Work Text:
Leo shifts in his seat, a little bead of sweat beginning to form on his brow. He's supposed to be filming a commercial for Al Jazeera Sports here in this little studio in Madrid (he's a little pissed off that they made him fly all the way here for this). They're about twenty-five minutes behind schedule and his Real Madrid co-star still hasn't shown up.
Every minute that ticked by put Leo in a worse mood. He'd heard about Hollywood starlets who showed up to sets whenever they liked and caused drama. He knew his rival was more prone to diva-like behavior than most, but he didn't think it was like Ronaldo to pull something like this. Geri had always complimented his former teammate's punctuality, after all.
All he'd been told about the shoot was to come wearing his "usual clothes" and to bring a cell phone. The director had laughed and shook his head when Leo had walked in with his full Barça away kit, cleats in hand and all
"You got my message about usual clothes, no?" Mike, the director, had chuckled, his Spanish accented
Leo blinked. "These are the usual ones. Did you mean the home kit instead?"
Mike had just smiled before he walked away. "No, you're fine."
So now Leo sat in his rickety chair in the studio, cranky and slightly uncomfortable, wishing mean things upon his tardy co-star. The Argentine was the one who had to fly in from across the country and he had only arrived five minutes late thanks to mid-morning Madrid traffic. Cristiano lived only across town, and he was now pushing half an hour late.
The director's phone buzzed loudly on a nearby table. The man looked at the display and an exasperated look came on his face.
"Cris!!" Mike exclaimed as he answered the call, before switching over to rapid fire English. Leo strained to hear. The director's tone changed to sympathetic laced with that Hollywood insincerity. The player caught a few words (he understood more English than he actually spoke): "son", "sick", and a word that sounded a bit like the Spanish word "fiebre"
As soon as the director hung up he began barking orders in English and the crew sprung into action, adjusting lights, moving wires, placing two wooden stools in front of a white background. Leo got pulled back into hair and makeup, then back out to sit on one of the stools while the crew ran some test shots and adjusted more complicated looking things.
Cristiano bursts into the room about ten minutes later looking flustered and contrite.
"I'm here, I'm sorry guys," he pants out. He immediately goes to the director and Leo can't understand the conversation but he knows Cristiano is apologizing. The Portuguese then goes up to the crew and apologizes again and before long everyone forgets about the forty-five minutes he made them wait. Leo wishes he could charm an entire room like that.
Cristiano flashes Leo an apologetic smile before he's whisked back to hair and makeup. He comes out looking a little bit more put together, less rumpled. The winger takes the seat across from him and gives him that same contrite look.
"Good morning, Leo," he says, extending his hand. Leo thinks vaguely 'It's not morning anymore, asshole', but he shakes the man's hand. Cristiano continues, "I’m sorry I made you wait. My son's been sick all night and this morning he got a fever. My mom's with him now." Leo smiles sympathetically. The Portuguese really does look like he's exhausted. Involuntarily, he feels the irritation from earlier slip away.
Cristiano suddenly stops and blinks at him.
"Am I supposed to be in my kit? I thought they said usual clothes."
Leo hesitates and out of the corner of his eye, the director is choking back laughter.
•
If Leo thought things would go smoother once Cristiano arrived, he was wrong.
"Cut! Cut! Cut!" the director yells. "Leo! You look constipated, for god's sake! Your rival is teasing you, you need to smirk, shake your head a bit. Emote."
It's been like this the whole time. They're filming it in real-time so they can 'capture genuine emotions', but they haven't been able to get through the scene once.
It's take 10.
If it's not Leo's emoting, then it's Leo mistyping the text. (It's not his fault he has no idea what he's typing!) Or it’s him completely forgetting what he has to type, to the point where the crew had to write out a ‘cheat sheet’ sign and hold it up slightly off-camera so he can glance up at it as he types.
If it's not Cristiano complaining about his 'lines' ("I have better comebacks than 'Blah blah blah'!") then it's Cris's other phone going off in the middle of the scene. He refuses to turn it off until Junior's fever breaks and his mom keeps texting him updates. Cristiano also is concerned with the amount of winky faces he’s supposed to be sending Leo.
The director sighs. "Everyone take a break. Leo, work on your faces. Cristiano, just get it together. Be back in ten, guys." He announces.
Both players get up and plop down on the couch on the other side of the room. There's no craft services, since no one thought filming would take this long, and Leo feels his stomach grumble. It's almost lunchtime. Cristiano checks his phone again and frowns.
"How's your son doing?" Leo asks. Cristiano just looks so worried and Leo's new-parent heart goes out to him.
"His fever went up another half a degree. My mother's thinking of taking him to the hospital," Cristiano answers quietly
"I'm sorry."
Cristiano shrugs helplessly. "He woke me up at four in the morning at my bed crying. I had no idea what was going on."
"I know the feeling," Leo smiles. "Thiago wakes up a least four times a night screaming and every time I think there's something wrong with him. Even though I know it's normal. He's never been sick though." Leo knocks on the wooden table next to him and Cris finds it unbelievably endearing.
"This morning I was getting ready to leave and Junior was so sick and upset that when I gave him a hug he puked all over me." Cris scrunches up his nose and Leo laughs.
"Oh I see, so that was another forty minutes getting ready. It makes more sense now," the Argentine teases.
Cris swats at him. "It wasn't like that, boludo. BLAH BLAH BLAH EL OH EL." Cristiano doubles over laughing at his own joke and the laughter is contagious. They're giggling together on the couch leaning up against each other, and the rest of the room is serendipitously stealing glances at them.
"You know," Leo speaks up once they've caught their breath, "When Thiago was born he peed all over me."
Cristiano blinks at him owlishly before he descends back into laughter so hard it's nothing more than a wheezing squeak.
"It’s true!" Leo laughs. "The doctor had just handed him to me and I was holding him for the first time," Cris watches the soft smile pull at Leo's lips as he recalls the birth of his son, and tries to stifle his own laughter. "Thiago just stopped crying and looked right at me. It was... it was beautiful. And then he peed on my face."
They've both burst into cackling laughter again, Cristiano picturing it and Leo laughing at how amusing Cristiano finds the image. It's all a bit surreal, to be honest. He's sharing a loveseat with Cristiano Ronaldo, shoulder-to-shoulder and trading parent stories. He doesn't even mind the extra time he's had to spend here at the little studio. Surprisingly, he doesn't actually wish he was anywhere else.
A contemplative shadow passes over Cristiano's face. "I wasn't there when Cristianinho was born. I have a picture of it though." He's smiling but it's tinged with sadness.
"Well, that was during World Cup, wasn't it? You had a reason to miss it." Leo justifies, trying to put the happiness back on the Portuguese's face. Now that he's seen Cristiano's real smile and real laugh, it seems like a crime for that handsome face to look so sad.
"That's true," Cristiano shrugs. He hesitates. "We were, uh, we were also waiting on the results of the paternity test to come in. Before we did anything."
Leo breathes a quiet "ah" of understanding. They fall silent and Leo looks around at the crewmembers milling around quietly. Cristiano checks his other phone again, no new texts.
"You know," Leo starts, and Cristiano looks up at him through his eyelashes. "You're... a lot different than I used to think you were." Cristiano breaks eye contact with a wry smile, but Leo plows on. "You're a really good player, a good dad, and a good person. Don't... don't allow yourself to think otherwise." Leo's not really sure why he's still talking.
Cris is turning his other phone around in his hands, eyes downcast. He looks up at Leo and locks those intense eyes to his. "Thanks," he whispers. He straightens up and says a little louder, "I could say the same about you. It's nice to know you're not infallible," Cristiano smirks and Leo replies with a 'not-amused' eyebrow arch. "But, you know what I mean."
Leo opens his mouth but before any words come out the director starts clapping his hands together to get everyone's attention.
"Alright break's over! That was ten. That was fifteen, actually. No need to thank me. Break up the love-fest back there you two, let's get back to work."
Cris really wants to know what Leo was about to say, but he gets up anyway and extends a hand to Leo. The Argentine takes it and gets up, and from the close proximity Cris can tell that Leo's blushing.
•
Things go a lot smother the second time around.
They actually get the whole scene done in fifteen minutes. It would have taken even less time if Cristiano hadn’t decided that he and Leo’s newfound camaraderie meant that it was his duty to whisper jokes to Leo and make the striker’s fingers stumble over the keys or cause him to crack up laughing during a close-up shot.
Somewhere between takes, Cristiano’s mom finally texts him good news: Junior’s fever broke, he’s finally eating and feeling better. She booked a doctor’s appointment for later on in the afternoon just in case, but he seemed OK. Leo sees how Cristiano’s whole form seems to sag in relief.
They’re pulled into separate rooms for their individual interviews and after giving out roughly a million or so autographs for the crewmembers, they’re finally free to go.
Leo lingers by the entrance, not quite sure what to do. He’s got a hotel somewhere near the airport, but he’s dressed in his full Barça kit and he’s really not feeling like being ogled or heckled as he makes his way over there. Besides, it’s barely two in the afternoon; the day is nowhere near done. But this city is foreign to him and has always felt a little like hostile territory.
Cristiano extricates himself from the circle of crewmembers wanting pictures and heads over to Leo. He’s put his hood up and has some large aviators over his eyes. He looks so much like a sleek Euro hipster that Leo finds himself smiling at him before Cris is even standing next to him.
“So what are your plans, Leo?” Cris asks. Leo likes the way his name sounds coming from Cris’s mouth, the Portuguese accent lazily dragging out the ‘L’. “Your flight is tonight?”
“Actually it’s tomorrow afternoon. The Barça jet is… busy or something. They couldn’t pick me up earlier.” He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and watches Cris watch the movement.
“So you’ve got nothing to do for practically a day and a half, then?” Leo can practically see the gears turning in Cris’s head. “Did you want to do anything? I’ll drive us.” Cris sounds hesitant, and it’s such a difference from the assertiveness he’s used to hearing from the Portuguese. He finds himself nodding along, following Cristiano to the nondescript car (as nondescript as a “subtle” black Porsche can be, anyways) that he uses when he wants to get around the city unnoticed.
•
Leo has come to realize that he’s developing a fixation for Cristiano’s lips. It’s distracting, really; Cris will just be telling him something animatedly, talking with his hands and his accent getting stronger, and then he’ll just lick his lips or bite them or pull a face and Leo is mesmerized, gaze dropping down to those full lips for a second too long before dragging his eyes away or looking down at the table.
They’re sitting in a little diner in this little quiet corner of an outer suburb of Madrid. Cris took them there because he swore up and down that no one in this little sleepy town would know who they were. Leo didn’t think that was possible but so far they haven’t been approached by anyone and no one has given them that telltale double take. Granted, there are only three other patrons in this diner and two of them look old enough to remember ‘the good ole days before Franco’ and the other has been reading the same page of El País since before they walked in.
Cristiano is surprisingly easy to talk to, more than Leo was expecting. If he had to guess, it’s because of the way Cristiano says “I understand”, and the fact that he really does. He’s never had someone who’s understood what it meant to be the best in the world (or one of the best, out of courtesy to the man sitting across from him) and to have to live up to that title every single match. But it’s not just that. Cris is the kind of guy he can talk cars to, talk watches and talk ridiculous expensive shit that he can’t talk about with his friends from home. They don’t have that kind of money he and Cristiano do.
He’s in dangerous territory, Leo thinks. Everything Cristiano does and says is somehow endearing him more to Leo. When he asked him why he wore so much Gucci, Cris ducked his head and smiled, embarrassed, and told him about how when he was young and green in Manchester, he had walked into the first “luxury retail centre” he had come across and ambled around looking for something to spend his first mind bogglingly high paycheck on. He’d come across the Gucci boutique and the trademark red and green stripes had reminded him so much of the Portuguese flag, and he was hit by a wave of homesickness so hard that he walked out of the store with five bags full of shoes, belts, jackets and shirts. Now he knows better, but now it’s become his trademark and now Frida Giannini herself sends him boxes full of the latest menswear and, more recently, the children’s line.
Leo answers with his own stories and Cristiano could honestly listen to him talk all day. His Spanish is so much different than all of the Spaniards’, and even though he has heard Pipa and Ángel’s Argentine accent, words somehow just sound better when they’re coming out of Leo’s mouth. The pausing, measured cadence of speech, the lilting accent that pulls up his vowels unexpectedly, the strange verb conjugations; Leo’s telling him something about a car and a dream come true, and Cristiano knows he should be paying more attention but all he can do is smile and nod contentedly.
The conversation trails off into amicable silence as they wait for their orders to arrive. Cristiano chews on his bottom lip in boredom and watches Leo stare at his mouth. Slowly, eyes on the other man, he lets his teeth scrape over the rosy flesh and let go, lips looking kissably swollen. Leo’s tongue darts out to his own lips, subconsciously, and looks back up to see Cristiano watching him, considering.
“Leo,” he says, the way that drives Leo nuts. “This is getting a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Leo blushes. “I know. It’s been like ten minutes since we ordered,” he mumbles, looking everywhere but at the man across the table. He knows that’s not at all what Cristiano is referring to; he knows exactly what Cristiano was talking about, but he’s not quite ready for that. Yet.
Cristiano leans back and gives him an amused look, before a smirk splits his face and he says, “Seriously. It’s like they don’t care they’ve got the best of the world sitting around. Two goddamn Balon D’Or’s.”
Cristiano’s chuckling as he says it, but Leo inexplicably feels compelled to correct him. “Four Balon D’Or’s.” Cris’s face freezes. “You know, three and, uh, one,” he mumbles and the other man’s smile wilts.
“Four Balon D’Ors, then. Soon to be five.” Cris raises both his eyebrows at him before glancing down to check something on his phone. Leo can see that he’s upset Cris, judging by the fact that he’s pointlessly scrolling through his apps just to avoid eye contact with him. He wants to say something to smooth it over, but the food arrives right then and the moment passes.
•
They’ve ended up in Leo’s hotel room.
After the food, they’d wandered around the sleepy town; ducking in and out of shops, dropping coins into wandering kids’ hands and walking aimlessly along the two lane main avenue. The backs of their hands kept brushing against each other and Leo kept wishing he were brave enough to just grab Cris’s hand in his.
There was one point when someone almost recognized them. It was an older looking man, most likely in his 60’s, and they had walked into his leather goods shop to peer at belts and wallets. He’d heard ‘these two kids speaking with weird accents’ and started talking to them. Leo was wearing his Barça jersey under Cristiano’s hoodie, and Cristiano had on a Gucci jacket over his Nikes.
The man kept asking them where they were from, where he knew them from. So Cristiano and Leo wove him an elaborate story: Cristiano was Rodolfo, a fisherman from Menorca on his second ever trip to the mainland, and Leo was Luís, an Uruguayan bandoneón player about to sign his first contract with a tango ensemble. They’d met at the metro.
The man seemed placated but Cris and Leo hightailed it out of the shop as soon as politely possible. They got a few meters out the door before they collapsed against each other in full-throated laughter, shoulder-to-shoulder again, holding each other up. Cris turned his head and between laughs, choked out into Leo’s ear, “Luís, Luís, we gotta get out of here, Luís.”
“Run, Rodolfo! Vamonos!!”
And so they’d power-walked back to Cristiano’s subtle Porsche, picked up some beer, and Cristiano followed Leo’s vague instructions back to his hotel. (“Somewhere near the airport. No, I don’t know the name, but the logo’s green. Just head toward Barajas and we can drive around ‘til we see it.”) They got lost two times before pulling into the hotel’s back entrance and dropping off their car with the valet. Cristiano gives his name as Rodolfo again, and Leo’s got his hood up and head down, not laughing this time. It all just feels so sordid.
And now they’re in suite 1812 laying towards the foot of the queen-sized bed and playing video games. They swore off FIFA and PES out of principle, and so they’re playing Modern Warfare online. Cristiano has never been good at non-football and non-racing games, and so Leo handles the headset (he actually brought a headset, my god) and most of the action while Cristiano button-mashes as best he can. They’ve been idly sipping at the beer they picked up and they’re loose-limbed and relaxed, with Cristiano leaning more on Leo than is strictly necessary on a bed this size.
Their squad ends up losing five times in a row and Cristiano throws the remote across the room, burying his face in the mattress in frustration. It’s adorable, Leo thinks. Cristiano has never played this game in his life and he’s still mad he’s lost. He takes his headset off and reaches around to lay an arm across Cris’s shoulder and pat his gelled hair with his other hand. “There, there,” Leo soothes, speaking into Cristiano’s neck and he can vaguely hear the Portuguese beneath him mumble ‘asshole’, “we can always go back to Story Mode, Beginner if you want.” Cristiano swats his hand away but makes no motion to move out of Leo’s embrace.
“Shut up,” Cristiano grumbles even as he burrows further against Leo’s chest. “Sorry about your remote. I’ll get it.” He doesn’t move.
“Leave it there, get it later,” Leo’s still speaking into Cristiano’s neck and the Portuguese tenses a bit, suddenly. Leo belatedly realizes that maybe he should let go, and crawls off Cris’s back to sit Indian-style on the foot of the bed. Cristiano turns over onto his back and sits up facing Leo. They take each other in, up close and slowly, now that there are no prying eyes to tell them how long is socially acceptable. The freckles across the bridge of Cristiano’s nose, the cleft in Leo’s chin; they take their time with the details.
Leo reaches out a hesitating hand and cups the side of Cristiano’s face, sees those long eyelashes flutter shut. He traces his thumb across a sharp cheekbone, down a strong jawline, and up to those infuriatingly distracting lips. He rubs his thumb lightly along the corner of Cristiano’s mouth, testing, feeling. Cristiano lips open for him, eyes still shut. Need flickers inside Leo’s belly like a flame. He wants.
“Cris,” he whispers, tracing his thumb along the man’s bottom lip, feeling where the chapped flesh gives way to silky wet. Cristiano shudders and Leo distantly realizes that the Portuguese is gripping his knee. He leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together. “Cristiano,” he repeats, and he feels Cristiano shudder again, stuttered breath against Leo’s cheek. Cris finally opens his eyes and Leo pulls back to see him better, leaving his hand where it is, tracing, exploring.
“Leo,” Cris answers.
Leo looks into the man’s dark eyes and smiles softly. He sees the answer to his unspoken question in Cristiano’s eyes, sees the same want and need. He flicks his thumb slowly down Cristiano’s lips, and then moves his hand back to cup the back of his head and pulls him closer until their mouths meet. Leo watches Cris’s eyes close again before he allows his to do the same.
They take their time with this like they did earlier. Leo’s fingers tangle in the rough gelled strands of Cristiano’s thick hair and tug, and Cristiano’s hands are running over his knees, his thighs, and back down, back up. He eventually has to untangle his hands from Cristiano’s hair to tug at his shirt and Cris breathes a frustrated groan against Leo’s mouth. Leo smiles into the kiss. For as much of a prima donna as Cristiano is with his hair, he loves having it pulled.
They’re horizontal along the foot of the bed, Cris straddling Leo’s thighs, rocking slowly and deliberately. Leo’s still got him by the mouth, every now and then letting him go to let him kiss and nip trails down a sweat-damp collarbone, a fleshy shoulder, rosy nipples. He pulls him back up when his lips decide they miss him too much.
Leo’s never been an ‘on the first date’ kind of guy (and honestly, this whole day has felt like one big date), and he’s still too shy to let Cristiano see him coming undone, so vulnerable and exposed, so soon. It’s a strange feeling for Cristiano, having to rein himself in. He wants to make Leo feel good, see which touches cause which reactions and if there’s anything that can make the perennially even-tempered man scream. He wants it all, but he wants only what Leo wants to give him.
They’ll save that all for another time, though. Cristiano gets the feeling that Leo is the kind of guy worth being patient for.
(He compensates for the non-sex by giving Leo the mother of all blowjobs, however. He’s got Leo sprawled out and works him slowly, so slowly, deeply, that before long the man is a mewling, keening mess and his hair is an absolute mess from all of Leo’s pulling and yanking. Leo doesn’t want to leave him with blue balls either, and Cris’s eyes roll back and he bites his lips as Leo works him with his hands, leaving him panting, drenched in sweat and boneless.)
•
His cellphone’s ringing.
That’s Cristiano’s first conscious thought as he wakes up. The sheets are warm and he’s got Leo in his arms in the exact position that makes him never want to get out of bed. Leo, he thinks, and that’s his second conscious thought as he lays his head back down on that bare shoulder and wraps his arms tighter around that strong body.
He must have drifted back to sleep because suddenly he’s waking up again, his phone’s standard Marimba ringtone loud and insistent. He gropes blindly on the nightstand for his iPhone and swipes the screen to take the call. Instantly a lilting Argentine voice floods his ear and Cris is way too disoriented to translate the Spanish in his head. Besides, isn’t the Argentine supposed to be sleeping with him?
He cuts off the quick words with a succinct, “Huuuuuuh?”
The voice hesitates, then starts chattering again.
“Uhhh, que?” Cris cuts him off again. His sleep-laced Portuguese accent slurs his sad attempt at Spanish and the words come out sounding like ‘ohhh, qui?’, decidedly foreign. The voice is startled into silence. Cris almost falls back asleep when the voice speaks again:
“…Leo? Where is Leo?”
Cris’s eyes snap open and he fixes blurry vision on the name on the screen: ‘Masche’. Oh, shit.
The tinny voice of Javier Mascherano starts to yell and Cristiano frantically jabs at the screen to end the call. Cris stares blankly at the Sol de Mayo on screen of the phone for a bit before he decides to just turn it off. He lays Leo’s iPhone back next to his own identical one on the nightstand and looks back down at the sleeping man in his bed. Cris shakes his head fondly; all of that and Leo hasn’t even twitched. Well now that he’s been woken up he doesn’t want to be awake on his own. It’s almost ten o’clock, anyways, a perfectly reasonable time.
“Leeeeeeo. Leeeeeeeo,” he leans over and whispers right into the man’s ear. Leo swats at him and burrows into the covers. Cris frowns and shakes him at his shoulder.
“Lionel Messi” he says with a stern voice. “This is your mother speaking. Wake up, young man!” Cris tries again but no luck. Did this guy really sleep through everything?
“Leo!!!!” Cris is almost shouting now. Leo’s brow twitches. Well. Fine then.
Cris decides to just let the man sleep, if he hasn’t woken up then he obviously must need the rest. He untangles himself from the sheets and lets his feet flop over the side of the bed, lazily moving to get up. A warm arm winds its way around his waist and holds him still. Behind him, the sleepy bundle that is Leo slurs, “Where you goin’? Stay.”
Cris cranes his neck to look at the man behind him, just now blinking his eyes open. “Wait,” he starts, “did you just wake up? Did that just wake you up?” Leo’s yawn almost splits his face in half and that’s pretty much Cris’s answer. “Are you serious? I’ve only been trying to wake you up for five minutes straight and all I have to do is move from the bed and that’s what wakes you up?” Cris’s tone is all exasperation but he can’t quite keep the giddiness off his face at the thought of it.
“Don’t think about it too hard, Cris. Just go with it, ok?” Leo mumbles. “You’re too uptight. Relaaax.” Cris lets Leo pull him back down to the bed. They’re both awake and don’t do much but lay around in bed, and somewhere during that Cris kisses Leo again. As amazing as the slow exploration of last night was, what Cris really enjoys is this newfound sense of familiarity he feels now. Like there are now little places in Leo that have become home.
•
The morning passes by way too damn fast.
They spend the rest of it idling around the room, calling up room service, letting their bodies become acquainted before the long time apart they know they’re about to face. Two o’clock, Leo had said, they said to be at the airport by one forty-five. The clock on the nightstand ticks down the minutes ‘til they part.
Cristiano volunteers to take Leo to the airport and it’s both a selfless and selfish act. He doesn’t want Leo to be bothered by any Madridistas, but because even though it’s only a ten minute drive, it’s another ten minutes he’s got Leo all to himself.
They pull up right next to the ‘VIP Entrance’ of the airport that’s reserved for celebrities, athletes and diplomats. Cristiano lets the car idle and turns his head to look at Leo. He lets his eyes trace over the Argentine’s form again and again, trying to memorize the way the afternoon sun casts shadows over his skin. It’s so different from the lights of Camp Nou, from the Bernabéu, from the meticulously placed lights of the Al Jazeera studio. Leo catches his eye and smiles, and Cris suddenly realizes he’s been unconsciously smiling.
The clock reads one thirty five.
It’s less of a farewell and more of a see you later. Leo steals a quick kiss from Cristiano, but even though this entrance is a little bit tucked away, they’re still in too public a place, and Leo is still not that bold. Cris pops open the trunk for him (in the front of the car, not the back; the classic style) and Leo hesitates.
“When do I get to see you again?” he asks, ducking his head a bit in shyness, feeling like such a girl.
“We’ve got, uh, we’ve got that Balon D’Or ceremony next, right?” Cris wonders out loud, smirking at the blush on Leo’s face. He reaches out and swipes his thumb softly across Leo’s cheek, as if he were wiping the pink away.
“So… You’ll be there in Zurich then?” He’s read the gossip and assumed Cristiano was going to skip this one along with his coach.
“Yeah. No real way I can get out of that one,” Cristiano sighs, face souring a bit. He quickly recovers. “But hey. You do have my number now, you know. If you want to see me before then, I’m sure we can work something out.” The devilish smirk on the Portuguese’s face makes Leo’s knees weaken and he’s got to get out of this car before he decides that leaving is not worth it. (Right now, he’s debating it.)
He presses another quick goodbye kiss to Cristiano’s mouth before he bounds out of the car and walks around toward the front, grabbing his backpack and carry-on. Cristiano jokingly revs up the engine at him, and Leo flicks him off over his shoulder as he shuts the trunk. Leo steals a last glance at Cris before he heads into the airport, the sliding doors closing behind him as Cristiano watches him disappear through the VIP terminal.
That silly, unconscious smile doesn’t leave his face the rest of the day. Leo texts him as soon as he lands (“im home. oh hey, u know anything about these 6 missed calls from masche?”), and every time a new message from ‘MESSI’ pings in, he thinks about that cheesy commercial they filmed and they way it’s practically changed his life. The way it filled a void in his life he didn’t even know existed.