Rounding Out Family; Ronaldo/Ozil
Title: Rounding Out Family
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo/Mesut Ozil
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 18,958
Summary: Cristiano looks at Mesut and he thinks about how nice it could be, not doing all of this alone, and that just comes out of nowhere, because Cristiano is fine on his own, isn’t looking for anybody to round out his family when they’re doing just fine, just him and his son.
Author luxover
Mixer: eleret
Download Mix Here
A/N: Let’s just pretend that this is how Cris is being raised, yeah? I mean, as Basti would say, Zis iz fikshun!!!
Cristiano’s already showered and dressed, and is just finishing putting gel in his hair by the time he hears Cris start to talk to himself through the baby monitor. It’s nothing Cristiano can understand-nothing even resembling words-but it makes something well up inside his chest, anyway. He’s new at this, at being a father, and even though he wasn’t really ready for it, and maybe still isn’t ready for it, he loves getting to watch as Cris learns, anything and everything, spatial recognition and which toys bounce and which are best to sleep on and how to speak. It’s like watching a baby become a person, and Cristiano can’t get enough of it.
He walks down the hall and to Cris’s room, and inside, he places his forearms on the edge of the crib. He just watches for a minute; Cris is still talking, but it’s a different type of talking, like he’s telling a story, his tiny fingers grasping at a toy football next to him.
“You know,” Cristiano says to him, “you’re not allowed to actually hold the ball like that unless you’re a keeper.” He pauses for a minute and then asks, “Is this your way of breaking the news to me?”
Cris babbles something in response-ba ba ba ba-and Cristiano laughs a little as he picks him up.
“Come on, let’s get you dressed,” he says, settling Cris on his hip. “Nothing like a little Gucci to get a man ready for the day, am I right?”
Cris just tugs on one of Cristiano’s earrings in response.
Downstairs, when Cris is all dressed and sitting in a high chair, Cristiano starts getting out baby food and eats a banana in the process. Cris is a little restless, so the tv is on to some cartoon or other, something with too much music and too many colors, and Cris absolutely loves it.
Cristiano makes short work out of making Cris’s breakfast; he throws some oatmeal on, and while that’s cooking, he slices some strawberries and pours some apple juice into a spill-proof cup. He doesn’t even get halfway through feeding Cris by the time his mom comes over and lets herself in through the front door. She’s the one who watches Cris, usually, when Cristiano is at practice. She doesn’t like the idea of leaving Cris with hired help, not when he’s so young and still figuring out who his family is, and so she flew in from Portugal and is staying just down the street; Cristiano has told her time and time again that she should stay at his house-it’s not like he doesn’t have the room-but she every time just shakes her head and says, “You’re a man now, and I’ll be here for a while,” like that means anything.
Cristiano never knows how to respond, doesn’t know how to tell her that he’s not bringing anyone home anymore, not now that he has a son living with him, and so he just doesn’t say anything. She probably already knows.
He’s lucky, he knows, to have the family that he has.
Cristiano gets to the Valdebebas early, and takes his time getting ready for practice. By the time he steps out onto the training pitch, it’s still early and he’s still alone. He runs a couple of laps, does a couple high-knees from touchline to touchline, and then people start to make their way out, Chori and Pipita and Iker. Sometimes they sit out and stretch in the middle of the pitch, and sometimes they just hang around and talk, but they know not to bother Cristiano and don’t seem like they want to join him, and so Cristiano just does his thing, waits for Mourinho to come out and whip them into shape.
Practice is uneventful; they run sprints and race ladders, and every time Marcelo beats Chori, he yells, “Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!” and dances, his knees swaying in and out as he jabs finger guns in the air. It would be annoying, only Cristiano knows Marcelo, and Marcelo’s only doing it to see if he can get a rise out of Chori.
In the end, Pepe’s the one who finally snaps, saying, “It’s not like it’s hard; you’re racing Albiol.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Chori hollers from the other end of the ladders.
“It means you’re a fatass,” Karim says, and then Canales says, all serious, “Wait, I thought that was Pipita?” and madness breaks out, everyone laughing and yelling to be heard, Pipita throwing Canales into a headlock as Alvaro motions like he’s holding money and says, “I got ten on the little one!” The whole time, Cristiano stands there next to Kaka, just watching.
Kaka says to him, “How does it feel, not to be in the middle of it for once?”
“I’m never in the middle of it,” Cristiano says, but they both know it’s a lie; Cristiano takes football seriously, but he knows how to joke around, too, trying to see how many times he can touch Marcelo’s hair before he notices, or how far he can stand and still hit Sergio with a kicked football. Those things tend to spiral out of control, and that’s part of the reason Cristiano does them.
“Right,” Kaka says, and Cristiano just laughs, and takes the water bottle from Kaka when he offers it.
They finish practice with a weight room circuit, and afterwards, they all file into the locker room. Cristiano peels his sweaty shirt off, and that’s a feeling he loves, the feeling of having worked hard.
At the other end of the lockers, Mesut’s standing around in nothing but a towel and flip-flops, and a thin headband to hold back his hair. Cristiano waves at him to let him know that he’ll be right there, and then he takes off his shorts and wraps a towel around his hips. He heads over.
“Ready?” Mesut asks him.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and they walk over to the next room, to the sauna.
Looking back on it, Cristiano doesn’t really know how it happened, this habit of theirs. All he knows is that one day, when Mesut was still new and stumbled clumsily through Spanish, Cristiano invited him along to the steam room after practice, to try to make him feel welcome in Madrid. And, really, Mesut’s still sort of new, still stumbles over words sometimes, but one day led to another and they just… never stopped. Cristiano likes that, likes having his teammates also be his friends.
Cristiano sits down on one of the benches and feels the heat immediately start to relax his muscles. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, in his shoulders, and he turns to ask Mesut if he’s feeling that way, too. Mesut’s already looking at him with large eyes, contemplatively, and Cristiano forgets.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing,” Mesut says. “But you still owe me a rematch. Don’t think I forgot because of Marcelo.”
Cristiano laughs loudly. Earlier in the week, during one of their water breaks, they had a competition to see who could hit the crossbar from the top of the box the most times out of ten. Cristiano had won, nine times to eight, although Mesut still holds that Sami cheated by hollering dirty things at him in German from just a few meters off to the side in order to get him to slip up. Cristiano had laughed, told him that football was a dirty game and that was life, and it drove Mesut crazy. They’re similar like that, in wanting to win.
“I don’t know,” Cristiano says, “I’ve been considering early retirement from that game. You know, to go out on top.”
Mesut groans, says, “You’re the worst. You know I’d win.”
“You wouldn’t,” Cristiano says, and then he makes a mental note to practice hitting the crossbar the next morning before training, just in case.
They lapse into silence after that. Cristiano tilts his head back and closes his eyes, and the room is almost so hot that it’s suffocating, in all the best ways. He can feel sweat drip down his lower back, and form in the creases behind his knees, and even though he’s been sweating all day, this is different; it’s nice.
Mesut says, out of nowhere, “Do you think you’ll be at Madrid for the rest of your career?”
“No,” Cristiano says, because it’s the truth, and he’s got no reason to lie to Mesut, of all people. “The rest of my career’s a long time.”
“Yeah,” Mesut says, noncommittal. “I like it here, though.”
“Me too,” Cristiano says. “But I liked Manchester, too.” Then he opens one eye, looks at Mesut and how he’s looking at nothing, staring blankly at the sauna wall, and says, “Why? You looking to leave already?”
“No,” Mesut says, and then he laughs a little. “No, no, nothing like that. I was just wondering.”
And the thing is, Cristiano understands that. He looks at people like Iker, sometimes, and wonders what it would be like to have one club, just one to call his and to ever want to call his. But being the best-winning-is more important to him, in the end, and so he focuses on that, and on the clubs that will let him be that.
He’s glad Mesut’s not leaving, though. He only just got here.
By the time Cristiano heads out, the Valdebebas is quiet, not a lot of people there. Sami’s still kicking around in the locker room, reading a magazine while waiting for Mesut to get out of the shower, and Cristiano says goodbye to him on his way to the parking lot.
It’s one of those rare nights where Cristiano makes every light, zipping through the streets of Madrid as quickly as he can. He makes it all the way to his driveway almost on autopilot, not really thinking of much of anything, but the second he parks his car, his cellphone goes off.
“Hey,” Mesut says when he answers. “You forgot your jacket here. The one that’s, uh-you know, leather?” He stumbles over the word a little, but doesn’t get embarrassed at all by it like he used to. “I’ll be down by your house soon, if you want me to drop it off.”
“Oh,” Cristiano says, because he can’t believe he walked out without it. He hadn’t even noticed. “Yeah, I guess, if you’re going to be around here. But if it’s out of your way, I can just get it tomorrow.”
“No worries,” Mesut says. “I’ll be there soon.”
Cristiano hangs up and then gathers his things from the passenger seat. The front door to his house opens up and light comes spilling out, and he can see his mother there waiting, with little Cris in her arms. The second Cris sees him, he reaches out grabby fingers, and Cristiano jogs up the front steps to them. Even though he’s got a practice bag on his shoulder, he takes Cris from his mother and blows a raspberry into the side of his neck. Cris goes wild.
“How was practice?” she asks as they walk into the living room.
“Good, good,” Cristiano says. “I’m tired though.”
She smiles at him and tsks, like only his mother really knows how to do, and says, “I’ll get out of your hair, then.” She ignores Cristiano’s protests. “No, no,” she says. “We’ll have dinner sometime this week, and I’ll see you then. But until then, Cris has had his bath, and ate his dinner, and all you really have to do is put him to bed when he gets tired.”
“Alright,” Cristiano says. “Thanks,” and his mom laughs.
“I’m not doing it for you,” she says. “I want that boy to grow up knowing how great his grandma is.”
“She’s pretty great,” Cristiano says, smiling, and he kisses her on the cheek as she heads out the front door.
He walks around the house after that, doing little things like straightening up the stack of football magazines that he had thrown on the coffee table and putting his dvds back where they belong, keeping one eye on Cris the entire time. Cris can’t walk yet, but Cristiano knows himself and knows his son, and it’s only a matter of time until he’s getting himself into trouble. Cris giggles at nothing, his hands hitting the carpet, like he knew what Cristiano was thinking.
Mesut calls when he’s getting out of his car, and Cristiano grabs Cris before heading to meet him at the front door. Mesut’s got a nice car, black and sleek, and Cristiano thinks idly for a second that maybe he should get one like that, too.
“This jacket probably cost you like three thousand euro,” Mesut says, poking fun. “You might want to be a little more careful.” Cristiano laughs, reaching a free hand out to grab his jacket, and before he can say anything, Mesut says, “And that’s your son?” He waves sort of awkwardly at Cris, and Cris just stares back.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and then jokes, “He’s very friendly, although I can’t promise that he doesn’t bite.”
Mesut laughs even though it was a terrible joke, and he says, “Me and kids…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he waves a hand and Cristiano understands that they don’t exactly mesh well.
“Hey, you want to come inside?” he asks.
“Sure,” Mesut says. “For a few minutes, anyways,” and as they walk from the hallway to the living room, he looks around like he’s pretending that he’s not looking around. Cristiano hadn’t realized that Mesut hadn’t been over yet.
“Want anything?” Cristiano asks. “Water, soda, juice?” He doesn’t really have much else in the house.
“No, I’m good,” Mesut says, and he sits down on the couch. There’s a kid’s dvd still playing from before Cristiano even got home, and Mesut watches it for a long moment as Cristiano sets Cris down on the rug.
“I know,” Cristiano says, looking at the face Mesut is pulling. “It’s really awful, but he likes it and I can’t say no.”
Mesut half laughs, half groans, and says, “You have my vote for the Padre d’Or.” It’s a terrible mix of languages, but Cristiano appreciates it nonetheless.
Mesut stays for about a half hour-longer than Cristiano had expected, but not longer than he was welcome-and they don’t really do much, just sit there and talk about football and the new physical therapist and what’s playing in theaters that they’d want to see if they could. Cristiano asks about Mesut’s family back in Germany; Mesut asks how Cristiano’s mom likes Spain.
“Hey,” Cristiano says, setting his water down on the end table, “can you watch him for like two seconds?” Mesut opens his mouth to answer, and Cristiano just says, “Two seconds while I run to the bathroom. Seriously, he’s not even going to move while I’m gone.”
“Alright,” Mesut says, and he sounds so wary about it that Cristiano almost wants to laugh. Instead, he gets up and heads to the bathroom, because that bit about Cris not moving was probably a lie; he can’t walk, but he’s got a very efficient butt scootch.
When he gets back, he almost can’t believe what he’s seeing. Mesut- his Mesut, his friend Mesut, the one who said he was awful with babies and children and teens under fifteen- is sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing with Cris. Mesut rolls a mini-football towards him, and Cris tries his best to roll it back; Mesut cheers for him when he does. And then little Cris is on the move, crawling around and trying to stand up, and so Mesut gets up on his knees, reaches a hand out, and Cris grabs onto Mesut’s forefinger as Mesut helps him up, moves with him as he tries to walk. Cris falls back onto his diaper and Mesut makes a surprised noise, leans forward to blow a raspberry on Cris’s tummy. Cris laughs up a storm.
Mesut smiles the whole time, and Cristiano wants to kiss him.
Cristiano doesn’t-
Cristiano thinks there must be some sort of mistake, because before, he’d never have looked at Mesut like this. Before, he’d never have thought about how Mesut would look laid out beneath him in bed, or standing under the spray of his shower, or leaning against Cristiano’s kitchen counter with a pair of Cristiano’s sweats falling off his hips; he'd never have thought about how Mesut would look in the morning, dressing Cris, or how he would look tying Cris's shoes. Before, he wouldn’t have thought of Mesut at all, not if they weren’t on the pitch together, because he has so many more important things to think about, like his family and his interviews and his schedule, and his son to take care of, and he has dvds to watch if he gets lonely.
But there he is, standing just outside the living room and watching Mesut play with Cris- with his son- and Mesut covers and uncovers his face, says, Hola and Guten Tag, and it’s so ridiculous, but Cris just laughs and laughs. And Cristiano looks at Mesut and he thinks about how nice it could be, not doing all of this alone, and that just comes out of nowhere, because Cristiano is fine on his own, isn’t looking for anybody to round out his family when they’re doing just fine, just him and his son.
And maybe he makes a noise just then, moves too quickly or something, but Mesut looks up suddenly and sees Cristiano just watching him, and he smiles self-consciously, pushes the hair out of his eyes.
“Oh,” he says. “I just- sorry. He started to move.”
“No,” Cristiano says, and he waves a hand like it’s no big deal, even though it is, it’s a huge deal. “Don’t worry about it. I just thought you didn’t like kids.” He walks over, sits down on the couch, and tries to act normal, like his heart isn’t jackhammering in his chest, like he doesn’t suddenly want to reach out and touch Mesut’s skin for some reason.
“I like them,” Mesut says, and when little Cris uses the coffee table to stand himself up, Mesut reaches a hand out to steady him. It makes the breath catch in Cristiano’s throat, noticing how big Mesut’s hand is compared to his son’s small body. “They just don’t usually like me.”
“Seems hard to believe,” Cristiano says, and watches as little Cris makes his way over to him. He reaches out, picks him up.
Mesut wipes his palms on the front of his jeans and smiles. He says, “I should probably leave; I told Sami that I’d help him paint his guest room in the morning.” Cristiano wants to laugh, wants to say something about hiring someone to do it, but instead he just nods and walks Mesut to the door, because Mesut should probably leave; that would be best, he thinks.
That night, Cristiano feeds his son and puts him to bed, and then he straightens up the living room and empties the dishwasher and puts on a load of laundry. He emails his mother and does three hundred sit-ups and re-arranges the shoes in his closet.
He very silently freaks the fuck out.
The next morning, Cristiano wakes up early, as usual, even though they only have afternoon practice. Cris is still asleep- should still be for another thirty minutes- and so Cristiano uses the time to brush his teeth and wash his face, get everything ready for practice. That whole Mesut thing, he tells himself as he gets dressed, was stupid; he was tired, and everything will go back to normal today. And he has no reason not to believe it; he’d never thought those things before then, so why the hell would he keep thinking those things afterwards? He wouldn’t, and that’s exactly the point. He grabs his socks and his shoes, and just as he’s shoving his feet into his sneakers, the baby monitor on his end table starts going wild as Cris cries, and so Cristiano stands up, says to himself more than anything else, “I know, I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Cris cries in his arms the entire way to the kitchen, and only stops once Cristiano has him seated in the high chair. Cristiano figures that Cris know this means he’s going to get to eat, and so even though rewarding him for crying isn’t really good, Cristiano still kind of just feels proud about how smart his son is.
Cris watches as Cristiano stands at the counter, mashing halves of a fresh banana, peach, and mango together, before adding it to some fresh, plain yogurt. Cristiano eats the leftover halves of the fruits as his breakfast- Cris isn’t even going to finish eating all of what Cristiano made- and sits down across the high chair from his son. Cris eats, no problem- he’s not very picky, something which Cristiano’s mother has told him that he is eternally lucky for- although he is prone to making messes, causing Cristiano to have to clean up his chin with the spoon after each bite. There are worse things in life to have to do, Cristiano figures, although he wishes that he had Mesut’s patience because Mesut could probably sit here and clean up Cris’s chin forever and not get frustrated.
He can picture it, too, does picture it without even realizing what he’s doing, until it’s too late and the image of Mesut with Cris is floating through his mind again, and the problem is- he likes it, likes the idea of Mesut with him and with his son, and he doesn’t know why that can’t actually be how everything-
Don’t think about it, he tells himself. It doesn’t mean anything.
And that’s a nice thought- the one of it not meaning anything- but Cristiano knows it’s all bullshit. It means something- it has to- only he’s not so sure what yet. Or maybe he is, and just doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t know; he doesn’t like thinking about what it could mean, so he stops thinking about it.
Cristiano goes to afternoon practice early, as usual, and Marcelo is already in the locker room by the time Cristiano gets there. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bench in front of his locker, huge headphones on over his ears as he dances a little in his seat; when he sees Cristiano, he jumps and almost falls off the bench, yanking his headphones down to his neck.
“Oh, shit!” he says.
“Hey,” Cristiano says back. “What are you doing here so early?”
Marcelo pulls a face, sticks out his tongue a little, and says, “Physio.”
“Everything okay?” Cristiano takes off his shit in favor of putting on his training gear.
“Yeah,” Marcelo says, “but my knee was still kind of tight from last week, and El Jefe said he’d bench me for life if I didn’t get it checked out.”
“Hard to argue with that one,” Cristiano says, and he hangs all of his street clothes in the locker and starts putting on his socks and lacing up his boots. “Want to go run with me?”
Marcelo laughs, like he can’t believe that Cristiano would even bother to ask him that and he says, “No. Not even a little bit. You have fun with that, though.”
Cristiano tsks and shakes his head, and he’s halfway out the door before he turns back and says, “All for the best, I guess; someone’s gotta be the fattest on the squad.”
Marcelo shouts and yells something back, but Cristiano is already out the door and down the tunnel, and so he can't really hear any of it.
By the time practice starts, Cristiano doesn't really know what he was expecting; nothing's awkward or any different from how it always is. He stands around, talks with Karim about sneakers and tugs on Marcelo's hair when he's not looking, and just on the other side of midfield, Mesut and Sami joke around and get yelled at by Iker every time they slip into German. He doesn't know what he was worried about happening, but whatever it was, he's not worried about it anymore.
At one point during the day, El Mister has them doing toe-touches, and Cristiano shares a football with Mesut. At the same time, on beat with the whistle, they alternate their feet, tapping the top of the ball with their toes, but the whistle is slow and after a while, Cristiano just moves at his own pace.
"What are you doing?" Mesut asks.
"Training," Cristiano shoots back, because he is training. He has to push hard to be the best, or he will be second, and if he's going to be second, he might as well be last.
Mesut smiles and laughs a little, and flicks some hair out of his eyes. He says, "The whole point is that we move at the same time. To the whistle."
"Jealous you can't keep up?" Cristiano asks.
Mesut rolls his eyes, and then instead of tapping the football on the next whistle, he uses the inside of his foot to knock it away to the side, away from Cristiano. He moves over with it, keeps toe-tapping, and Cristiano loses his balance, falls over. Mesut laughs and Cristiano flicks him off from the ground.
They scrimmage after that, more for fun than to work on anything in particular because Mourinho liked their sprint times, and Mesut gets the ball, takes it forward as far as he can. Cristiano watches how the ball sits at his feet. He’s got a completely different style than Cristiano has, less assuming and more understated, although it does the job just as well and has the defense caught completely off-guard, but rather than shoot-which everyone expects, even Cristiano-he sends the ball across the box and Cristiano taps it in past Iker so easily. Marcelo dances the robot as if he was the one who had scored, and Mesut just points to Cristiano from across the pitch and smiles. Cristiano copies him, points and smiles back, but then Mesut lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face, and Cristiano sees his stomach-paler now that summer’s gone and winter is creeping in-and Cristiano's heart starts beating faster and his chest starts to feel tight, and all of these thoughts run through his head too quickly for him to pin down and analyze. His smile slips, a little.
Practice is tough the next day, exactly how Cristiano likes it; Mou starts them out with a running warm-up, and no one bothers Cristiano as he runs, as usual, and then he splits them up by position: forward, midfield, and defense. Cristiano stretches with Karim and then they all work on creating new attack formations and fixing old attack formations that didn’t work. Mou yells at them the whole time, and so Cristiano pushes harder and harder and harder.
Afterwards, when they all group back together to head inside to the weight room, Cristiano sees Mesut and how he’s sweaty, even his hair, which is pushed back with a thin headband, and how his cheeks are red. He wonders what else of Mesut is flushed, if his chest gets red, too, when he works out.
Mesut sees him staring, waves a hand and says, “Hey Cris.” Cristiano just waves back and then ducks away, up towards the front of the group where Pepe is, because he can’t be with Mesut, not now.
He avoids Mesut for the rest of the day, rotating to the machines that are across the gym from wherever Mesut happens to be, and then when he gets home, he heads right into the shower and jerks off, thinking of how smooth Mesut’s skin is, and how pale it is under his jersey, and of how far his flush would extend if Cristiano was fucking him. He comes hard against the shower wall and spends the rest of the night angry with himself.
He hangs out with Kaka later in the week, goes over to his house to have dinner with him and Caroline. Caroline’s beautiful-absolutely stunning, Cristiano thinks-and for a second when he first met her, he thought that maybe she was what he wanted-not her, of course, not Kaka’s Caroline, but his own version of her, someone that was made for him and him alone and who could know everything about him and still love him, still want to be with him. He’s learned since then, learned that his Caroline doesn’t exist, and he’s long since stopped looking for her. Still, he thinks, it’s nice to see that Kaka has that; nice to see that someone does.
When he gets to the house, Kaka answers the door in his glasses. Cristiano says, “Don’t usually see you wearing those,” and Kaka looks embarrassed as he fixes the frames on the bridge of his nose.
“That’s because I don’t like them,” he says. “They make me look too young.”
“No, they don’t,” Cristiano says. “Aren't they Armani? I like them.”
Kaka rolls his eyes and says, “Then of course you like them,” but he smiles too, and Cristiano thinks that he said just the right thing.
Caroline’s in the kitchen, and Cristiano heads in, kisses her on the cheek and tells her that the dinner smells delicious. She smiles, says thank you, and shoos him away from the stove.
“And where’s little Cris?” she asks. “You didn’t bring him?”
“No,” Cristiano says. “He’s at home; I didn’t want to bother you guys with him.” He says that, but it’s not the truth, not really; sometimes, he just needs time to be who he was, rather than who he is.
“It’s not a bother!” she says. “Plus, we have Luca; we know how it is with kids.”
Kaka laughs and slides an arm around her waist, saying to Cristiano, “She’s been talking about Cris all the time, since you brought him over. Always saying how much she wants another baby.”
“Not always,” Caroline says, and she jumps when Kaka pinches her side. Cristiano watches them and his chest swells with happiness, for them being together and for him knowing them. He thinks that if anyone deserves it, it’s Kaka; Kaka is the best person he’s ever known.
After dinner, when Caroline goes to put Luca to bed, Kaka looks at Cristiano and asks him if he’s okay.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “Why?”
“No reason,” Kaka tells him, but obviously that’s not true; there’s always a reason. “You’ve just been-I don’t know-you seem stressed lately.”
“Well, I’m not,” he says.
“Did something happen during practice?” Kaka asks.
Cristiano smiles cheekily, says, “No, just jealous you stretched with Marcelo over me, is all,” because he doesn’t like being vulnerable and because no one needs to know about what's going on with him, anyways.
Kaka understands that he’s joking around and he laughs.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll pray for you anyways.” And then he waits a beat before adding, “Caroline and I want you to know that if you ever need someone to watch Cris or anything-you know, to just get rid of him for a night-that we’d be more than happy to.”
“Thanks,” Cristiano says, but he has no intention of doing that. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them with Cris-of course he does, he trusts Kaka to the end of the world and back-but he loves Cris and already gives Cris to his mom to watch more than he should, and he doesn’t want to do anything that Cris could ever interpret to mean that he is a burden for Cristiano, even if Cris is still too young to remember it or understand it, because Cris isn’t a burden at all, not even a little bit. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kaka smiles and Caroline comes back into the room, and they have a bit of coffee and dessert and then Cristiano leaves, down the front steps and back to his car. And he does keep in mind what Kaka says, keeps it in mind the whole drive home, but it doesn’t change anything, and little Cris is in a mood, crying hysterically for no reason when Cristiano gets home.
Cristiano doesn’t really know what to do. It’s been almost a week and he still thinks these things about Mesut, still finds himself thinking about touching him during practice or inviting him home at night, and even though he tries so hard to be normal around Mesut, he just can’t. He thinks there must be something wrong with him because he’s Cristiano Ronaldo, and Cristiano Ronaldo does not want, he gets, but there he is, wanting. Maybe he needs to get out of the house, like Kaka said; maybe what he needs is to get Mesut out of his system. He calls his mom and asks her if she can help him with Cris that night, and figures he has nothing to lose by trying.
He picks up Cris from where he is, playing with cars on the floor in front of the tv, and he says, “Come on, time to get us men ready.” Cris reaches up, grabs Cristiano’s nose, and Cristiano laughs.
He walks into his bedroom and sets Cris down on the center of the bed, far away from the edges, and then he starts getting himself ready. He brushes his teeth and gels up his hair, and then he throws on a tight, dark polo shirt, undoing the buttons and hooking a pair of sunglasses through the last buttonhole.
After he’s dressed, he grabs Cris’s pajama onesie and says, “Okay, Cris, your turn. Gotta get you ready for Grandma.” Cris doesn’t struggle as Cristiano dresses him, but he doesn’t help at all, either.
His mother comes over just a little bit later, kisses Cristiano on the cheek and then instantly reaches her arms out to take Cris; Cris goes without complaint.
“Are you all ready?” his mom asks.
“Yeah,” Cristiano tells her. “I already fed him, and he should probably go to bed in about an hour, and his diapers are in the-”
“Cristiano,” she says. “This isn’t my first time over, and if I remember correctly, I somehow managed to raise you, just fine. We’ll be alright; you go have some fun.”
“Okay,” Cristiano says, because that’s exactly what he wants to do. “Thanks.”
“You’re more than welcome,” his mom says, and then she turns to Cris, says, “Let’s go play, huh?”
It’s not hard for Cristiano to leave them, but at the same time, it’s not easy, either.
Cristiano hops in his car and speeds down the highway. He knows where he’s going- to a high-profile club where there will be a lot of people, but hopefully no one who will be interested in dropping his name, later- but it’s nice, just being in the car by himself, not rushing home to take care of Cris. Which isn’t- he doesn’t resent Cris, because Cris is small and perfect and his, but ever since Cris, his life hasn’t been the same, has changed in ways that Cristiano wasn’t ready for.
When he gets to the club, Cristiano hands his keys over to the valet and walks in, goes immediately to get a drink. The bartender’s nice, gets him his drink quickly, and so Cristiano makes a mental note to tip him well. He’s not there for long when he sees a woman sitting down at the bar a few stools away from him, and she’s beautiful, really beautiful, with dark hair and a short dress and legs for miles, and Cristiano doesn’t want her right away, but he could want her, if he let himself. She smiles at him, and it’s gorgeous, and so he smiles back. She’s exactly what he’s looking for.
He watches as she stands up and straightens out her dress before walking over and sitting down next to him.
“Hi,” she says, and Cristiano nods his head and lifts his drink up towards her in a toast hello. “My drink is a martini, dry,” she tells him, and that catches him off guard for a second, how bold and up front she is. He laughs a little because he likes that.
“Alright,” he says, and he waves a hand to get the bartender’s attention, orders her a drink.
“So what are you doing here, all by yourself?” she asks. He can smell her perfume and it makes him want to kiss her neck.
“I’m drinking,” he says, and he flashes her his hundred-watt smile, the one for the press. She laughs, crosses her legs and leans in closer to him.
“Yeah?” she asks, and this is the moment where he’s supposed to lean in towards her, too, close the distance between them until it’s an amount too small to measure, and then he’s supposed to put his hand on her bare thigh and say, “Let’s get out of here.” He’s supposed to take her home, or to a hotel, or to her apartment, and then he’s supposed to undress her, spread her naked body out on the bed and kiss his way down her skin, press his thumb down on her clit to make her wet before he fucks her. And he almost does, he gets so close to doing that, his hand already on her thigh as he leans in, but then he sees that she has a freckle on the bridge of her nose, same as Mesut, and he’s filled with a want so bad, so bad for Mesut and not for this girl, this beautiful girl, and he can’t do it. Which is strange for him, because he’s been with strangers before- that’s how he got Cris, and he is so, so grateful for Cris- only now he doesn’t want a stranger, he wants his friend, and the only difference that matters to him is that he can have a stranger right now, tonight, but he can’t have Mesut ever.
It’s a thought too fucking depressing for him to bear, and he hates Mesut for making him feel this way. He can have anyone in the world but Mesut, and yet Mesut is the only one he wants.
And so instead, he says to her, “Enjoy your drink,” and then he gets up and heads out to the parking lot, leaving behind a tip on the bar top as he goes. The valet's barely just parked his car, but they get it for him without complaint, and when he's seated inside, Cristiano rests his forehead on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, because he is in way too deep and he wants everything to go back to how it was, and he really needs to figure his shit out.
Part Two
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo/Mesut Ozil
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 18,958
Summary: Cristiano looks at Mesut and he thinks about how nice it could be, not doing all of this alone, and that just comes out of nowhere, because Cristiano is fine on his own, isn’t looking for anybody to round out his family when they’re doing just fine, just him and his son.
Author luxover
Mixer: eleret
Download Mix Here
A/N: Let’s just pretend that this is how Cris is being raised, yeah? I mean, as Basti would say, Zis iz fikshun!!!
Cristiano’s already showered and dressed, and is just finishing putting gel in his hair by the time he hears Cris start to talk to himself through the baby monitor. It’s nothing Cristiano can understand-nothing even resembling words-but it makes something well up inside his chest, anyway. He’s new at this, at being a father, and even though he wasn’t really ready for it, and maybe still isn’t ready for it, he loves getting to watch as Cris learns, anything and everything, spatial recognition and which toys bounce and which are best to sleep on and how to speak. It’s like watching a baby become a person, and Cristiano can’t get enough of it.
He walks down the hall and to Cris’s room, and inside, he places his forearms on the edge of the crib. He just watches for a minute; Cris is still talking, but it’s a different type of talking, like he’s telling a story, his tiny fingers grasping at a toy football next to him.
“You know,” Cristiano says to him, “you’re not allowed to actually hold the ball like that unless you’re a keeper.” He pauses for a minute and then asks, “Is this your way of breaking the news to me?”
Cris babbles something in response-ba ba ba ba-and Cristiano laughs a little as he picks him up.
“Come on, let’s get you dressed,” he says, settling Cris on his hip. “Nothing like a little Gucci to get a man ready for the day, am I right?”
Cris just tugs on one of Cristiano’s earrings in response.
Downstairs, when Cris is all dressed and sitting in a high chair, Cristiano starts getting out baby food and eats a banana in the process. Cris is a little restless, so the tv is on to some cartoon or other, something with too much music and too many colors, and Cris absolutely loves it.
Cristiano makes short work out of making Cris’s breakfast; he throws some oatmeal on, and while that’s cooking, he slices some strawberries and pours some apple juice into a spill-proof cup. He doesn’t even get halfway through feeding Cris by the time his mom comes over and lets herself in through the front door. She’s the one who watches Cris, usually, when Cristiano is at practice. She doesn’t like the idea of leaving Cris with hired help, not when he’s so young and still figuring out who his family is, and so she flew in from Portugal and is staying just down the street; Cristiano has told her time and time again that she should stay at his house-it’s not like he doesn’t have the room-but she every time just shakes her head and says, “You’re a man now, and I’ll be here for a while,” like that means anything.
Cristiano never knows how to respond, doesn’t know how to tell her that he’s not bringing anyone home anymore, not now that he has a son living with him, and so he just doesn’t say anything. She probably already knows.
He’s lucky, he knows, to have the family that he has.
Cristiano gets to the Valdebebas early, and takes his time getting ready for practice. By the time he steps out onto the training pitch, it’s still early and he’s still alone. He runs a couple of laps, does a couple high-knees from touchline to touchline, and then people start to make their way out, Chori and Pipita and Iker. Sometimes they sit out and stretch in the middle of the pitch, and sometimes they just hang around and talk, but they know not to bother Cristiano and don’t seem like they want to join him, and so Cristiano just does his thing, waits for Mourinho to come out and whip them into shape.
Practice is uneventful; they run sprints and race ladders, and every time Marcelo beats Chori, he yells, “Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!” and dances, his knees swaying in and out as he jabs finger guns in the air. It would be annoying, only Cristiano knows Marcelo, and Marcelo’s only doing it to see if he can get a rise out of Chori.
In the end, Pepe’s the one who finally snaps, saying, “It’s not like it’s hard; you’re racing Albiol.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Chori hollers from the other end of the ladders.
“It means you’re a fatass,” Karim says, and then Canales says, all serious, “Wait, I thought that was Pipita?” and madness breaks out, everyone laughing and yelling to be heard, Pipita throwing Canales into a headlock as Alvaro motions like he’s holding money and says, “I got ten on the little one!” The whole time, Cristiano stands there next to Kaka, just watching.
Kaka says to him, “How does it feel, not to be in the middle of it for once?”
“I’m never in the middle of it,” Cristiano says, but they both know it’s a lie; Cristiano takes football seriously, but he knows how to joke around, too, trying to see how many times he can touch Marcelo’s hair before he notices, or how far he can stand and still hit Sergio with a kicked football. Those things tend to spiral out of control, and that’s part of the reason Cristiano does them.
“Right,” Kaka says, and Cristiano just laughs, and takes the water bottle from Kaka when he offers it.
They finish practice with a weight room circuit, and afterwards, they all file into the locker room. Cristiano peels his sweaty shirt off, and that’s a feeling he loves, the feeling of having worked hard.
At the other end of the lockers, Mesut’s standing around in nothing but a towel and flip-flops, and a thin headband to hold back his hair. Cristiano waves at him to let him know that he’ll be right there, and then he takes off his shorts and wraps a towel around his hips. He heads over.
“Ready?” Mesut asks him.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and they walk over to the next room, to the sauna.
Looking back on it, Cristiano doesn’t really know how it happened, this habit of theirs. All he knows is that one day, when Mesut was still new and stumbled clumsily through Spanish, Cristiano invited him along to the steam room after practice, to try to make him feel welcome in Madrid. And, really, Mesut’s still sort of new, still stumbles over words sometimes, but one day led to another and they just… never stopped. Cristiano likes that, likes having his teammates also be his friends.
Cristiano sits down on one of the benches and feels the heat immediately start to relax his muscles. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, in his shoulders, and he turns to ask Mesut if he’s feeling that way, too. Mesut’s already looking at him with large eyes, contemplatively, and Cristiano forgets.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing,” Mesut says. “But you still owe me a rematch. Don’t think I forgot because of Marcelo.”
Cristiano laughs loudly. Earlier in the week, during one of their water breaks, they had a competition to see who could hit the crossbar from the top of the box the most times out of ten. Cristiano had won, nine times to eight, although Mesut still holds that Sami cheated by hollering dirty things at him in German from just a few meters off to the side in order to get him to slip up. Cristiano had laughed, told him that football was a dirty game and that was life, and it drove Mesut crazy. They’re similar like that, in wanting to win.
“I don’t know,” Cristiano says, “I’ve been considering early retirement from that game. You know, to go out on top.”
Mesut groans, says, “You’re the worst. You know I’d win.”
“You wouldn’t,” Cristiano says, and then he makes a mental note to practice hitting the crossbar the next morning before training, just in case.
They lapse into silence after that. Cristiano tilts his head back and closes his eyes, and the room is almost so hot that it’s suffocating, in all the best ways. He can feel sweat drip down his lower back, and form in the creases behind his knees, and even though he’s been sweating all day, this is different; it’s nice.
Mesut says, out of nowhere, “Do you think you’ll be at Madrid for the rest of your career?”
“No,” Cristiano says, because it’s the truth, and he’s got no reason to lie to Mesut, of all people. “The rest of my career’s a long time.”
“Yeah,” Mesut says, noncommittal. “I like it here, though.”
“Me too,” Cristiano says. “But I liked Manchester, too.” Then he opens one eye, looks at Mesut and how he’s looking at nothing, staring blankly at the sauna wall, and says, “Why? You looking to leave already?”
“No,” Mesut says, and then he laughs a little. “No, no, nothing like that. I was just wondering.”
And the thing is, Cristiano understands that. He looks at people like Iker, sometimes, and wonders what it would be like to have one club, just one to call his and to ever want to call his. But being the best-winning-is more important to him, in the end, and so he focuses on that, and on the clubs that will let him be that.
He’s glad Mesut’s not leaving, though. He only just got here.
By the time Cristiano heads out, the Valdebebas is quiet, not a lot of people there. Sami’s still kicking around in the locker room, reading a magazine while waiting for Mesut to get out of the shower, and Cristiano says goodbye to him on his way to the parking lot.
It’s one of those rare nights where Cristiano makes every light, zipping through the streets of Madrid as quickly as he can. He makes it all the way to his driveway almost on autopilot, not really thinking of much of anything, but the second he parks his car, his cellphone goes off.
“Hey,” Mesut says when he answers. “You forgot your jacket here. The one that’s, uh-you know, leather?” He stumbles over the word a little, but doesn’t get embarrassed at all by it like he used to. “I’ll be down by your house soon, if you want me to drop it off.”
“Oh,” Cristiano says, because he can’t believe he walked out without it. He hadn’t even noticed. “Yeah, I guess, if you’re going to be around here. But if it’s out of your way, I can just get it tomorrow.”
“No worries,” Mesut says. “I’ll be there soon.”
Cristiano hangs up and then gathers his things from the passenger seat. The front door to his house opens up and light comes spilling out, and he can see his mother there waiting, with little Cris in her arms. The second Cris sees him, he reaches out grabby fingers, and Cristiano jogs up the front steps to them. Even though he’s got a practice bag on his shoulder, he takes Cris from his mother and blows a raspberry into the side of his neck. Cris goes wild.
“How was practice?” she asks as they walk into the living room.
“Good, good,” Cristiano says. “I’m tired though.”
She smiles at him and tsks, like only his mother really knows how to do, and says, “I’ll get out of your hair, then.” She ignores Cristiano’s protests. “No, no,” she says. “We’ll have dinner sometime this week, and I’ll see you then. But until then, Cris has had his bath, and ate his dinner, and all you really have to do is put him to bed when he gets tired.”
“Alright,” Cristiano says. “Thanks,” and his mom laughs.
“I’m not doing it for you,” she says. “I want that boy to grow up knowing how great his grandma is.”
“She’s pretty great,” Cristiano says, smiling, and he kisses her on the cheek as she heads out the front door.
He walks around the house after that, doing little things like straightening up the stack of football magazines that he had thrown on the coffee table and putting his dvds back where they belong, keeping one eye on Cris the entire time. Cris can’t walk yet, but Cristiano knows himself and knows his son, and it’s only a matter of time until he’s getting himself into trouble. Cris giggles at nothing, his hands hitting the carpet, like he knew what Cristiano was thinking.
Mesut calls when he’s getting out of his car, and Cristiano grabs Cris before heading to meet him at the front door. Mesut’s got a nice car, black and sleek, and Cristiano thinks idly for a second that maybe he should get one like that, too.
“This jacket probably cost you like three thousand euro,” Mesut says, poking fun. “You might want to be a little more careful.” Cristiano laughs, reaching a free hand out to grab his jacket, and before he can say anything, Mesut says, “And that’s your son?” He waves sort of awkwardly at Cris, and Cris just stares back.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and then jokes, “He’s very friendly, although I can’t promise that he doesn’t bite.”
Mesut laughs even though it was a terrible joke, and he says, “Me and kids…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he waves a hand and Cristiano understands that they don’t exactly mesh well.
“Hey, you want to come inside?” he asks.
“Sure,” Mesut says. “For a few minutes, anyways,” and as they walk from the hallway to the living room, he looks around like he’s pretending that he’s not looking around. Cristiano hadn’t realized that Mesut hadn’t been over yet.
“Want anything?” Cristiano asks. “Water, soda, juice?” He doesn’t really have much else in the house.
“No, I’m good,” Mesut says, and he sits down on the couch. There’s a kid’s dvd still playing from before Cristiano even got home, and Mesut watches it for a long moment as Cristiano sets Cris down on the rug.
“I know,” Cristiano says, looking at the face Mesut is pulling. “It’s really awful, but he likes it and I can’t say no.”
Mesut half laughs, half groans, and says, “You have my vote for the Padre d’Or.” It’s a terrible mix of languages, but Cristiano appreciates it nonetheless.
Mesut stays for about a half hour-longer than Cristiano had expected, but not longer than he was welcome-and they don’t really do much, just sit there and talk about football and the new physical therapist and what’s playing in theaters that they’d want to see if they could. Cristiano asks about Mesut’s family back in Germany; Mesut asks how Cristiano’s mom likes Spain.
“Hey,” Cristiano says, setting his water down on the end table, “can you watch him for like two seconds?” Mesut opens his mouth to answer, and Cristiano just says, “Two seconds while I run to the bathroom. Seriously, he’s not even going to move while I’m gone.”
“Alright,” Mesut says, and he sounds so wary about it that Cristiano almost wants to laugh. Instead, he gets up and heads to the bathroom, because that bit about Cris not moving was probably a lie; he can’t walk, but he’s got a very efficient butt scootch.
When he gets back, he almost can’t believe what he’s seeing. Mesut- his Mesut, his friend Mesut, the one who said he was awful with babies and children and teens under fifteen- is sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing with Cris. Mesut rolls a mini-football towards him, and Cris tries his best to roll it back; Mesut cheers for him when he does. And then little Cris is on the move, crawling around and trying to stand up, and so Mesut gets up on his knees, reaches a hand out, and Cris grabs onto Mesut’s forefinger as Mesut helps him up, moves with him as he tries to walk. Cris falls back onto his diaper and Mesut makes a surprised noise, leans forward to blow a raspberry on Cris’s tummy. Cris laughs up a storm.
Mesut smiles the whole time, and Cristiano wants to kiss him.
Cristiano doesn’t-
Cristiano thinks there must be some sort of mistake, because before, he’d never have looked at Mesut like this. Before, he’d never have thought about how Mesut would look laid out beneath him in bed, or standing under the spray of his shower, or leaning against Cristiano’s kitchen counter with a pair of Cristiano’s sweats falling off his hips; he'd never have thought about how Mesut would look in the morning, dressing Cris, or how he would look tying Cris's shoes. Before, he wouldn’t have thought of Mesut at all, not if they weren’t on the pitch together, because he has so many more important things to think about, like his family and his interviews and his schedule, and his son to take care of, and he has dvds to watch if he gets lonely.
But there he is, standing just outside the living room and watching Mesut play with Cris- with his son- and Mesut covers and uncovers his face, says, Hola and Guten Tag, and it’s so ridiculous, but Cris just laughs and laughs. And Cristiano looks at Mesut and he thinks about how nice it could be, not doing all of this alone, and that just comes out of nowhere, because Cristiano is fine on his own, isn’t looking for anybody to round out his family when they’re doing just fine, just him and his son.
And maybe he makes a noise just then, moves too quickly or something, but Mesut looks up suddenly and sees Cristiano just watching him, and he smiles self-consciously, pushes the hair out of his eyes.
“Oh,” he says. “I just- sorry. He started to move.”
“No,” Cristiano says, and he waves a hand like it’s no big deal, even though it is, it’s a huge deal. “Don’t worry about it. I just thought you didn’t like kids.” He walks over, sits down on the couch, and tries to act normal, like his heart isn’t jackhammering in his chest, like he doesn’t suddenly want to reach out and touch Mesut’s skin for some reason.
“I like them,” Mesut says, and when little Cris uses the coffee table to stand himself up, Mesut reaches a hand out to steady him. It makes the breath catch in Cristiano’s throat, noticing how big Mesut’s hand is compared to his son’s small body. “They just don’t usually like me.”
“Seems hard to believe,” Cristiano says, and watches as little Cris makes his way over to him. He reaches out, picks him up.
Mesut wipes his palms on the front of his jeans and smiles. He says, “I should probably leave; I told Sami that I’d help him paint his guest room in the morning.” Cristiano wants to laugh, wants to say something about hiring someone to do it, but instead he just nods and walks Mesut to the door, because Mesut should probably leave; that would be best, he thinks.
That night, Cristiano feeds his son and puts him to bed, and then he straightens up the living room and empties the dishwasher and puts on a load of laundry. He emails his mother and does three hundred sit-ups and re-arranges the shoes in his closet.
He very silently freaks the fuck out.
The next morning, Cristiano wakes up early, as usual, even though they only have afternoon practice. Cris is still asleep- should still be for another thirty minutes- and so Cristiano uses the time to brush his teeth and wash his face, get everything ready for practice. That whole Mesut thing, he tells himself as he gets dressed, was stupid; he was tired, and everything will go back to normal today. And he has no reason not to believe it; he’d never thought those things before then, so why the hell would he keep thinking those things afterwards? He wouldn’t, and that’s exactly the point. He grabs his socks and his shoes, and just as he’s shoving his feet into his sneakers, the baby monitor on his end table starts going wild as Cris cries, and so Cristiano stands up, says to himself more than anything else, “I know, I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Cris cries in his arms the entire way to the kitchen, and only stops once Cristiano has him seated in the high chair. Cristiano figures that Cris know this means he’s going to get to eat, and so even though rewarding him for crying isn’t really good, Cristiano still kind of just feels proud about how smart his son is.
Cris watches as Cristiano stands at the counter, mashing halves of a fresh banana, peach, and mango together, before adding it to some fresh, plain yogurt. Cristiano eats the leftover halves of the fruits as his breakfast- Cris isn’t even going to finish eating all of what Cristiano made- and sits down across the high chair from his son. Cris eats, no problem- he’s not very picky, something which Cristiano’s mother has told him that he is eternally lucky for- although he is prone to making messes, causing Cristiano to have to clean up his chin with the spoon after each bite. There are worse things in life to have to do, Cristiano figures, although he wishes that he had Mesut’s patience because Mesut could probably sit here and clean up Cris’s chin forever and not get frustrated.
He can picture it, too, does picture it without even realizing what he’s doing, until it’s too late and the image of Mesut with Cris is floating through his mind again, and the problem is- he likes it, likes the idea of Mesut with him and with his son, and he doesn’t know why that can’t actually be how everything-
Don’t think about it, he tells himself. It doesn’t mean anything.
And that’s a nice thought- the one of it not meaning anything- but Cristiano knows it’s all bullshit. It means something- it has to- only he’s not so sure what yet. Or maybe he is, and just doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t know; he doesn’t like thinking about what it could mean, so he stops thinking about it.
Cristiano goes to afternoon practice early, as usual, and Marcelo is already in the locker room by the time Cristiano gets there. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bench in front of his locker, huge headphones on over his ears as he dances a little in his seat; when he sees Cristiano, he jumps and almost falls off the bench, yanking his headphones down to his neck.
“Oh, shit!” he says.
“Hey,” Cristiano says back. “What are you doing here so early?”
Marcelo pulls a face, sticks out his tongue a little, and says, “Physio.”
“Everything okay?” Cristiano takes off his shit in favor of putting on his training gear.
“Yeah,” Marcelo says, “but my knee was still kind of tight from last week, and El Jefe said he’d bench me for life if I didn’t get it checked out.”
“Hard to argue with that one,” Cristiano says, and he hangs all of his street clothes in the locker and starts putting on his socks and lacing up his boots. “Want to go run with me?”
Marcelo laughs, like he can’t believe that Cristiano would even bother to ask him that and he says, “No. Not even a little bit. You have fun with that, though.”
Cristiano tsks and shakes his head, and he’s halfway out the door before he turns back and says, “All for the best, I guess; someone’s gotta be the fattest on the squad.”
Marcelo shouts and yells something back, but Cristiano is already out the door and down the tunnel, and so he can't really hear any of it.
By the time practice starts, Cristiano doesn't really know what he was expecting; nothing's awkward or any different from how it always is. He stands around, talks with Karim about sneakers and tugs on Marcelo's hair when he's not looking, and just on the other side of midfield, Mesut and Sami joke around and get yelled at by Iker every time they slip into German. He doesn't know what he was worried about happening, but whatever it was, he's not worried about it anymore.
At one point during the day, El Mister has them doing toe-touches, and Cristiano shares a football with Mesut. At the same time, on beat with the whistle, they alternate their feet, tapping the top of the ball with their toes, but the whistle is slow and after a while, Cristiano just moves at his own pace.
"What are you doing?" Mesut asks.
"Training," Cristiano shoots back, because he is training. He has to push hard to be the best, or he will be second, and if he's going to be second, he might as well be last.
Mesut smiles and laughs a little, and flicks some hair out of his eyes. He says, "The whole point is that we move at the same time. To the whistle."
"Jealous you can't keep up?" Cristiano asks.
Mesut rolls his eyes, and then instead of tapping the football on the next whistle, he uses the inside of his foot to knock it away to the side, away from Cristiano. He moves over with it, keeps toe-tapping, and Cristiano loses his balance, falls over. Mesut laughs and Cristiano flicks him off from the ground.
They scrimmage after that, more for fun than to work on anything in particular because Mourinho liked their sprint times, and Mesut gets the ball, takes it forward as far as he can. Cristiano watches how the ball sits at his feet. He’s got a completely different style than Cristiano has, less assuming and more understated, although it does the job just as well and has the defense caught completely off-guard, but rather than shoot-which everyone expects, even Cristiano-he sends the ball across the box and Cristiano taps it in past Iker so easily. Marcelo dances the robot as if he was the one who had scored, and Mesut just points to Cristiano from across the pitch and smiles. Cristiano copies him, points and smiles back, but then Mesut lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face, and Cristiano sees his stomach-paler now that summer’s gone and winter is creeping in-and Cristiano's heart starts beating faster and his chest starts to feel tight, and all of these thoughts run through his head too quickly for him to pin down and analyze. His smile slips, a little.
Practice is tough the next day, exactly how Cristiano likes it; Mou starts them out with a running warm-up, and no one bothers Cristiano as he runs, as usual, and then he splits them up by position: forward, midfield, and defense. Cristiano stretches with Karim and then they all work on creating new attack formations and fixing old attack formations that didn’t work. Mou yells at them the whole time, and so Cristiano pushes harder and harder and harder.
Afterwards, when they all group back together to head inside to the weight room, Cristiano sees Mesut and how he’s sweaty, even his hair, which is pushed back with a thin headband, and how his cheeks are red. He wonders what else of Mesut is flushed, if his chest gets red, too, when he works out.
Mesut sees him staring, waves a hand and says, “Hey Cris.” Cristiano just waves back and then ducks away, up towards the front of the group where Pepe is, because he can’t be with Mesut, not now.
He avoids Mesut for the rest of the day, rotating to the machines that are across the gym from wherever Mesut happens to be, and then when he gets home, he heads right into the shower and jerks off, thinking of how smooth Mesut’s skin is, and how pale it is under his jersey, and of how far his flush would extend if Cristiano was fucking him. He comes hard against the shower wall and spends the rest of the night angry with himself.
He hangs out with Kaka later in the week, goes over to his house to have dinner with him and Caroline. Caroline’s beautiful-absolutely stunning, Cristiano thinks-and for a second when he first met her, he thought that maybe she was what he wanted-not her, of course, not Kaka’s Caroline, but his own version of her, someone that was made for him and him alone and who could know everything about him and still love him, still want to be with him. He’s learned since then, learned that his Caroline doesn’t exist, and he’s long since stopped looking for her. Still, he thinks, it’s nice to see that Kaka has that; nice to see that someone does.
When he gets to the house, Kaka answers the door in his glasses. Cristiano says, “Don’t usually see you wearing those,” and Kaka looks embarrassed as he fixes the frames on the bridge of his nose.
“That’s because I don’t like them,” he says. “They make me look too young.”
“No, they don’t,” Cristiano says. “Aren't they Armani? I like them.”
Kaka rolls his eyes and says, “Then of course you like them,” but he smiles too, and Cristiano thinks that he said just the right thing.
Caroline’s in the kitchen, and Cristiano heads in, kisses her on the cheek and tells her that the dinner smells delicious. She smiles, says thank you, and shoos him away from the stove.
“And where’s little Cris?” she asks. “You didn’t bring him?”
“No,” Cristiano says. “He’s at home; I didn’t want to bother you guys with him.” He says that, but it’s not the truth, not really; sometimes, he just needs time to be who he was, rather than who he is.
“It’s not a bother!” she says. “Plus, we have Luca; we know how it is with kids.”
Kaka laughs and slides an arm around her waist, saying to Cristiano, “She’s been talking about Cris all the time, since you brought him over. Always saying how much she wants another baby.”
“Not always,” Caroline says, and she jumps when Kaka pinches her side. Cristiano watches them and his chest swells with happiness, for them being together and for him knowing them. He thinks that if anyone deserves it, it’s Kaka; Kaka is the best person he’s ever known.
After dinner, when Caroline goes to put Luca to bed, Kaka looks at Cristiano and asks him if he’s okay.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “Why?”
“No reason,” Kaka tells him, but obviously that’s not true; there’s always a reason. “You’ve just been-I don’t know-you seem stressed lately.”
“Well, I’m not,” he says.
“Did something happen during practice?” Kaka asks.
Cristiano smiles cheekily, says, “No, just jealous you stretched with Marcelo over me, is all,” because he doesn’t like being vulnerable and because no one needs to know about what's going on with him, anyways.
Kaka understands that he’s joking around and he laughs.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll pray for you anyways.” And then he waits a beat before adding, “Caroline and I want you to know that if you ever need someone to watch Cris or anything-you know, to just get rid of him for a night-that we’d be more than happy to.”
“Thanks,” Cristiano says, but he has no intention of doing that. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them with Cris-of course he does, he trusts Kaka to the end of the world and back-but he loves Cris and already gives Cris to his mom to watch more than he should, and he doesn’t want to do anything that Cris could ever interpret to mean that he is a burden for Cristiano, even if Cris is still too young to remember it or understand it, because Cris isn’t a burden at all, not even a little bit. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kaka smiles and Caroline comes back into the room, and they have a bit of coffee and dessert and then Cristiano leaves, down the front steps and back to his car. And he does keep in mind what Kaka says, keeps it in mind the whole drive home, but it doesn’t change anything, and little Cris is in a mood, crying hysterically for no reason when Cristiano gets home.
Cristiano doesn’t really know what to do. It’s been almost a week and he still thinks these things about Mesut, still finds himself thinking about touching him during practice or inviting him home at night, and even though he tries so hard to be normal around Mesut, he just can’t. He thinks there must be something wrong with him because he’s Cristiano Ronaldo, and Cristiano Ronaldo does not want, he gets, but there he is, wanting. Maybe he needs to get out of the house, like Kaka said; maybe what he needs is to get Mesut out of his system. He calls his mom and asks her if she can help him with Cris that night, and figures he has nothing to lose by trying.
He picks up Cris from where he is, playing with cars on the floor in front of the tv, and he says, “Come on, time to get us men ready.” Cris reaches up, grabs Cristiano’s nose, and Cristiano laughs.
He walks into his bedroom and sets Cris down on the center of the bed, far away from the edges, and then he starts getting himself ready. He brushes his teeth and gels up his hair, and then he throws on a tight, dark polo shirt, undoing the buttons and hooking a pair of sunglasses through the last buttonhole.
After he’s dressed, he grabs Cris’s pajama onesie and says, “Okay, Cris, your turn. Gotta get you ready for Grandma.” Cris doesn’t struggle as Cristiano dresses him, but he doesn’t help at all, either.
His mother comes over just a little bit later, kisses Cristiano on the cheek and then instantly reaches her arms out to take Cris; Cris goes without complaint.
“Are you all ready?” his mom asks.
“Yeah,” Cristiano tells her. “I already fed him, and he should probably go to bed in about an hour, and his diapers are in the-”
“Cristiano,” she says. “This isn’t my first time over, and if I remember correctly, I somehow managed to raise you, just fine. We’ll be alright; you go have some fun.”
“Okay,” Cristiano says, because that’s exactly what he wants to do. “Thanks.”
“You’re more than welcome,” his mom says, and then she turns to Cris, says, “Let’s go play, huh?”
It’s not hard for Cristiano to leave them, but at the same time, it’s not easy, either.
Cristiano hops in his car and speeds down the highway. He knows where he’s going- to a high-profile club where there will be a lot of people, but hopefully no one who will be interested in dropping his name, later- but it’s nice, just being in the car by himself, not rushing home to take care of Cris. Which isn’t- he doesn’t resent Cris, because Cris is small and perfect and his, but ever since Cris, his life hasn’t been the same, has changed in ways that Cristiano wasn’t ready for.
When he gets to the club, Cristiano hands his keys over to the valet and walks in, goes immediately to get a drink. The bartender’s nice, gets him his drink quickly, and so Cristiano makes a mental note to tip him well. He’s not there for long when he sees a woman sitting down at the bar a few stools away from him, and she’s beautiful, really beautiful, with dark hair and a short dress and legs for miles, and Cristiano doesn’t want her right away, but he could want her, if he let himself. She smiles at him, and it’s gorgeous, and so he smiles back. She’s exactly what he’s looking for.
He watches as she stands up and straightens out her dress before walking over and sitting down next to him.
“Hi,” she says, and Cristiano nods his head and lifts his drink up towards her in a toast hello. “My drink is a martini, dry,” she tells him, and that catches him off guard for a second, how bold and up front she is. He laughs a little because he likes that.
“Alright,” he says, and he waves a hand to get the bartender’s attention, orders her a drink.
“So what are you doing here, all by yourself?” she asks. He can smell her perfume and it makes him want to kiss her neck.
“I’m drinking,” he says, and he flashes her his hundred-watt smile, the one for the press. She laughs, crosses her legs and leans in closer to him.
“Yeah?” she asks, and this is the moment where he’s supposed to lean in towards her, too, close the distance between them until it’s an amount too small to measure, and then he’s supposed to put his hand on her bare thigh and say, “Let’s get out of here.” He’s supposed to take her home, or to a hotel, or to her apartment, and then he’s supposed to undress her, spread her naked body out on the bed and kiss his way down her skin, press his thumb down on her clit to make her wet before he fucks her. And he almost does, he gets so close to doing that, his hand already on her thigh as he leans in, but then he sees that she has a freckle on the bridge of her nose, same as Mesut, and he’s filled with a want so bad, so bad for Mesut and not for this girl, this beautiful girl, and he can’t do it. Which is strange for him, because he’s been with strangers before- that’s how he got Cris, and he is so, so grateful for Cris- only now he doesn’t want a stranger, he wants his friend, and the only difference that matters to him is that he can have a stranger right now, tonight, but he can’t have Mesut ever.
It’s a thought too fucking depressing for him to bear, and he hates Mesut for making him feel this way. He can have anyone in the world but Mesut, and yet Mesut is the only one he wants.
And so instead, he says to her, “Enjoy your drink,” and then he gets up and heads out to the parking lot, leaving behind a tip on the bar top as he goes. The valet's barely just parked his car, but they get it for him without complaint, and when he's seated inside, Cristiano rests his forehead on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, because he is in way too deep and he wants everything to go back to how it was, and he really needs to figure his shit out.
Part Two