on a miss: part 2
They wake up early the next morning to go to Intervales Park. Kaká still finds it funny that Cristiano wants to go there, of all places, but he doesn’t say anything.
It’s sort of a long drive, past the outskirts of the city, but Cristiano keeps Kaká entertained by singing along to the radio when he knows the songs, and even when he doesn’t. They have the directions written out on a small piece of paper, and Cristiano navigates while Kaká drives.
The parking lot is empty when they get there, just dirt and gravel and one other car, and Cristiano reaches in the back for his jacket, his gloves, and a pair of binoculars.
“Where did you get binoculars?” Kaká asks as he shuts his door. It’s cold outside, colder than in the city because there are no tall buildings to block the wind, no cars to add heat.
“I brought them with me,” Cristiano says. “I told you, I came prepared.”
He puts his gloves on and zips up his jacket, looping the binoculars around his neck. Kaká watches, is so familiar with Cristiano’s routine of checking his gloves and winding his scarf around his neck and then putting on his hat. It’s almost like they’re back in practice, except they’re not on a pitch, they’re in the middle of nowhere.
“Put on your hat,” Cristiano says, one eyebrow raised and his hands on his hips. He knows that Kaká didn’t bring one.
“I don’t need one,” Kaká says. “It’s not that cold.”
“But it’s going to be cold at the top of the trail,” Cristiano says. “Come here.”
Kaká doesn’t move fast enough and so Cristiano darts his hand out and pulls Kaká to him by the front of his jacket. When Kaká’s right there, right next to him, Cristiano reaches into one pocket of his jacket and pulls out an extra black knit hat.
“Be warm, my child,” Cristiano jokes, shoving the hat on Kaká’s head. He tugs it down too far, and it covers Kaká’s eyes. Kaká reaches up, fixes it.
“Thanks,” he says. He rolls his eyes, too, but he doesn’t mean it in any way other than grateful. “Come on.”
He heads towards the trailhead, follows the signs for the self-guided tour. Cristiano is right behind him, looking around like he’s never seen nature before. They pass a lake and large boulders and mini-waterfalls. They don’t see anyone else.
“You know,” Cristiano says. “Of all the birds that have been identified in the Atlantic Rainforest, thirty-six percent of the birds can be found here. That’s almost four hundred different types of birds.”
“Lonely Planet tell you that?” Kaká asks.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “They said some other stuff too, but I forgot.”
“You’ll have to tell me later, then.”
“Yeah, okay.”
They don’t talk much after that, just listen to the sounds around them and head up the trail, past more marshes and lakes. When they get to a look out, Kaká stands there, shivering. They’re not all that high up or anything, but they are at the edge of a small cliff and the wind is through his jacket
“Bet you’re glad you have the hat now, aren’t you?” Cristiano asks.
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “Thanks again.” Cristiano waves the comment away.
“It’s so nice here,” Cristiano says. “So quiet. Listen-do you hear that?”
Kaká listens, but all he hears is the birds, loud and in his ears. He looks at Cristiano, and Cristiano is looking around, smiling like he’s seeing the most beautiful thing in the world. Kaká wishes he could see what Cristiano sees.
“No,” Kaká says. “I just hear the birds.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Cristiano says. “Just the birds, just you and me, and nothing else.”
Explained like that, Kaká thinks it’s nice. Real nice.
“These are the best,” Cristiano continues, only this time he’s looking through the binoculars. “I feel like I could see Portugal from here or something. Or your house, at least.”
“See anything good?” Kaká asks. “Other than Europe?”
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “Lots of Tanagers, a few hawks.” Cristiano squints a bit and then says, “Hey, hey, come here, look at this.” He passes Kaká the binoculars and Kaká puts them up to his eyes, adjusts them. “See that tree with the kink in it half way?”
“Yeah.”
“Look up that one, on the right. There’s a Bare-throated Bellbird. The white one with the blue throat,” Cristiano says, and Kaká is impressed.
“I see it,” he says. “Wow. That’s…”
“I know,” Cristiano says.
“I just,” Kaká says, still looking through the binoculars. “I don’t know, never figured you to like bird-watching.”
“Well, I’ve never done it before,” Cristiano says. Kaká’s about to say, What? and, Then how do you know all of this stuff? but Cristiano keeps talking. “Pass me the binos, would you? That’s what the Americans call them. Binos. Sounds stupid to me.”
“Sounds stupid to me, too,” Kaká says. “I don’t think they really call them that.”
“They do,” Cristiano says. He takes the binoculars and looks around again. “Thanks for taking me here,” he says. He doesn’t look at Kaká.
“No problem,” Kaká says. “Thanks for sharing your binos.”
Cristiano laughs, says, “Don’t call them that; you sound ridiculous.”
Kaká threatens to push him off the cliff.
That night, they go to the liquor store at the corner and buy cachaça. Cristiano had never had it and Kaká had thought that he should, as a part of his tour of Brazil.
“It’s like rum,” he says, standing in the middle of the aisle, “but made from sugarcane.”
“I didn’t know you drank anything with an alcoholic content higher than Coca-Cola,” Cristiano says.
“Ha ha,” Kaká says. “I drink. I just don’t drink much.”
“This changes everything,” Cristiano says. “Tell me more.”
“Rum is made from molasses,” Kaká says. He ignores the fact that Cristiano was being sarcastic. “But cachaça is made from sugarcane juice that is fermented and distilled. My grandfather used to make some at home.”
“Okay,” Cristiano says. “So we’ll get this one.” He grabs a bottle of white cachaça and walks off with it. Kaká has to grab his elbow to stop him.
“Put that back,” he says. “We want the aged kind, the gold kind. That’s made to be sipped plain.”
“Straight,” Cristiano informs him.
“Exactly,” Kaká says. “So we’ll get aged.”
When they get home, Kaká opens the bottle and pours some into two tumblers as Cristiano throws himself down on the couch. He cuts a lime, puts some in each glass.
“I’m exhausted,” Cristiano calls out from the living room. “You made me walk so much today, Kaká. I might never forgive you.”
“Intervales was your idea,” Kaká yells back. “Besides, I’m trying to get you drunk now. That’s got to count for something.”
Cristiano laughs, and he’s still laughing by the time Kaká walks into the living room and hands him his glass.
“To remembering the good things in life,” Cristiano says, and Kaká raises his glass. His eyes follow the line of Cristiano’s neck as he tilts his head back to drink, and he wants to say, How can you forget? How can you forget the good things? They’re always there, Cristiano, even when the bad are there, too.
Kaká takes a sip of cachaça instead.
Kaká wakes up in the morning later than usual, almost lunchtime, and manages to drag himself out of bed only a little bit later than that. He checks on Cristiano as he heads down the hall, quietly opening the guestroom door only to find him still asleep, spread starfish on his stomach on top of the covers. Kaká knows that it’s not been long, that it’s only been a few days, but already he finds it strange to be awake in a quiet house, as if he were the only one who lived there. He’s forgotten so quickly what it’s like to not find Cristiano awake and waiting for him every morning.
In the kitchen, Kaká fills up a glass with juice and then leaves it on Cristiano’s bedside table. Cristiano doesn’t even move when he walks in, just keeps sleeping and breathing easy, steady, in and out. For a minute, as Kaká turns to leave, he’s struck by just how beautiful Cristiano is, asleep like that. He looks calm, peaceful; Kaká likes him like that, prays that God deems it worthwhile to keep him like that.
Kaká leaves and heads to his bathroom to take a shower. The water is hot and beats down on his shoulders and gives him time to think. He knows what he needs to do, where he needs to take Cristiano, but it’s hard for him. He’ll do it, though; he knows he will, because he wants to see Cristiano happy again, wants to see Cristiano laugh openly and without reserve. He wants Cristiano to never forget the good things in life again. He wants Cristiano to know that he can bounce back from anything life tries to throw at him, that Kaká knows he can, and if for some reason he can’t, Kaká will be there anyways, waiting and willing to take whatever it is that he has to give, and to give whatever it is that Cristiano needs.
By the time Kaká steps out of the shower, he can hear Cristiano turning on the water to his. He dresses quickly in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before heading back to the kitchen to make coffee and cut some papaya. When Cristiano finally shuffles in, his hair is still soaking wet and dripping down his neck and the sides of his face.
Kaká hands him a clean hand towel and asks, “Sleep alright?”
“Yeah. I’ll live,” Cristiano says, and his voice is light and he’s smiling. He rubs the towel over his hair, a look on his face like it's a novel idea.
Kaká watches as he sits down at the table in his usual spot and reaches for his coffee, and when everything’s set up and ready, Kaká joins him. Breakfast is nothing all that elaborate-just bread, and jam, and there’s the bowl of fresh papaya out, too-Kaká’s idea of the perfect morning meal, despite the fact that it’s nearly afternoon. Cristiano’s got dark circles under his eyes and he’s a little slumped in his chair, his elbows resting on the edge of the table.
“Thanks for the juice,” Cristiano says to him as they eat.
Kaká shakes his head and just smiles, and says, “Nothing to thank me for. Need anything else?”
“The light,” Cristiano says, waving a hand towards the windows, “is a bit much.” But the look on his face says that he’s just being overly dramatic for the attention and it makes Kaká want to laugh.
“Well, I can shut those for you,” he says, and Cristiano smiles at him like he’s an idiot. “Alright, then I won’t. But let me know when you’re ready to go out; I have something to show you.”
“Just let me brush my teeth,” Cristiano says, grabbing one last piece of papaya before he gets up and leaves. Kaká can hear him sucking the juice off his fingertips as he goes.
He puts Cristiano’s dirty dishes in the sink because Cristiano forgot, or maybe purposefully didn’t do it because he knew he could get away with it. Kaká finds that either way, he doesn’t really mind.
“Where are we going?” Cristiano asks. They’re in the car and even though it’s cold out, Cristiano has his window rolled down and is tapping his fingers on the side of the car.
“To the pitch where I was first discovered,” Kaká says. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No,” Cristiano says. “I’m like a mini-heater.”
“Is this where you make a joke about how hot you are?” he asks.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Cristiano says, and Kaká thinks, Oh.
They drive just a little bit farther, back towards where Kaká went to school when he was younger, back to where he was Kaká and not Kaká. It makes his heart feel light. He parks the car in the empty lot and starts to get out, and Cristiano mimics him, does the same.
They crunch their way across the gravel and towards the metal bleachers ahead that line the worn-down pitch. Or maybe worn-down isn’t the correct word, Kaká thinks, maybe it’s just worn-in; well-loved. He likes that, likes this pitch maybe more than he likes the Bernabéu, although he’d never admit it. There’s a low chain-link fence that sits between the bleachers and the pitch to catch stray footballs, and Kaká walks up to that, leans his forearms on it.
“So this is it?” Cristiano asks. “Where it all began.”
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “It’s nothing special, but-”
“No, I like it,” Cristiano interrupts. “These places are always the best in ways that none of the big stadiums can compete with.”
“Yeah,” Kaká says again, like Cristiano didn’t just read his mind. “That’s exactly what I think, too.”
“I started playing street football,” Cristiano says. “I think people forget that.”
“I almost didn’t play football at all,” Kaká says. He looks out at the field, at the spots where the grass is worn down to just dirt and where the white field markings fade away. “I did swimming; I was on teams and stuff. I thought I was going to go to the Olympics for breaststroke.”
“Yeah?” Cristiano asks. His arm presses against Kaká’s, and it’s solid and warm. “What happened?”
“I went to school,” Kaká says, simple as that. “They put me in some youth football league called- Alphaville, I think, and we played in some tournament. São Paulo FC saw me play and wanted me in their youth league and I thought, why not? It was one more thing for me to do.”
Cristiano laughs, like suddenly he gets it.
“But then you got the football bug,” he says.
“Then I got the bug,” Kaká confirms. “And I never looked back.”
“Football’s all I ever wanted to do,” Cristiano says. “Just football and nothing else.”
“And you’re doing it,” Kaká says.
“The best I can, anyways.”
“That’s all you can ask of yourself,” Kaká says, but Cristiano shakes his head. Kaká can see it out of the corner of his eyes.
“Sometimes other people ask for more,” he says.
“You can’t listen to them,” Kaká says. “It took me a while to learn that, too.”
“Yeah,” Cristiano says.
“Come on,” Kaká says, pushing off of the chain link fence. The sun is low in the sky, and Kaká needs to shade his eyes in order to see. “I have one last thing to show you.”
“If you’re taking me to church, I’m leaving,” Cristiano says. Kaká knows he just says it to be argumentative; he’s religious, too, although not as much as Kaká is.
“One day,” Kaká says, but he doesn’t say it like a threat.
“Yeah,” Cristiano laughs. “One day. Alright.”
He follows after Kaká, anyways.
The sun has almost set by the time they make it to the pool. Cristiano’s hands are in his pockets and Kaká can tell that he doesn’t know how important this is, how hard it is for Kaká to be back here.
“Come on,” Kaká says. He feels bad about what he’s doing-jimmying the lock, breaking into the pool-but he has faith that God knows that what he is doing, he is doing to help someone in need, to help Cristiano.
“Perfect weather for swimming and everything,” Cristiano jokes. Kaká only smiles at him.
“I used to swim here all the time,” Kaká says. They’re walking past the changing rooms and onto the pool deck. The pool is big and the water looks cold, and Kaká’s heart is going a mile a minute. He prays that God helps him get through it, because he’s not sure how to on his own. “I was on a team before I got serious with football, and when I was eighteen-”
“I know,” Cristiano says, but Kaká can tell that he really means, I already know, everyone already knows, you don’t have to be doing this, not for me.
Kaká likes that about Cristiano-that at the most important of times, he says so little but means so much. A part of him wonders if everyone gets that much out of what Cristiano says, or if it’s only him. Kaká wants it to be only him.
They sit at the edge of the pool for a while, their feet dangling in the water, and neither of them says anything. The silence is nice; it’s quiet, something that has been missing from Kaká’s life for a while now, only this time Kaká’s too tense to enjoy it. He doesn’t like the memories that come with being here, the ghost feeling of water in his lungs and the smell of the hospital, and the doctors saying, We aren’t-we’re not sure.
“I was young,” Kaká says, and he hates the way his voice cracks, the way it cuts through the air around them, because if there’s one time that he needs to be strong, it’s now, tonight, with Cristiano. He needs Cristiano to understand that he can and will bounce back. “And stupid. I didn’t-I didn’t think. I dove into the water where it was relatively shallow, and I knew better-of course I knew better-and I hit the bottom, and I just didn’t-”
Cristiano slides his hand along the edge of the pool until his pinky finger rests against Kaká’s.
“There was all this water in my lungs, and I came up, but my neck hurt and I was having trouble swimming. The lifeguards came and got me and strapped me to a backboard and at the hospital, the doctors said that I might not ever walk again. That was the first time that I remember praying, really praying. And that got me through it. And haven’t been back here since, not until now.”
When Cristiano speaks, he speaks slowly, like he’s comforting Kaká, and says, “It’s not something that normally comes up, and you probably already know, but I consider myself lucky to be on a pitch with you, to share a crest with you. I don’t know anyone who plays football better than you do.”
Kaká laughs, although it’s not because he finds any of that particularly funny.
“Cristiano,” he says. “That’s not my point at all.”
“Okay,” Cristiano says. Kaká thinks that he shouldn’t be saying that, that the old Cristiano wouldn’t rest until he knew everything, until he understood everything better than everyone else. “Let’s go swimming,” he says.
Kaká watches as he stands up and takes off his jacket, even though it’s cold out. There’s something beautiful about the way he takes his shirt off next, Kaká thinks. His spine looks striking as he tilts his chin forward, grabbing his shirt by the back of the collar and pulling it up and over his head. Kaká knows enough about Cristiano to know that’s how he takes his shirt off when he doesn’t feel like he should be showing off the muscles in his chest.
“Are you coming in?” Cristiano asks, unbuttoning his pants. His smile is small and perfect.
“No,” Kaká says.
Cristiano smiles again and says, “You’re coming in, Kaká.”
“Okay,” Kaká says, even though he doesn’t want to. He takes off his jacket and his shirt and his pants, and then it’s just him and Cristiano, standing in the cold in their briefs, and Kaká can’t help but note how Cristiano’s skin looks, smooth and tan.
“Alright?” Cristiano asks.
“I came here for you, you know,” Kaká says. Cristiano needs to know that.
“I know.”
He reaches out and wraps his fingers around Kaká’s wrist, and when he leaps into the water, he drags Kaká in with him. The water is cold-it was cold on his feet, but it’s even colder on his chest, his neck and his face-and when he breaks the surface, Cristiano is already there, smiling at him.
“This was a terrible idea,” Cristiano says. “It’s freezing. I can’t believe you didn’t stop me.” His hair is matted down to his forehead, and looking at it makes Kaká flick his own hair out of his face. “And you’re supposed to be the voice of reason, Ricardo.”
Kaká laughs, partly because of what Cristiano said and partly because Ricardo sounds so ridiculous coming off of his lips.
“I’m sorry,” Kaká says. “Forgive me.”
“Already done,” Cristiano says, and he’s still smiling. It puts Kaká at ease.
The next morning, Cristiano wakes him up earlier than usual and says, “All this time and you still haven’t shown me any topless beaches. Come on, Kaká.”
So Kaká rolls out of bed and runs his fingers through his hair. He brushes his teeth and throws on some clothes, a jacket, and then stumbles out into the living room where Cristiano is waiting for him, tossing a football in the air and catching it behind his back.
Kaká takes him to the beach, a quiet one that hardly anyone goes to during the summer and that no one ever goes to during the winter. When they get there, Cristiano leaves his shoes in the car and runs out with the football at his feet, hollering into the air, “Move it, Kaká!”
Only then Cristiano looks around and there are no topless people, and Kaká’s only a few feet behind him, laughing. He watches Cristiano put his hands on his hips before shrugging.
“Okay, then,” he says, and he takes off his jacket and his shirt. His shoulders are smooth and wide and Kaká wants to run his hands along Cristiano’s skin, to kiss the back of Cristiano’s neck.
“Nothing can stop you, eh?” Kaká asks.
“No,” Cristiano says, turning around and smiling. “This is a topless beach, Kaká.”
Kaká punches him in the shoulder with a gloved hand and says, “No thanks. Skins versus Shirts, and go.” He kicks the football out from underneath Cristiano’s feet and takes off with it, down the beach, to wherever, away from Cristiano. He stops a few yards away, flicks the ball just a little bit farther, and then screams, “Goal!” his hands in the air as he faces Cristiano.
Cristiano looks an equal mixture of shocked and upset.
“You didn’t even tell me we were playing,” he says. Goosebumps are forming on his skin. “That’s cheating. Besides, the goal line’s actually here.” He draws a line in the sand with his toe, a few paces past the football.
“Fine,” Kaká says. “First to ten?”
“First to twenty,” Cristiano says, and then he takes off with the football, back in the other direction at as fast a pace as he can manage this close to the shore.
They play for a long time, long past twenty goals, long past thirty, just messing around and yelling and shoving each other into the sand. It’s nice, Kaká thinks. Fun. Cristiano’s loud and obnoxious and taking it more seriously than is called for, which is not very at all. He makes Kaká lose his breath a lot, laughing when Cristiano tries a ridiculous trick that fails, laughing when Cristiano tries and then wildly celebrates a trick that is successful, laughing when Cristiano mopes every time he’s scored against. Then Cristiano scores one, a wild one where he knees the ball into the air and then bicycle kicks it backwards over his head, and Kaká laughs pretty hard at that one, at the way Cristiano attempts to brush the sand out of his hair when he gets up.
“And the match is tied!” Cristiano yells, in a phony commentator voice. “Three hundred to three hundred! But oh! Look at this! Ronaldo pulls away with the speed and grace not seen since-not seen since ever! And Kaká is left in the dust with no choice but to try to-”
Kaká tackles him and they both fall to the ground, sand in their eyes and their hair and in between their fingers.
“Foul,” Cristiano groans, but then he’s getting on his feet, snatching up the football in his hands and running down the makeshift pitch.
“This isn’t American football!” Kaká yells, but Cristiano’s already past the mark in the sand that acts as the goal line, and he’s dancing in celebration with the football tucked between his arm and his chest.
“It’s Rugby, then,” Cristiano yells back. “Either way, I just scored.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kaká says, and he feels like his smile is about to split his face in two. Cristiano’s headed back towards him, kicking the football at his feet, and Kaká thinks he looks happy, happier than he’s looked in a long time, but then again, what does Kaká know? Kaká knows that nothing involving him and Cristiano has ever been anything more than wishful thinking on his part. Kaká knows that.
“This beach is real nice,” Cristiano says, sitting down next to Kaká in the sand. “Different from the ones in Portugal. Remind me and I’ll show you sometime.”
“Okay,” Kaká says.
Cristiano looks at him and his face is so close that Kaká just wants to reach out and touch him, but he doesn’t. His smile is right there, just so, and there are diamonds in his ears and gel in his hair and Kaká doesn’t know what to think because there aren’t words to describe it, not in Portuguese and not in Italian, not in any language.
“Why’d you take me here?” Cristiano asks, and for a second Kaká’s heart stops, because he never expected Cristiano to just outright ask, and he doesn’t want to lie. He doesn’t want to lie, but Kaká can’t just say, Because I love you, or, Because you needed me to, or, Because I really just wanted to spend time with you. He could pretend that Cristiano meant here as in the beach, not here as in Brazil, and Cristiano would probably let him get away with it- “You wanted to go to a topless beach,” he could say- but that would be cowardly, that would be the opposite of what Cristiano needs, and so when Kaká answers, it’s as honest as anything he’s ever said.
“You’re my best friend,” he says. He drags his fingertips through the sand between his legs, and Cristiano waits. “And even though some of it was hard for me, I thought that you needed to see all of it. See everything.”
Cristiano nods, more to himself than to Kaká, and says, “You know, for a long time, I thought you didn’t like me.”
“Of course I like you,” Kaká says. He’s genuinely surprised by the comment; while he doesn’t love everybody, he doesn’t hate anybody, either.
“No, I mean, I know you don’t hate anyone,” Cristiano says, as if he had read Kaká’s mind, “but I thought you-I don’t know-didn’t approve of me off the pitch. My modeling and I’m arrogant, and that doesn’t really fit with your beliefs.”
“Why would you think that?” Kaká asks.
“You never wanted to spend time with me.”
“Cristiano… that’s not how it works,” Kaká says, and a part of him feels so horrible because he had wanted to spend time with Cristiano, wanted it so bad, but he didn’t ask because he didn’t want to add to Cristiano’s pressure, didn’t want to be just one of a thousand people pulling Cristiano in their direction. And even though it’s not his fault, even though God had clearly made it this way for a reason, Kaká feels so sad that the only way Cristiano can feel liked, can feel loved, is if people are grabbing at him with greedy fingers.
“Yeah,” he says. “But if that’s not right, then I don’t know how it works.”
Cristiano’s looking out at the ocean, at the way the waves crash and break on the shore, and Kaká watches him out of the corner of his eye. Kaká wants to tell Cristiano that he’s beautiful, like that, with messy hair and sand on his skin, but he doesn’t know how to-and how can he not know how to? How can he not know the words? He thinks them all the time, every time he sees Cristiano and even when he doesn’t, even when he’s just thinking about him, but the words escape him now.
And so instead of trying to say any of that, Kaká just nudges Cristiano with his shoulder and says, “Being with you makes me feel-makes me feel. I don’t know.” And he wants to say some other things, too, things about God and faith and love, but he knows that makes Cristiano a little uncomfortable, and so he doesn’t.
Kaká leans forward and kisses Cristiano-softly, quietly, tentatively-and hopes it says everything that Cristiano needs to hear. Cristiano kisses him back, just the same, one hand on the back of Kaká’s neck and the other next to Kaká’s in the sand, and Kaká can’t believe it’s happening. Cristiano is just so beautiful, inside and out, and because of that Kaká had assumed that he was unattainable. But he’s not, he’s kissing Kaká on the beach, in the sand, just the two of them, just Cristiano and just Kaká. Kaká is kissing Cristiano and Cristiano is kissing him back, and there’s sand in between his toes and the air is cold on his skin, but he feels hot and happier than he’s been in a long time.
Cristiano pulls back, and he’s laughing, and for a split second, Kaká’s heart stops as he thinks, It’s all a joke. But he knows Cristiano’s not like that, knows Cristiano would never do something like that, and so he asks, “What?”
Cristiano says, “If you just wanted to kiss me, you didn’t have to bring me all the way to Brazil. I mean, I know I’m sexy, but really, Kaká. You shouldn’t be shy around me just because I’m the best footballer in the world.”
And just like that, Cristiano’s back.
They don't talk on the ride home, and a part of Kaká thinks it's better that way because he doesn't know what to say, anyways. Cristiano's window is open, and the cold breeze feels like fingertips through Kaká's hair. Their elbows touch on the center console. Every once in a while, Kaká looks over at Cristiano, and sometimes Cristiano's looking out the window, but sometimes he's looking right back at Kaká, and Kaká's heart jumps in his throat. He likes it, when Cristiano looks at him, and it's nothing new, but it feels new, feels brand new, and Kaká doesn't get it because it's still just him, still just Cristiano.
When they get out of the car, Kaká’s nervous and all he can think about is how badly he wants to kiss Cristiano again. At first he thinks maybe he shouldn’t push it, and then he thinks maybe he should, that maybe Cristiano wants to be kissing him, too.
His hand slips when he tries to put the key in the door, and Kaká decides that when they get inside, he’s just going to ask. And if Cristiano says no, if Cristiano doesn’t want to kiss Kaká again, then that’s that. Kaká is okay with the possibility that things may not change between him and Cristiano; he’s just thankful that God put Cristiano in his life to begin with.
When they’re in the foyer, Kaká shuts the door behind them and then turns back around, a smile on his face. He’s about to offer Cristiano something-coffee, maybe, although he’s not sure what-but then Cristiano’s reaching forward, sliding one hand behind Kaká’s neck, and kissing him.
Kaká kisses back because this is exactly what he wants. Cristiano is exactly what he wants. He puts his hand on Cristiano’s hip because he can, and he winds his fingers in Cristiano’s shirt, touches Cristiano’s skin because he can.
Cristiano pulls back and Kaká follows him with his lips, not ready to stop kissing Cristiano.
“Is this okay?” Cristiano asks. His voice is rough, and Kaká has to laugh because of course it’s okay; it’s more than okay.
“Yes,” Kaká says, and he leans forward and kisses Cristiano again. Cristiano slides one hand up the front of Kaká’s shirt, his palm flat against Kaká’s skin, and Kaká loves it, wants to feel Cristiano’s skin on his all the time.
“Can I-?” Kaká asks, tugging on Cristiano’s shirt, and then he immediately feels embarrassed. He doesn’t want Cristiano to think that he’s like this with everyone.
“Fuck,” Cristiano says. “Yes.”
He grabs Kaká’s wrists, wraps Kaká’s fingers around the hem of his shirt, and then waits for Kaká to make a move.
Kaká doesn’t need to think twice.
He lifts his hands and takes off Cristiano’s shirt, his fingertips brushing across Cristiano’s chest and stomach once he’s done. Cristiano’s beautiful, Kaká thinks, and he likes knowing that Cristiano works for it, sweats for it.
Cristiano starts to unbutton Kaká’s shirt, and he’s slow and methodical about it, driving Kaká wild. The second his shirt is off, Kaká presses forward, presses his chest against Cristiano’s, right there in the foyer, and he kisses Cristiano again.
Cristiano runs his fingers in Kaká’s hair, and Kaká likes that, likes how Cristiano is touching him in all these places that he never has before.
“You have sand in your hair,” Cristiano says, pulling back again.
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “My crazy friend wanted to go to a topless beach.”
Cristiano laughs, says, “He sounds like a handsome and intelligent man.”
“He’s alright,” Kaká says, and he threads their fingers together, tugs Cristiano to the bedroom because Cristiano deserves better than against the wall next to the doorway.
In the bedroom, Cristiano starts to take off the rest of Kaká’s clothes and runs his hands up and down Kaká’s sides. It makes Kaká’s skin tingle. Cristiano kisses his neck, his collarbone, and down the center of his chest.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, Kaká, you’re so fucking gorgeous.”
“You’re gorgeous,” Kaká says, and he really means it. Cristiano looks absolutely gorgeous like that, on his knees, undoing Kaká’s belt. He pushes Kaká’s pants down, helps him step out of his jeans, and then he kisses the joint where Kaká’s thigh meets his hip.
Kaká’s not expecting it when Cristiano goes down on him, takes him all in his mouth in one go, his hand covering what his mouth can’t. He’s not even fully hard, not yet, but he’s getting there fast because Cristiano just-
“Cris,” Kaká says, and Cristiano just looks up at him, hums around him.
And it’s all just so surreal, that any of this is happening. Kaká hadn’t even entertained the idea of Cristiano on his knees as anything more than just a fantasy, an impossibility, and now that he’s there, that he’s touching Kaká the way he is-it makes warmth pool in Kaká’s stomach, makes him harder just to think that Cristiano-beautiful, funny, hard-working Cristiano-could possibly be interested in someone like Kaká.
“Hey, no,” Kaká says, although a large part of him wants to let Cristiano keep going. “I don’t want-”
“Okay,” Cristiano says, and he gets it. He stands up and takes off his pants, and then he and Kaká lay out on the bed, naked, pressed against each other wherever they can be.
Cristiano kisses him again, slow and with a lot of tongue, and as he does, he takes Kaká’s hand and wraps Kaká’s fingers around his cock. The second Kaká’s hands are on him, Cristiano’s hips buck and he groans and Kaká loves that sound, absolutely loves it, wants to hear it all the time. And then Cristiano’s fingers are wrapping around Kaká’s cock and Kaká can’t think, can’t think at all, bucks his hips up into Cristiano’s hand, saying Cristiano’s name again and again until it loses all meaning.
They both come like that, rutting against each other on top of the sheets, hands grabbing at whatever skin they can find, kissing until Cristiano pulls away and says, “Kaká. Kaká.”
Kaká thinks his name has never sounded better, and he comes seeing stars.
Cristiano comes a minute later and then he gets them a wet washcloth, wipes up Kaká’s stomach and his own. When he’s done, he just tosses the washcloth in the general direction of the bathroom.
“Good to see you’re still as neat as ever,” Kaká says.
“Come on,” Cristiano says, smiling wide. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
Kaká kisses him then, pulls him close and tries to show Cristiano that no, he wouldn’t have him any other way.
“I think you’re fine, just the way you are,” he says.
Cristiano says, “I’m glad we can agree,” and then he laughs, loud and right in Kaká’s ear, and Kaká’s heart swells with disbelief, happiness. When it gets quiet again, Cristiano says, “It’s weird to think that all of this depended on a miss.”
Kaká reaches out to touch Cristiano’s chest, his cheeks, just to make sure.
They spend some time like that, just lying next to each other, looking at each other, idly touching each other, and Kaká’s never felt so at peace before. He thinks, This is my beloved and this is my friend. God has shown him the way, shown him to love and happiness, and Kaká breathes easy.
They don’t say much after that, and Kaká starts to drift asleep, Cristiano’s thumb rubbing across his hip to the rhythm of his beating heart.
And then just as Kaká’s about gone, when he’s not sure he’ll even remember hearing it in the morning, Cristiano says, “I think you’re the most perfect human being I’ve ever met.”
And Kaká sleeps.
The next morning, they wake up and shower together. Cristiano touches Kaká constantly, clearly wants it to be more than just a shower, but Kaká pulls away each time, placates Cristiano with a kiss.
“We have a plane to catch,” Kaká stresses, and Cristiano just looks at him as if to say, So?
They have a light breakfast and finish packing their suitcases-Kaká’s one plain black one and Cristiano’s three Louis Vuittons-and Kaká starts to get that feeling in his chest, the one he gets when he’s happy and content but knows things have to change. They have to go back to Madrid; training starts soon.
In the cab, Cristiano says, “You’ll check one of mine, right?”
“Yes,” Kaká laughs, as if the forty euro extra baggage fee would break Cristiano’s bank.
“Good,” Cristiano says. “Here, I got you something.”
He hands Kaká a gift, something wrapped in brown paper and very clearly a book.
“You didn’t have to,” Kaká says.
“I know, but I wanted to.”
Kaká unwraps it. It’s The Lonely Planet’s Portugal.
“So you can come prepared,” Cristiano says, and he says it like it’s not a big deal, like it’s not the nicest gift Kaká’s ever received.
“Thank you,” Kaká says, and he smiles, flips through the book. “Funchal’s not in here.”
“Ah, well,” Cristiano says. “Guess you’ll just have to trust me on that one, then.”
Kaká fakes a sigh, smiles wide as he says, “You ask so much of me, but I’ll see what I can do.”
At the airport, they pay the cab driver and sign a few autographs before heading inside. There’s no line to check-in, and Kaká thinks they’re lucky because there are usually tons of people around. He heads to the counter with two suitcases and it’s only as he’s receiving his boarding pass that Cristiano says anything.
“You know,” he says, “I forgot my Armani jeans at your apartment.” Kaká looks at him and expects a big tantrum, waits for it. “I guess I’ll just have to come back for them later.”
Cristiano shrugs and smiles, and Kaká gets it. It’s so childish and it catches him by surprise, the idea that Cristiano would even for a second think he wasn’t automatically and unconditionally invited back whenever he had the time. Kaká laughs so hard that he has to hold onto Cristiano’s shoulders to keep upright.
“Excuse my friend; he’s not from around here,” Cristiano says to the woman behind the counter.
Kaká only laughs harder, Cristiano’s body solid and warm against his own.