cris says, gently pressing the ice pack to Leo’s swollen ankle. “And being ashamed is bullshit. You didn’t do anything wrong. Your team wouldn’t have won this without you. You deserve to celebrate.”
“I can’t help it,” Leo says. Cristiano gives him a look like he’s about to argue but doesn’t end up saying anything, so Leo goes on. “Why the fuck am I not happy anymore? I was last time. I was earlier after the match. You were happy when you won the Euros. You looked so happy.”
Cris doesn’t say anything.
Leo frowns. “You were happy, weren’t you?”
Cris looks down, his fingertips drawing random patterns on Leo’s good ankle. “I – I was. Honestly. It was just – not the kind of happiness I expected. So I get it. I really do, yeah?”
“Yeah, I know,” Leo says. He let’s his head fall against the backrest of the sofa, and looks at Cristiano, who’s still looking down. “They didn’t change me. The first Copa. The World Cup. I thought they would. Silly, huh?”
Cris shakes his head. “It’s not silly,” he says. “It’s normal. Well. Normal for people in our place.”
“Just the two of us, then,” Leo says.
Cris smiles, finally looking back up at Leo. “Yeah, just the two of us.”
Leo returns the smile. “Do you ever wish you never played football?”
“No,” Cristiano says, without a trace of hesitation. Leo’s asked him this before, though he’s never actually needed to. He knows Cris feels the same as him about it. “You wouldn’t want to never have played, though, would you?” Cris adds.
They’ve had this conversation probably a dozen times, and Leo wants to keep having it. He thinks about how shitty he felt just half an hour ago, and how warm and sleepy and safe he feels now, how his mind has stopped reeling. It still surprises him sometimes.
“No, of course not,” Leo says. “Just – I don’t know.”
“The attention part?”
“I guess,” Leo says.
Cris sighs. “Sometimes I get why you don’t like it. Today, actually.” Leo knows what Cris’s journey here will have looked like, the pretending and obfuscation and hoping their luck doesn’t run out.
“You like being famous, though,” Leo says.
Cris shrugs. “Well, yes.”
“I saw you were annoyed,” Leo says. “In Germany. With all the pitch invaders.”
Cris sighs again. “I used not to mind – I mean, when it’s just kids, I don’t, but now – I don’t even – ugh, don’t make me think about this kind of existential thing, I’m so tired from the flight.”
Leo gently nudges Cristiano’s hip with his knee. “Okay, I won’t.”
Cris nods, and closes his eyes, though his fingertips are still moving over Leo’s ankle. Leo watches him for a bit, blocking out any thought about tomorrow.
“I was jealous,” Leo says after a little while.
“Because of all the trophies I’ve won?” Cris asks, opening his eyes again, lips curving into a small grin.
Leo bites back a smile. “Yeah, but that’s not what I was talking about. I meant earlier, after the match. People’s, you know, partners were there.”
“Ah,” Cris says. “I know that feeling.”
“You do?” Leo asks.
“Mhm,” Cris makes.
Leo lifts his head a little. “Can’t have everything, I guess,” he says, a little wistfully.
“Maybe someday,” Cris says.
Leo groans. “Why are you so fucking perfect sometimes?” he says, pushing himself up, trying to avoid putting any weight on his bad ankle.
“What do you mean, sometimes?” Cris teases, but he’s shut up by Leo straddling his lap and kissing him quiet.
“When do you fly back?” Leo asks, when they finally break apart.
“No,” Cristiano says. He sounds a little desperate, his eyes wide and even darker than usual, his hands holding onto Leo’s waist. “Let’s not – let’s just pretend I don’t have to -”
“Sounds good,” Leo says, cupping Cris’s face for another kiss. He doesn’t want to think about getting maybe one day another month away. He doesn’t want to think about maybe never getting anything else.
Later, he can’t help but ask. “Cariño?” he whispers over the soothing hum of the air con.
“Hm?” Cris makes. He’s got one arm slung over Leo’s waist, and his face is pressed into the pillow.
“When you said, maybe someday,” Leo says. His voice feels like it’s grating the inside of his throat. “You were just being emotional, right?”
Cris turns onto his side, blinking slowly. Leo likes the way Cristiano’s face looks in the weak light that shines in through the window. Maybe it’s the moon, though more likely it’s the city lights still visible out here.
Leo reaches out to brush his fingers through Cris’s hair, and Cris makes that contented little noise that Leo can never get enough of.
“I’m always emotional,” Cristiano says.
Leo grins. “Where is this sudden self-reflection coming from?”
Cris grabs a pillow and lazily hits Leo with it. “You know what I was trying to say.”
Leo throws the pillow off the bed, wraps his leg over Cristiano’s hip, and leans in for a kiss. All of a sudden, he does feel like celebrating. “Yeah, I do.”