on a miss: part 1
Title: On a Miss
Rating: R
Pairing: Kaká / Cristiano Ronaldo
Word Count: 14,620
Summary: Cristiano misses the last shot of the last game-a free kick from just outside the box in a match against Almeria-and causes Real Madrid to lose the league title; Barcelona wins out on goal difference alone.
A/N: I am well aware that the fact that the league would be decided on goals is incredibly unlikely, but for the sake of fiction, and as it's such a small part, please let it slide. Also, lokeloke has made some really, really awesome artwork for the story that you definitely should check out and flail over!!!
Cristiano misses the last shot of the last game-a free kick from just outside the box in a match against Almeria-and causes Real Madrid to lose the league title; Barcelona wins out on goal difference alone.
Kaká knows this isn’t, strictly speaking, true. Kaká knows it goes something like this: Real Madrid the team- the collective- spends the second half of the season trying to pass Barcelona in the league table, and Real Madrid the team-the collective-fails to score enough to do so.
Kaká watches as Cristiano walks off of the pitch silently with his head high. Although he looks calm, Kaká can see the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he clenches his teeth and tightens his fists at his sides, and it’s the only time he can remember wishing that Cristiano thought in terms of We instead of I.
They win the match 3-0, but it still tastes more like a defeat than anything else this season. Kaká stays on the pitch for a little longer, shakes hands with some of the guys and claps to the crowd, Thank you for coming out, and, Sorry we couldn’t do it for you. And, like always, he takes a minute to thank God, because maybe God didn’t give Kaká the league title, but He gave Kaká everything else and Kaká is infinitely grateful.
In the tunnel, Gonzalo says, “I thought we had it this year.” He’s the only one who says anything and his voice echoes off the walls along with the clack of football boot studs.
Cristiano’s already out of the shower by the time he gets to the locker room. Everyone else tip-toes around him, gives him his space, but Kaká is the exception. He sits on the bench next to Cristiano as he pulls on his socks, waiting for him to say something first because Kaká understands that that’s what he needs right now. Kaká is still covered in sweat, but Cristiano smells good, clean, and they breathe side by side for a while.
Finally, Cristiano says, “Next year’s always our year,” and Kaká doesn’t know what to say because he was expecting a tantrum. He knows how to deal with Cristiano’s tantrums, has dealt with them enough to know all their ins and outs. But this time, Cristiano’s not throwing a tantrum; he’s looking for something else and Kaká doesn’t know what it is or how to give it to him. Kaká can rationalize the loss to himself, can still see all the good things he has despite the bad, but Cristiano can’t, or maybe he won’t.
“Do you want to get dinner sometime?” Kaká asks. It’s completely inappropriate at a time like this, but all he can think of is that it’s summer and if he doesn’t ask, he probably won’t see Cristiano until practice starts up again, ages from now.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “I would.” As he gets up and shoulders his bag, he grips Kaká’s arm for a second, before walking out to his car and to wherever it is that he’s going, leaving Kaká in the locker room, gripping at the front of the bench so hard that his knuckles are white.
At home, Kaká’s house is big and empty and he thinks about how nice it would be to have someone there with him. He thinks of Cristiano as he eats dinner in front of the TV, match highlights showing him everywhere they went wrong, and then he reads in bed for a while. He tries so hard not to, but he still can’t stop himself from thinking about the curve of Cristiano’s spine as he sat in the locker room, the length of his eyelashes and the way skin of Cristiano’s palm felt against his arm.
In the morning, Real Madrid’s loss is all over the newspapers. Ronaldo Loses La Liga, they say. Barcelona Scores Again (Cristiano Doesn’t). Kaká looks at them in the morning when he’s eating breakfast, sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and thinks, Cristiano is used to this kind of taunting. Thinks, Cristiano can handle pressure. Thinks, Thank God it’s not me.
Kaká is deeply and irrevocably ashamed.
He waits a few days before calling Cristiano, figuring he’s got to be busy with other things now that the football season is over. And Kaká can’t blame him-he’s been busy too, busy planning his trip home to see his parents and busy giving a few final interviews and busy just doing nothing, eating whatever he wants, not going to practice.
When he finally does call Cristiano, Cristiano says, “Kaká! You’re alive!” and then laughs to himself for a good minute over it. Cristiano acts like it’s a lot funnier than it is, and Kaká laughs along although it strikes him as odd; Cristiano has always laughed easily, but he has never forced it. At any rate, they agree to meet up at a restaurant halfway between their houses- some place that Cristiano was told has great paella, as if they don’t eat enough of that- and Kaká shows up ten minutes early, because to be early is to be on time. Cristiano is five minutes late.
“Sorry,” he says when he runs in. “Sorry!” His cheeks are red and the buttons on his shirt are mismatched.
“Did I, uh,” Kaká says, motioning to the buttons of his own shirt, and he stutters through it because he’s not used to talking about the private lives of anyone, himself included. “Did I interrupt you from something?”
“What?” Cristiano says. “Oh! No, I was just at home. I didn’t even realize.”
“Four days without me and you’re falling apart at the seams,” Kaká jokes, and Cristiano just waves his hand.
“Everyone has their off days,” he says, and then, “It’s hard to be me.”
“I’m sure,” Kaká says. He means it but Cristiano laughs and kicks him beneath the table.
“Split some croquetas with me as an appetizer?” he asks.
“Only if they’re the jamón ones,” Kaká says, and Cristiano says okay. He’s playing with his water glass a lot, Kaká notices, just moving it in small, concentric circles on the table cloth.
“What are you doing for the break?” Cristiano asks. “Getting away from Madrid?”
“I think so, yeah,” Kaká says. “I’m going home, going to see my family.” He can feel how wide his smile is. He loves Madrid, loved Milan, but nothing is quite like home.
“What’s with that smile?” Cristiano asks. “You that excited for the topless beaches?”
“No,” Kaká says, not bothering to point out the fact that it will be winter in Brazil, anyways. He doesn’t rise to Cristiano’s bait; he’s more than well-practiced at deftly sidestepping Cristiano’s inappropriate comments, of which there are many. “I’m just excited to be home. The air’s different there; the people, too. I just want to see my parents and wander the streets, maybe go to some of the winter festivals.”
“What kind of festivals?” Cristiano asks. “I like festivals.”
“Me too,” Kaká says. “In the winter they have March for Jesus and an International Literary Festival. I don’t know, they’re not all that special but I like the atmosphere. Being home. It’s nice.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Cristiano says.
“So, what are you doing for the break?” Kaká asks.
“Nothing,” he says. “I don’t have any plans.”
And that’s so unlike Cristiano. Every time Kaká had asked before, Cristiano always had a million people pulling him in a million different directions, and Kaká had wanted to say, “Spend time with me. Be with me,” but he didn’t because he knew what kind of pressure Cristiano was under and he didn’t want to add to it.
But if he has to be honest, there were tons of places that he wanted to take Cris, that he wanted to show Cris the beauty of. He wanted-and still does, he still wants-to take Cris to the Japanese restaurant near his house where they always give him free appetizers and so he always leaves too much tip in return, and he wants to take him to the used bookstore that he always goes to but never buys anything from, and he wants to take Cris to the old dirt pitch that’s just a mile away from the Bernabéu where he always sees little kids playing and laughing before they realize that they’re good enough to start taking it seriously. And he wants to take Cris to Italy to see the Colosseum so that he knows that some things never die and to England to see Stone Henge so that he knows that some things are just bigger than he is, and to France to see the Eiffel Tower because that’s what people do with the person they love when they are in love with them.
Instead, he says, “Do you want to come to Brazil with me?”
Cristiano says, “Yes.”
“Did you pack a jacket?” Kaká asks. They’re on the plane already, waiting to take off, so it wouldn’t really make much of a difference if Cristiano had or hadn’t. Kaká has plenty of extras at his house that Cristiano would never wear, but it makes Kaká less nervous knowing that if push came to shove, at least Cristiano wouldn’t freeze.
Cristiano doesn’t answer him. Kaká looks over and can see around the aviator sunglasses on his face that Cristiano’s shut his eyes, but Kaká knows that he’s not asleep because he keeps tapping his fingers on the armrests.
“Did you pack a jacket?” Kaká asks again. Cristiano smiles but doesn’t look at him.
“Yes, Mom,” he says. “And jeans and a hat and extra underwear.”
“Good,” Kaká says. Then, “Oh hey, we’re moving.”
And they are-slowly and towards the runway, but they’re moving. Cristiano sits up and looks out the window for a second, towards where the sun is setting.
“Finally,” he says. “Took them long enough; I’m only a hundred now.” He leans forward to grab a book from his carry-on, which is beneath the chair in front of him.
“What are you reading?” Kaká can’t see the cover, but from the angle he’s at, he can see that it’s thick and filled with pictures.
Cristiano holds up the book; it’s The Lonely Planet’s Brazil.
“You don’t need that,” Kaká says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “I’ll show you all the good things, I promise.”
“You never know,” Cristiano says. “You’re sneakier than you look.” He’s opened the book to the São Paulo section, and Kaká looks over his shoulder.
“I hope you’re not set on Instituto Butantã,” Kaká says. It’s a research facility that focuses on venomous animals, and knowing Cristiano, he’d want to see the snake exhibit. “There was a fire there earlier in the year that destroyed a lot of the building.”
“I know,” Cristiano says, this time rolling his eyes. He uses the tip of his finger to show Kaká a sentence three paragraphs down that says the same thing.
“Ah,” Kaká says. “Keep this up and you’ll be a Paulistano in no time.”
Cristiano smiles and says, “They’ll think you’re the tourist and I’ll say, ‘Excuse my friend; he’s not from around here.’” Kaká laughs and a very small part of him wishes that was even possible. Everyone in São Paulo knows him; everyone knows where he’s from and where his house is and where his parents’ house is. Kaká shakes his head as if to stop that line of thought. He’s lucky, blessed, and he knows it, and he thanks God for it every day.
“Hey,” Kaká says, nudging him. “Well, what do you want to see?”
“When we’re in Sampa,” Cristiano says, stressing the local name for the city, as if to prove something, “I want to go to Intervales Park.”
Kaká laughs out loud because the only thing to do in Intervales is watch birds.
“I’m not kidding,” Cristiano says. There’s a smile on his lips but it’s small and doesn’t lead Kaká to think that he’s lying.
“Okay,” Kaká says. “Alright, then,” and Cristiano flashes a smile at him, big and wide, before he goes back to reading. Kaká leans back and shuts his eyes, feeling the rumble of the plane beneath him as they leave the runway. He’s asleep before the fasten seat belt sign is off.
Kaká’s not entirely sure if it really happened or not; maybe he dreamt it. Everything’s hazy and the flight’s long, nine or ten hours, and the lights in the cabin are off. Cristiano’s looking at him.
“Why did you buy that book?” Kaká asks. It’s still open on Cristiano’s lap, the little light up above him hitting the pages and his cheekbones.
“In case,” he says, and Kaká waits for him to finish his sentence.
“In case what?” he asks when Cristiano doesn’t.
“Just in case,” Cristiano says, and Kaká falls back asleep.
The plane touching down in Brazil jerks Kaká awake. Cristiano smiles at him, all teeth and crinkled eyes.
“You slept like a baby the whole way,” he teases, pinching Kaká’s cheek. “Little Kaká.”
Kaká swats his hand away.
“Stop that,” he says, but there’s no venom behind it.
They stand up to stretch their legs and file off the plane soon enough, heading to grab their suitcases from the baggage carousel with little to no problem. Kaká packed one bag, relatively small; Cristiano packed three, one of which he checked under Kaká’s name so he didn’t have to pay for extra baggage. His are all large and by Louis Vuitton.
“I think this suitcase alone costs more than mine and everything in it put together,” Kaká says, hauling one of them off the conveyor belt.
“You liar,” Cristiano says, and he tugs at the button-up shirt that Kaká’s wearing. “You’ve got some Armani, don’t even try to hide it.”
Kaká wants to point out that they gave him those for free and that he donates a lot of money to charity rather than buying wardrobes that cost equal to most people’s paychecks, but he doesn’t because he knows Cristiano will look at him like he’s hopeless, like he’s a lost cause, and they should be heading back to his apartment by now.
Because he slept so much on the plane, Kaká almost forgets that it’s nighttime, well past midnight. They hail a cab no problem, although Cristiano’s surprised he didn’t call a car service, and Cristiano looks out the window the entire drive.
Kaká’s strangely nervous, wanting Cristiano to like the city where he grew up.
“Lot of traffic,” Cristiano says. They’re sitting in the back of the first cab they saw, their knees splayed wide and touching even though their bodies aren’t.
“There always is,” Kaká tells him. “There are a lot of things to do here; someone is always up.”
“I like that,” Cristiano says. The skin of his cheek is mushed out of shape from where it rests on his closed fist, his elbow propped up on the armrest. Kaká thinks it makes him look less plastic, more human, and the more Kaká looks at him, the more he looks suddenly and completely exhausted.
“Hey,” Kaká says. “You alright?”
Cristiano turns to him, surprised, and says, “Yeah, of course. Why?” He flashes a smile that Kaká knows he uses in interviews.
“No reason,” Kaká says. There’s silence for a minute and then he adds, “I’m really glad you came here with me.”
“Me too,” Cristiano says. “Madrid was starting to get-”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. Kaká looks at him to try to figure it out, to figure out what Madrid was starting to get, but Cristiano’s gone back to looking out the window, and Kaká knows not to push it.
When they get to Kaká’s apartment, Cristiano pays for the cab even though Kaká fights him on it.
“It’s only fair,” Cristiano says. “You’re letting me stay over.”
“But you’re the guest,” Kaká says, and Cristiano ignores him. They sign a few autographs for the driver and then head into the building, where the doorman nods and greets him-“Welcome home, Mr. Kaká,” even though Kaká has stressed that the Mr. is unnecessary-and offers to help with their suitcases.
“Got to get my workout in somehow,” Cristiano jokes when Kaká politely declines and, after struggling up the elevator and through Kaká’s door, he says, “You know, I expected something swankier.”
Kaká rolls his eyes. He knows how most people would take that-This is too low-key for me; I need something fancier-but he also knows how Cristiano means it-I forget that you’re not me; this is nice.
“Expecting the Madrid Tower?” Kaká deadpans.
“No,” Cristiano says. He’s already made himself at home and is wandering the living room, looking at Kaká’s DVD collection and at the few photos he has on the wall. “This is better than that, anyways,” he says. “Although you don’t call me Mr. Ronaldo, so that leaves some room for improvement.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kaká says, watching Cristiano wander into the kitchen. “Want me to show you your room?”
Cristiano ignores the question and yells out, “Your mom says she left feijoada for us in the fridge. That’s the best; I’m starving.”
Kaká heads into the kitchen and sees Cristiano holding a note on yellow paper with his mother’s loopy handwriting on it.
“What does that even say?” Cristiano asks, pointing at the bottom line. He doesn’t seem to care that the note’s not for him, and Kaká doesn’t either. What does it matter? It’s just Cristiano.
“That she wants to see us for dinner tomorrow,” Kaká says, craning his neck.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“I guess,” Kaká says. He’s taking out the stew and rice to heat up, and only just realizes how starving he is.
“So what should I bring them?” Cristiano asks. He’s leaning back against the countertop and watching Kaká move around the kitchen.
“What do you mean?” Kaká asks, pulling a big spoon out of the drawer.
“Your parents,” Cristiano says. “Wine, maybe. Do they like wine?”
“You don’t need to-” Kaká starts, and then stops himself. “Cris, they just want to meet you. It’s not a big deal.”
“Right,” Cristiano says, as if Kaká had said something completely different. “Who doesn’t like wine? So we’ll get a red. And maybe some flowers for your mother.”
Kaká doesn’t fight it, recognizes that it’s futile, and just says, “She did make us feijoada.”
“Exactly,” Cristiano says again, this time looking around. And then, after a pause, “So this is Brazil.”
“No,” Kaká says, and he points the spoon at Cristiano for effect. “This is the inside of my apartment. Brazil is tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Cristiano says. “And feijoada is tonight.” He reaches two fingers into the pot to grab a piece of meat out from the top. “Ah, fuck,” he says with his mouth full. “Hot.”
Kaká laughs and stirs the stew, watching Cristiano breathe through an open mouth as if to cool down the food on his tongue. Ladies and Gentlemen, Cristiano Ronaldo, he thinks, and that only makes him laugh harder. He likes this side of Cristiano- the private side; the silly side; the regular person side.
They eat quickly and don’t say much, but Kaká figures that’s alright because it’s been a long day. Cristiano sings Sade’s Babyfather as they wash the few dishes that they used, and when Kaká admits that he doesn’t know the song, Cristiano switches to Kaká’s chant, from back when he was at Milan.
“Siam venuti fin qua, siam venuti fin qua, per vedere segnare Kaká!” he sings, again and again, three or four times in a row until Kaká elbows him.
“Alright already,” he says. “I didn’t know you knew Italian.”
“I don’t,” Cristiano says. “That’s why it was shit. But I did Google you.”
“What else are friends for?” Kaká asks, and he’s joking around, but he doesn’t really find it that ridiculous that Cristiano Googled him. Kaká knows that he’s searched Cristiano’s name long before they even played in the same league, and long after they became friends. He’s flattered that Cristiano’s done the same, even though he knows he shouldn’t be.
“For taking you to Brazil, I guess,” Cristiano says.
Kaká says, “Hey, anytime.”
The next morning, Cristiano’s already up and showered by the time Kaká even thinks about waking up.
“You slacker,” he says when Kaká shuffles in. “Never would have pegged you as the type.”
“As what type?” Kaká asks. “The type who sleeps in?”
“The type who doesn’t own a comb,” Cristiano says, and then he laughs as Kaká makes a half-hearted effort to smooth his hair down.
“I just woke up,” Kaká says, as if reason meant anything to Cristiano.
“Excuses never get anyone anywhere, Kaká,” he says and he’s got this teasing smile and Kaká loves it, just loves it, thinks that there says so much about Cristiano, only even he’s not sure what exactly it says. “But I’m going to go on a run, I think, so you’ll have plenty of time to fight with your hair.”
“I don’t fight with it,” Kaká says. “If you go out and to the left, you’ll, um.” He waves a hand and hopes that it reminds him of the words that he’s trying to say.
“I got it,” Cristiano says, and Kaká’s sure that he does. He’s shown Cristiano around his neighborhood, around the streets and alleys near his house, and so Cristiano knows. And if he doesn’t, if he gets lost, Kaká will just send out a big search party to find him and remind him of which way is which.
When Cristiano leaves, Kaká runs through a shower and attempts to make himself look presentable. He throws on jeans and a plain white button-up and brushes his teeth. Forty minutes later and Cristiano’s not back, so Kaká cleans up a little bit, even though there’s not much to clean. He lines up the multiple remotes on the coffee table and places Cristiano’s empty juice glass in the sink, and then he takes a few minutes to pray because he doesn’t expect to have much time to go to church.
Kaká lets his mind wander a little. He thinks of football and of how grateful he is to be fit again, to be playing again. He thinks of wind in his hair as he runs and the sound of a ball hitting the back of the net and the feel of his teammates’ hands on the back of his head, his neck. He thinks of Cristiano and the way he laughs and how he had congratulated Kaká on his return to the pitch and how when Kaká wasn’t playing, Cristiano was the one to tell him that it would happen, that he was missed, that he was needed. Kaká thinks of all the people who aren’t as fortunate as he is, and he prays for them, asks God to bestow some of His kindness upon them.
Cristiano’s still out after all of that, and so Kaká decides to rush out to the corner store for some bread and milk, and a few other things that he doesn’t have and that his mother hadn’t filled his fridge with when she stopped by.
The weather’s nice out-cold but not overly so-and Kaká walks down the block, enjoying the feel of the Brazilian air on his skin. There’s a community football pitch off to his right, and there are tons of kids out playing, running, laughing like usual, and Kaká keeps on past it until he hears it.
“Cristiano!”
It’s a child’s voice, high and bright, and Kaká knows it’s stupid to think anything of it, but Cristiano hadn’t returned from his run and Kaká has to know. He doubles back towards the pitch and walks down the small beaten path from the road to the stands. And there he is.
“Cristiano!” a small boy calls again. He’s in the box and has his arm in the air, signaling that he’s open, and across the pitch is Cristiano. Kaká’s Cristiano. He crosses the ball to the young boy, who takes it and scores, and then Cristiano runs to him with his arms open and his smile wide and the boy watches Cristiano with disbelief, like he’s not sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing, and when Cristiano slides on his knees, the boy does the same, and then the whole team is running over, piling on one another and cheering and it makes Kaká’s chest feel warm.
“Aw, come on,” another boy shouts. “You have Cristiano Ronaldo on your team.”
Kaká heads onto the pitch as the other boys join in and start complaining too, but Cristiano’s smiling and waving his hand as if to say, Doesn’t matter, as if to say, You’re just as good, even though they can’t possibly be.
“You don’t want Cristiano Ronaldo on your team,” Kaká says, teasing, and everyone turns to look at him, saying, It’s Kaká! and He’s on our team! “You’ll definitely lose then.” And he means it as a joke; it’s something he didn’t even think about before saying because it’s Cristiano Ronaldo and having him on your team is the fastest way to victory, but then he looks over at Cristiano and Cristiano-
Cristiano is upset. It’s not noticeable, not at all, but Kaká knows Cristiano, knows what to look for, sees all the signs and knows he said the wrong thing.
But then Cristiano snaps back to himself, or back to who he thinks Kaká wants him to be, and says, “Oh yeah, Kaká? Then bring your best and we’ll see who’s on top.” He puts his arms around the two kids next to him.
“Okay,” Kaká says, and then Cristiano flicks the football up from the floor and into Kaká’s face. “Hey,” Kaká says, pointing a finger at Cristiano. “I’ve got my eye on you.”
Cristiano just laughs.
They play five-a-side, running up and down the pitch with the boys, stopping every few minutes to show them something, something cool, something hey, look at this! The kids are good, good enough to take it seriously, and the way they laugh as they score and as they do something ridiculous makes Kaká happy, so happy. He’s tired too, which is a feeling that he loves, although he could keep doing this forever, playing just for the sake of playing.
“No, no,” Cristiano says. “Left leg, right leg. Left leg, right leg.” He’s showing someone how to do his signature footwork.
“Like this?” the boy asks.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and then he steals the ball, takes off with it, yelling behind him, “Too slow, though!”
And after a good hour of playing, when they’re all sweaty and happy, when the young boys have to go home or to wherever they’re needed, Kaká looks at Cristiano and smiles.
“How was your run?” he asks, and Cristiano laughs.
“Got caught up,” he explains. He looks around him, hands on his hips, and breathes. The boys are still in view, still in ear shot, and they’re laughing and constantly looking back as they walk away. “So this is Brazil?” he asks.
“This is Brazil.”
Cristiano insists on bringing a bottle of red and a bottle of white. Kaká tries to tell him it’s not a big deal, that his parents won’t care either way, but Cristiano insists.
“Gotta make a good impression,” he says, flashing a smile. He repeats it again as they’re on the doorstep, and although it sounds like he’s nervous, Kaká knows he’s not, not really. He imagines that Cristiano feels the same way he does, relaxed and happy after playing stress-free football all afternoon.
“Calm down,” Kaká says, and he gives Cristiano a nudge.
“I am calm,” Cristiano says, nudging Kaká right back. “Watch it for the wine.”
“I am watching it,” Kaká says. The door opens the next second and his mother is there, all smiles and gorgeous hair and tan skin.
“Ricardo,” she says, and it comes out almost too quiet to hear. She stretches her arms out and pulls Kaká in, squeezing him so tight that he feels like he might burst, one hand rubbing up and down his back. When she pulls away, she looks right at Cristiano and says, “And you must be Kaká’s Cristiano.”
Cristiano opens his mouth to respond, but she doesn’t give him the time to before she’s hugging him too, and Kaká can see the way Cristiano relaxes into it.
“Come on in,” she says to him. “Tell me-how was the flight over?”
She puts her arm around his shoulders and steers him inside, leaving Kaká on the doorstep. He can hear Cristiano say, “It went fast enough, although Kaká slept the whole way,” and, “Thank you for the feijoada, by the way. It was delicious,” and he can see Cristiano shorten his steps to match Kaká’s mother’s smaller ones. It makes Kaká happy, to see the way Cristiano fits.
Kaká smiles, heads inside.
They stay for a light dinner and some coffee, and it’s really nice to see his parents again, Kaká thinks, really nice to see them and Cristiano at the same time. Cristiano refuses to call them by their first names, only ever calling them ma’am and sir, even though they insist otherwise. Kaká thinks this only makes them like him more.
When they leave, Cristiano smiles at Kaká’s mother and jokes, “I’ll be sure to take good care of him,” referring to Kaká.
His mother looks at Cristiano and puts one hand on his cheek, as if he were her child.
“Take care of yourself, too,” she says, and it’s perfect, exactly what she needs to be saying and exactly what Cristiano needs to be hearing, and Kaká loves her all the more for it.
“I will,” he says, and she kisses his cheek goodbye.
Kaká wakes up the next morning with a crick in his neck and sunlight in his eyes from the window beside his bed that prevent him from falling back asleep. So he stretches and gets up, thinking that Cristiano is probably already up and dressed, and it’s best to not keep him waiting.
He pads down the hall in an old t-shirt and flannel pants, stopping along the way to open the blinds of the windows he passes. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and still, but Kaká knows that it will still be chilly outside.
Cristiano’s in the kitchen by the time Kaká gets there, rooting around in the fridge in nothing but a pair of briefs.
“Do you need something?” Kaká asks, and Cristiano doesn’t even turn around.
“No,” he says. “Just looking for something to make for breakfast.”
“Oh, well hey,” Kaká says. “We’ll just go out. Brazilian breakfast, on me.”
And then Cristiano looks at him, and he’s so much skin, wide chest and well-defined muscles, and Kaká loves it, loves all of it, but all he notices is that Cristiano hasn’t shaved yet, that he’s got stubble on his chin, and that his hair is matted down on one side and that he has pillow creases from where he slept. It’s new to Kaká, who has never seen Cristiano early in the morning, who has never seen Cristiano frazzled and exhausted, who has never seen Cristiano looking anything less than perfectly put together.
Normally, Cristiano is perfect, but this is something else entirely.
“Yeah?” he asks, and he smiles. “What’s that?”
“Bolo de fubá and papaya,” Kaká says. “Maybe some queijo fresco. You’ll never want to leave.”
“I already don’t want to,” Cristiano says, and Kaká feels that one somewhere deep in his chest. It makes him feel oddly proud, that Cristiano likes his hometown. And then Cristiano says, “I’m anxious to get back to practice, though. Gotta start training early if I want to be the best this year.”
And that-that reminds Kaká of why Cristiano’s here in the first place, of how something’s got Cristiano acting differently. Before, Cristiano would never have said that he needed to work hard to become the best; he would know, would believe, that he already was. It all just makes Kaká feel worse about the slip-up he made the day before.
“Alright,” Kaká says, because he’s got to say something. “Well, at least we can hang out until you’re too big time for me.”
Cristiano laughs, one of his real ones, loud and unrestrained, and then he says, “Okay, but let me shave first.”
Kaká almost wants to tell him not to. Instead, he prays and asks God to watch over Cristiano; to give him the strength to overcome whatever it is that has caused him to stumble.
“It must have been nice,” Cristiano says, “growing up here.” They’re reading the newspaper together later on, sitting in the living room.
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “It was nice.” He turns the page of his paper.
“So, what? Did you and your brother share a room?” he asks and Kaká looks up, confused. “Your mom said there were only two bedrooms.”
“Who? Me and Digão?” he asks. “We never even lived in that house. My parents only moved there a few years ago.”
“Oh,” Cristiano says. “Where did you live? Still in the city, right?”
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “Not far. Just down by-actually, hey, I’ll show you.”
Cristiano whines, says he’s tired and that Kaká isn’t letting him get any rest, but Kaká forces him up and out the door. They hop a cab uptown, and Kaká spends the entire time pointing out places that he remembers from when he was young.
“I used to go there after school every Thursday,” Kaká says when they pass a run-down restaurant. “They have the best coxinha there; I’ll have to take you there sometime. It still looked like that back then, too.”
“What?” Cristiano asks. “Abandoned?”
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “It’s nicer on the inside, though. Oh, wait, see that? That corner next to Lojas Renner?”
“Yeah?”
“Digão got in a huge fight there when I was fifteen,” Kaká says, and then he starts laughing. “He was this little twelve-year-old, punching someone in the face. Gave my mom a heart attack.”
Cristiano laughs too, and pinches Kaká’s cheek while he says, “We can’t all be perfect like you.” Kaká backs away, pulls a face.
“Stop it,” he says. “Besides, we’re here.”
They get out of the car and are standing outside of a tall apartment building. The plants outside are dead, cold from the winter, and across the street is a small grocery store, a book store.
“This is it,” Kaká says, looking up. He points out a window. “That was my room, right there.”
“Are we going to go up?” Cristiano asks.
“No,” Kaká tells him. “An apartment is an apartment. That’s not the important part.”
“What is the important part?”
“All of it. Life. Come on, I’ll show you,” Kaká says. He leads Cristiano around back, to where there’s a small garden with a stone bench.
“This is nice,” Cristiano says.
“It is in the summer,” Kaká agrees. “When the flowers are out. This is where I got my first kiss. I was nineteen; her name was Caroline.”
“You were nineteen?” Cristiano asks, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.
“Shut up,” Kaká says. He hits his shoulder against Cristiano’s. “We can’t all be you.”
Cristiano holds his hands up, palms out, and says, “Hey, hey, I’m not judging.”
“You’re judging,” Kaká says.
“Alright, maybe a little bit,” Cristiano agrees. “But I’m sure she was great.”
“She was,” Kaká says. “Very pretty. Now come on.”
He heads back to the street and Cristiano follows, close enough that if Kaká stops, Cristiano will run into him.
“Where to now?” Cristiano asks.
“The football shop down the street,” Kaká says. “I used to practically live there, once I started playing. There was always something else I wanted-new boots, new shorts, new shin guards. I didn’t need them because I always had some, but that didn’t stop me from looking.”
“And after that?” Cristiano asks.
“I don’t know. We’ll see.”
Kaká takes him to the football shop and Cristiano laughs at how Kaká’s life-size cut-out is standing by the register, and then Kaká takes him to his old school, to the park near his house where he broke his arm, to the store where he would buy 7Belo candy whenever he had money.
Cristiano says, “I thought you were going to take me to the São Paulo youth team training grounds.”
“Did you want me to?” Kaká asks.
“Not really,” Cristiano says. “I’d rather see where you went when you had nothing to do.”
So Kaká takes him to the library.
They play football again the next day at the old pitch down the street because they don’t know what else to do. Kaká feels like a terrible host, but Cristiano insists that he didn’t come to Brazil for the complete tour package; he came to spend time with Kaká, and he’s doing that.
“We could go shopping,” Kaká says, and he offers it with a heavy heart. He knows that Cristiano will jump on the chance to buy clothing, but it’s not really up Kaká’s alley. “There’s a big mall not too far away.”
“No thanks,” Cristiano says. He’s sitting down, shuffling a football between his feet. “You think we could just go play football again?”
And that’s something that Kaká did not see coming. A part of him feels bad because Cristiano doesn’t want to go shopping, but a larger part of him is relieved. He hates trying on clothing.
“Okay,” Kaká says. “We can do that.”
So they suit up, throw on trainers and sweatshirts and head out the door. Cristiano reminds him not to forget his gloves and then they walk down the street. It’s a weekend afternoon and so there are kids already there, but most of them were there last time, too, and he and Cristiano are welcomed into the match with no fuss.
That’s the best thing about kids, Kaká thinks. They’re awed when they meet him, but then they get over it and just want to play football. Adults, he has found, are not nearly as simple.
“Kaká, you’re in goal,” one of the boys tells him, and Kaká thinks, Goal? Surprise must be written all over his face because then the boy continues, “You’re the biggest. It makes sense.”
Kaká says, “Okay,” and heads to the penalty box with a smile. Children think in the strangest and most logical of ways.
They play for the next few hours. Cristiano makes finger guns every time he scores, and Kaká’s unwilling to admit that maybe he kicked the ball at the back of Cristiano’s head on purpose once or twice, but on the whole, the match is fun. Kaká never thought he’d like goalkeeping. Before, when he had tried it, everything had been so serious; here, with Cristiano, it’s light and happy and carefree, and Kaká’s heart feels too big for his chest.
They play a game of Five Alive when things get repetitive, and Cristiano has to explain the rules to him because he’s never played before. As it turns out, it’s just a game of penalties. He’s stuck in goal until he blocks one, in which case that person becomes keeper. If someone gets scored on, they lose a point. Last person with points left wins.
Kaká says, “I’m going to be terrible at this,” and all the boys laugh.
In the end, he’s not terrible; he comes in third. Cristiano is one of the first people out because he misses his kick and then gets stuck in goal. When he’s out, sitting on the side, he makes up anti-Kaká chants that the kids find hilarious, and Kaká does, too.
When it’s over and they walk back to Kaká’s apartment, Kaká says, “Those kids are funny.”
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “It was a good time. I wish La Liga matches were like that.”
“Like what?” Kaká asks. “Easy?”
“Fun,” Cristiano says, and Kaká’s heart wants to break. He’s thinking about the Almeria match, and he knows Cristiano is, too.
They watch a movie that night, The Sixth Sense, something that Kaká has never seen but that Cristiano says is one of his favorites. And Kaká doesn’t mean to, of course not, but ghosts and supernatural themes aren’t his favorite, and he falls asleep a little over halfway through the movie.
When he wakes up, the DVD is back to the title menu, the same thirty seconds of music and dialogue playing over and over again. He turns his head to see if Cristiano is asleep, but he’s not, he’s awake too and he’s just looking at Kaká like they were in the middle of a conversation. Kaká doesn’t know what it is-maybe the set of his mouth, or the way his eyebrows are furrowed, or maybe not-but Cris looks exactly the how Kaká felt as he laid on the bed, waterlogged, as the doctors told him that they weren’t sure, that he might not walk again.
And a part of Kaká thinks it’s a bad idea, that he shouldn’t say anything-he knows how proud and how private Cristiano is, knows how hard Cristiano has tried to hide that anything was wrong with him in the first place-but an even larger part of him thinks that if there’s any way he could help Cris the way that God had helped him, he would be selfish and stupid not to try.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, the darkness making him feel like he should whisper. Cristiano doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looks at Kaká and looks at Kaká and looks at Kaká. And then-
“I think I just lost something when I lost the league,” Cristiano whispers, only he’s not looking at Kaká anymore. Kaká doesn’t have to ask, knows what Cristiano's talking about.
“But we lost the league,” Kaká says. “We lost.”
Cristiano shakes his head and says, “I’ve been told all my life to see it one way and now everyone’s telling me to see it another.”
Kaká says, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “At least you stuck around.” And that hits Kaká hard, because he had asked Cristiano what he was doing for the break and Cristiano had said Nothing; Nothing because apparently everyone was suddenly too busy for him. Kaká wants to say, You’re better without them, and, You’re better than them, and, You’re better than anyone I’ve ever met. He wants to say it in a way that tells Cristiano that he means at football and at working hard and at setting an example, and wants to say it in a way that tells Cristiano that he means at being a friend and at making people laugh and at helping people up when they’re down. He wants to say it in a way that tells Cristiano that he means it in every way possible.
Kaká says, “I’m sorry.”
Cristiano says, “I’m going to bed.”
They wake up early the next morning and Cristiano doesn’t mention talking after the movie, and so Kaká doesn’t bring it up, either. Instead, Kaká asks, “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Actually,” Cristiano says, “I think I’m going to go on a run.”
“Okay,” Kaká says. “Just let me throw on some shoes.”
Cristiano doesn’t say that he’d rather be alone, and Kaká takes that as a victory.
Later that day, they throw on their coats and go to a street festival. It’s not one of the big ones that are held over the summer, but it’s nice and there are a lot of food booths and artists out.
Cristiano’s happy again, back to how he was before the movie. It unsettles Kaká because he knows that Cristiano’s not alright, that he’s not okay, that he’s pretending he is because that’s all he knows how to do, because he thinks that's what Kaká wants.
“I used to go to festivals like this in Funchal,” Cristiano says, “before I got anywhere with football. I used to steal pastéis de nata from a man who ran one of the stalls.”
“Cristiano Ronaldo, man against the law,” Kaká says. “I always knew you were a hooligan.”
“Not really,” Cristiano says. “I did it to impress the other kids, but then I always felt bad and left money in the man’s mailbox.”
“I remember when I was really little and my mom wouldn’t buy me a pastel, so I just took one. She yelled at me for a year.” Kaká laughs, “Those things are kind of hard to hide, though, so I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Kids will be kids, I guess,” Cristiano says. “So what’s good here? Come on, I want something.”
“Get caldo de cana-sugarcane juice,” Kaká says. “And some pão de queijo. Those are staples.”
“Alright,” Cristiano says, and he heads up to one of the counters. Kaká watches him order, watches him talk and laugh with the salesman, and thinks, How long has he been pretending? Kaká knows he’s not happy, not really, but he's only just figured it out recently.
When Cristiano comes back, it’s with a large juice and two pieces of cheese breads. He passes one to Kaká and Kaká takes it, grateful, and the bread is warm in his hand.
“They’re the best when they’re hot like this,” Kaká says. “Fresh out of the oven.”
“Shit,” Cristiano says with a mouthful of bread. “These are good.” Then he takes a sip of the drink and says, “Oh God. That’s terrible.”
“Sweet, huh?” Kaká asks.
“Like a spoonful of sugar,” Cristiano agrees, but then he takes another sip, anyways. “I’ll come to love it, just give me a second.”
They walk down the street, eating and talking, and if it was a little bit warmer, it would be perfect. There aren’t many people out, but there are enough so that it doesn’t feel empty, and no one bothers them.
“Maybe you should buy some art,” Cristiano says. “For your apartment.”
Kaká shrugs because it’s a good idea, but, “I don’t really spend too much time there.”
Kaká notices that Cristiano’s not looking at him, he’s looking over his shoulder when he says, “You know what? You need art. Let me buy you some.” And then he walks off, past Kaká and to one of the caricature art stands. Kaká takes one look at the stand and then-
“No, no, no,” he says. “Cris, no.”
“Yes,” Cristiano says, and then he turns to the salesman. “How much for the Kaká caricature? That’s great.”
The salesman is old and has glasses as thick as Kaká’s thumb. He says, “Special sale today. Buy one, get one half off.”
Cristiano pays him four times the regular price-“Keep the change. Thanks, again”-and walks away with a caricature of each of them. He almost buys one of Messi because he wants to draw a mustache on it, but Kaká tells him that is immature and so he passes.
He hangs them up in the living room, right where they would be the center of attention, the second they get home. Kaká refuses to admit it, but he likes it; it’s funny.
part 2
Rating: R
Pairing: Kaká / Cristiano Ronaldo
Word Count: 14,620
Summary: Cristiano misses the last shot of the last game-a free kick from just outside the box in a match against Almeria-and causes Real Madrid to lose the league title; Barcelona wins out on goal difference alone.
A/N: I am well aware that the fact that the league would be decided on goals is incredibly unlikely, but for the sake of fiction, and as it's such a small part, please let it slide. Also, lokeloke has made some really, really awesome artwork for the story that you definitely should check out and flail over!!!
Cristiano misses the last shot of the last game-a free kick from just outside the box in a match against Almeria-and causes Real Madrid to lose the league title; Barcelona wins out on goal difference alone.
Kaká knows this isn’t, strictly speaking, true. Kaká knows it goes something like this: Real Madrid the team- the collective- spends the second half of the season trying to pass Barcelona in the league table, and Real Madrid the team-the collective-fails to score enough to do so.
Kaká watches as Cristiano walks off of the pitch silently with his head high. Although he looks calm, Kaká can see the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he clenches his teeth and tightens his fists at his sides, and it’s the only time he can remember wishing that Cristiano thought in terms of We instead of I.
They win the match 3-0, but it still tastes more like a defeat than anything else this season. Kaká stays on the pitch for a little longer, shakes hands with some of the guys and claps to the crowd, Thank you for coming out, and, Sorry we couldn’t do it for you. And, like always, he takes a minute to thank God, because maybe God didn’t give Kaká the league title, but He gave Kaká everything else and Kaká is infinitely grateful.
In the tunnel, Gonzalo says, “I thought we had it this year.” He’s the only one who says anything and his voice echoes off the walls along with the clack of football boot studs.
Cristiano’s already out of the shower by the time he gets to the locker room. Everyone else tip-toes around him, gives him his space, but Kaká is the exception. He sits on the bench next to Cristiano as he pulls on his socks, waiting for him to say something first because Kaká understands that that’s what he needs right now. Kaká is still covered in sweat, but Cristiano smells good, clean, and they breathe side by side for a while.
Finally, Cristiano says, “Next year’s always our year,” and Kaká doesn’t know what to say because he was expecting a tantrum. He knows how to deal with Cristiano’s tantrums, has dealt with them enough to know all their ins and outs. But this time, Cristiano’s not throwing a tantrum; he’s looking for something else and Kaká doesn’t know what it is or how to give it to him. Kaká can rationalize the loss to himself, can still see all the good things he has despite the bad, but Cristiano can’t, or maybe he won’t.
“Do you want to get dinner sometime?” Kaká asks. It’s completely inappropriate at a time like this, but all he can think of is that it’s summer and if he doesn’t ask, he probably won’t see Cristiano until practice starts up again, ages from now.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “I would.” As he gets up and shoulders his bag, he grips Kaká’s arm for a second, before walking out to his car and to wherever it is that he’s going, leaving Kaká in the locker room, gripping at the front of the bench so hard that his knuckles are white.
At home, Kaká’s house is big and empty and he thinks about how nice it would be to have someone there with him. He thinks of Cristiano as he eats dinner in front of the TV, match highlights showing him everywhere they went wrong, and then he reads in bed for a while. He tries so hard not to, but he still can’t stop himself from thinking about the curve of Cristiano’s spine as he sat in the locker room, the length of his eyelashes and the way skin of Cristiano’s palm felt against his arm.
In the morning, Real Madrid’s loss is all over the newspapers. Ronaldo Loses La Liga, they say. Barcelona Scores Again (Cristiano Doesn’t). Kaká looks at them in the morning when he’s eating breakfast, sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, and thinks, Cristiano is used to this kind of taunting. Thinks, Cristiano can handle pressure. Thinks, Thank God it’s not me.
Kaká is deeply and irrevocably ashamed.
He waits a few days before calling Cristiano, figuring he’s got to be busy with other things now that the football season is over. And Kaká can’t blame him-he’s been busy too, busy planning his trip home to see his parents and busy giving a few final interviews and busy just doing nothing, eating whatever he wants, not going to practice.
When he finally does call Cristiano, Cristiano says, “Kaká! You’re alive!” and then laughs to himself for a good minute over it. Cristiano acts like it’s a lot funnier than it is, and Kaká laughs along although it strikes him as odd; Cristiano has always laughed easily, but he has never forced it. At any rate, they agree to meet up at a restaurant halfway between their houses- some place that Cristiano was told has great paella, as if they don’t eat enough of that- and Kaká shows up ten minutes early, because to be early is to be on time. Cristiano is five minutes late.
“Sorry,” he says when he runs in. “Sorry!” His cheeks are red and the buttons on his shirt are mismatched.
“Did I, uh,” Kaká says, motioning to the buttons of his own shirt, and he stutters through it because he’s not used to talking about the private lives of anyone, himself included. “Did I interrupt you from something?”
“What?” Cristiano says. “Oh! No, I was just at home. I didn’t even realize.”
“Four days without me and you’re falling apart at the seams,” Kaká jokes, and Cristiano just waves his hand.
“Everyone has their off days,” he says, and then, “It’s hard to be me.”
“I’m sure,” Kaká says. He means it but Cristiano laughs and kicks him beneath the table.
“Split some croquetas with me as an appetizer?” he asks.
“Only if they’re the jamón ones,” Kaká says, and Cristiano says okay. He’s playing with his water glass a lot, Kaká notices, just moving it in small, concentric circles on the table cloth.
“What are you doing for the break?” Cristiano asks. “Getting away from Madrid?”
“I think so, yeah,” Kaká says. “I’m going home, going to see my family.” He can feel how wide his smile is. He loves Madrid, loved Milan, but nothing is quite like home.
“What’s with that smile?” Cristiano asks. “You that excited for the topless beaches?”
“No,” Kaká says, not bothering to point out the fact that it will be winter in Brazil, anyways. He doesn’t rise to Cristiano’s bait; he’s more than well-practiced at deftly sidestepping Cristiano’s inappropriate comments, of which there are many. “I’m just excited to be home. The air’s different there; the people, too. I just want to see my parents and wander the streets, maybe go to some of the winter festivals.”
“What kind of festivals?” Cristiano asks. “I like festivals.”
“Me too,” Kaká says. “In the winter they have March for Jesus and an International Literary Festival. I don’t know, they’re not all that special but I like the atmosphere. Being home. It’s nice.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Cristiano says.
“So, what are you doing for the break?” Kaká asks.
“Nothing,” he says. “I don’t have any plans.”
And that’s so unlike Cristiano. Every time Kaká had asked before, Cristiano always had a million people pulling him in a million different directions, and Kaká had wanted to say, “Spend time with me. Be with me,” but he didn’t because he knew what kind of pressure Cristiano was under and he didn’t want to add to it.
But if he has to be honest, there were tons of places that he wanted to take Cris, that he wanted to show Cris the beauty of. He wanted-and still does, he still wants-to take Cris to the Japanese restaurant near his house where they always give him free appetizers and so he always leaves too much tip in return, and he wants to take him to the used bookstore that he always goes to but never buys anything from, and he wants to take Cris to the old dirt pitch that’s just a mile away from the Bernabéu where he always sees little kids playing and laughing before they realize that they’re good enough to start taking it seriously. And he wants to take Cris to Italy to see the Colosseum so that he knows that some things never die and to England to see Stone Henge so that he knows that some things are just bigger than he is, and to France to see the Eiffel Tower because that’s what people do with the person they love when they are in love with them.
Instead, he says, “Do you want to come to Brazil with me?”
Cristiano says, “Yes.”
“Did you pack a jacket?” Kaká asks. They’re on the plane already, waiting to take off, so it wouldn’t really make much of a difference if Cristiano had or hadn’t. Kaká has plenty of extras at his house that Cristiano would never wear, but it makes Kaká less nervous knowing that if push came to shove, at least Cristiano wouldn’t freeze.
Cristiano doesn’t answer him. Kaká looks over and can see around the aviator sunglasses on his face that Cristiano’s shut his eyes, but Kaká knows that he’s not asleep because he keeps tapping his fingers on the armrests.
“Did you pack a jacket?” Kaká asks again. Cristiano smiles but doesn’t look at him.
“Yes, Mom,” he says. “And jeans and a hat and extra underwear.”
“Good,” Kaká says. Then, “Oh hey, we’re moving.”
And they are-slowly and towards the runway, but they’re moving. Cristiano sits up and looks out the window for a second, towards where the sun is setting.
“Finally,” he says. “Took them long enough; I’m only a hundred now.” He leans forward to grab a book from his carry-on, which is beneath the chair in front of him.
“What are you reading?” Kaká can’t see the cover, but from the angle he’s at, he can see that it’s thick and filled with pictures.
Cristiano holds up the book; it’s The Lonely Planet’s Brazil.
“You don’t need that,” Kaká says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “I’ll show you all the good things, I promise.”
“You never know,” Cristiano says. “You’re sneakier than you look.” He’s opened the book to the São Paulo section, and Kaká looks over his shoulder.
“I hope you’re not set on Instituto Butantã,” Kaká says. It’s a research facility that focuses on venomous animals, and knowing Cristiano, he’d want to see the snake exhibit. “There was a fire there earlier in the year that destroyed a lot of the building.”
“I know,” Cristiano says, this time rolling his eyes. He uses the tip of his finger to show Kaká a sentence three paragraphs down that says the same thing.
“Ah,” Kaká says. “Keep this up and you’ll be a Paulistano in no time.”
Cristiano smiles and says, “They’ll think you’re the tourist and I’ll say, ‘Excuse my friend; he’s not from around here.’” Kaká laughs and a very small part of him wishes that was even possible. Everyone in São Paulo knows him; everyone knows where he’s from and where his house is and where his parents’ house is. Kaká shakes his head as if to stop that line of thought. He’s lucky, blessed, and he knows it, and he thanks God for it every day.
“Hey,” Kaká says, nudging him. “Well, what do you want to see?”
“When we’re in Sampa,” Cristiano says, stressing the local name for the city, as if to prove something, “I want to go to Intervales Park.”
Kaká laughs out loud because the only thing to do in Intervales is watch birds.
“I’m not kidding,” Cristiano says. There’s a smile on his lips but it’s small and doesn’t lead Kaká to think that he’s lying.
“Okay,” Kaká says. “Alright, then,” and Cristiano flashes a smile at him, big and wide, before he goes back to reading. Kaká leans back and shuts his eyes, feeling the rumble of the plane beneath him as they leave the runway. He’s asleep before the fasten seat belt sign is off.
Kaká’s not entirely sure if it really happened or not; maybe he dreamt it. Everything’s hazy and the flight’s long, nine or ten hours, and the lights in the cabin are off. Cristiano’s looking at him.
“Why did you buy that book?” Kaká asks. It’s still open on Cristiano’s lap, the little light up above him hitting the pages and his cheekbones.
“In case,” he says, and Kaká waits for him to finish his sentence.
“In case what?” he asks when Cristiano doesn’t.
“Just in case,” Cristiano says, and Kaká falls back asleep.
The plane touching down in Brazil jerks Kaká awake. Cristiano smiles at him, all teeth and crinkled eyes.
“You slept like a baby the whole way,” he teases, pinching Kaká’s cheek. “Little Kaká.”
Kaká swats his hand away.
“Stop that,” he says, but there’s no venom behind it.
They stand up to stretch their legs and file off the plane soon enough, heading to grab their suitcases from the baggage carousel with little to no problem. Kaká packed one bag, relatively small; Cristiano packed three, one of which he checked under Kaká’s name so he didn’t have to pay for extra baggage. His are all large and by Louis Vuitton.
“I think this suitcase alone costs more than mine and everything in it put together,” Kaká says, hauling one of them off the conveyor belt.
“You liar,” Cristiano says, and he tugs at the button-up shirt that Kaká’s wearing. “You’ve got some Armani, don’t even try to hide it.”
Kaká wants to point out that they gave him those for free and that he donates a lot of money to charity rather than buying wardrobes that cost equal to most people’s paychecks, but he doesn’t because he knows Cristiano will look at him like he’s hopeless, like he’s a lost cause, and they should be heading back to his apartment by now.
Because he slept so much on the plane, Kaká almost forgets that it’s nighttime, well past midnight. They hail a cab no problem, although Cristiano’s surprised he didn’t call a car service, and Cristiano looks out the window the entire drive.
Kaká’s strangely nervous, wanting Cristiano to like the city where he grew up.
“Lot of traffic,” Cristiano says. They’re sitting in the back of the first cab they saw, their knees splayed wide and touching even though their bodies aren’t.
“There always is,” Kaká tells him. “There are a lot of things to do here; someone is always up.”
“I like that,” Cristiano says. The skin of his cheek is mushed out of shape from where it rests on his closed fist, his elbow propped up on the armrest. Kaká thinks it makes him look less plastic, more human, and the more Kaká looks at him, the more he looks suddenly and completely exhausted.
“Hey,” Kaká says. “You alright?”
Cristiano turns to him, surprised, and says, “Yeah, of course. Why?” He flashes a smile that Kaká knows he uses in interviews.
“No reason,” Kaká says. There’s silence for a minute and then he adds, “I’m really glad you came here with me.”
“Me too,” Cristiano says. “Madrid was starting to get-”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. Kaká looks at him to try to figure it out, to figure out what Madrid was starting to get, but Cristiano’s gone back to looking out the window, and Kaká knows not to push it.
When they get to Kaká’s apartment, Cristiano pays for the cab even though Kaká fights him on it.
“It’s only fair,” Cristiano says. “You’re letting me stay over.”
“But you’re the guest,” Kaká says, and Cristiano ignores him. They sign a few autographs for the driver and then head into the building, where the doorman nods and greets him-“Welcome home, Mr. Kaká,” even though Kaká has stressed that the Mr. is unnecessary-and offers to help with their suitcases.
“Got to get my workout in somehow,” Cristiano jokes when Kaká politely declines and, after struggling up the elevator and through Kaká’s door, he says, “You know, I expected something swankier.”
Kaká rolls his eyes. He knows how most people would take that-This is too low-key for me; I need something fancier-but he also knows how Cristiano means it-I forget that you’re not me; this is nice.
“Expecting the Madrid Tower?” Kaká deadpans.
“No,” Cristiano says. He’s already made himself at home and is wandering the living room, looking at Kaká’s DVD collection and at the few photos he has on the wall. “This is better than that, anyways,” he says. “Although you don’t call me Mr. Ronaldo, so that leaves some room for improvement.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kaká says, watching Cristiano wander into the kitchen. “Want me to show you your room?”
Cristiano ignores the question and yells out, “Your mom says she left feijoada for us in the fridge. That’s the best; I’m starving.”
Kaká heads into the kitchen and sees Cristiano holding a note on yellow paper with his mother’s loopy handwriting on it.
“What does that even say?” Cristiano asks, pointing at the bottom line. He doesn’t seem to care that the note’s not for him, and Kaká doesn’t either. What does it matter? It’s just Cristiano.
“That she wants to see us for dinner tomorrow,” Kaká says, craning his neck.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“I guess,” Kaká says. He’s taking out the stew and rice to heat up, and only just realizes how starving he is.
“So what should I bring them?” Cristiano asks. He’s leaning back against the countertop and watching Kaká move around the kitchen.
“What do you mean?” Kaká asks, pulling a big spoon out of the drawer.
“Your parents,” Cristiano says. “Wine, maybe. Do they like wine?”
“You don’t need to-” Kaká starts, and then stops himself. “Cris, they just want to meet you. It’s not a big deal.”
“Right,” Cristiano says, as if Kaká had said something completely different. “Who doesn’t like wine? So we’ll get a red. And maybe some flowers for your mother.”
Kaká doesn’t fight it, recognizes that it’s futile, and just says, “She did make us feijoada.”
“Exactly,” Cristiano says again, this time looking around. And then, after a pause, “So this is Brazil.”
“No,” Kaká says, and he points the spoon at Cristiano for effect. “This is the inside of my apartment. Brazil is tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Cristiano says. “And feijoada is tonight.” He reaches two fingers into the pot to grab a piece of meat out from the top. “Ah, fuck,” he says with his mouth full. “Hot.”
Kaká laughs and stirs the stew, watching Cristiano breathe through an open mouth as if to cool down the food on his tongue. Ladies and Gentlemen, Cristiano Ronaldo, he thinks, and that only makes him laugh harder. He likes this side of Cristiano- the private side; the silly side; the regular person side.
They eat quickly and don’t say much, but Kaká figures that’s alright because it’s been a long day. Cristiano sings Sade’s Babyfather as they wash the few dishes that they used, and when Kaká admits that he doesn’t know the song, Cristiano switches to Kaká’s chant, from back when he was at Milan.
“Siam venuti fin qua, siam venuti fin qua, per vedere segnare Kaká!” he sings, again and again, three or four times in a row until Kaká elbows him.
“Alright already,” he says. “I didn’t know you knew Italian.”
“I don’t,” Cristiano says. “That’s why it was shit. But I did Google you.”
“What else are friends for?” Kaká asks, and he’s joking around, but he doesn’t really find it that ridiculous that Cristiano Googled him. Kaká knows that he’s searched Cristiano’s name long before they even played in the same league, and long after they became friends. He’s flattered that Cristiano’s done the same, even though he knows he shouldn’t be.
“For taking you to Brazil, I guess,” Cristiano says.
Kaká says, “Hey, anytime.”
The next morning, Cristiano’s already up and showered by the time Kaká even thinks about waking up.
“You slacker,” he says when Kaká shuffles in. “Never would have pegged you as the type.”
“As what type?” Kaká asks. “The type who sleeps in?”
“The type who doesn’t own a comb,” Cristiano says, and then he laughs as Kaká makes a half-hearted effort to smooth his hair down.
“I just woke up,” Kaká says, as if reason meant anything to Cristiano.
“Excuses never get anyone anywhere, Kaká,” he says and he’s got this teasing smile and Kaká loves it, just loves it, thinks that there says so much about Cristiano, only even he’s not sure what exactly it says. “But I’m going to go on a run, I think, so you’ll have plenty of time to fight with your hair.”
“I don’t fight with it,” Kaká says. “If you go out and to the left, you’ll, um.” He waves a hand and hopes that it reminds him of the words that he’s trying to say.
“I got it,” Cristiano says, and Kaká’s sure that he does. He’s shown Cristiano around his neighborhood, around the streets and alleys near his house, and so Cristiano knows. And if he doesn’t, if he gets lost, Kaká will just send out a big search party to find him and remind him of which way is which.
When Cristiano leaves, Kaká runs through a shower and attempts to make himself look presentable. He throws on jeans and a plain white button-up and brushes his teeth. Forty minutes later and Cristiano’s not back, so Kaká cleans up a little bit, even though there’s not much to clean. He lines up the multiple remotes on the coffee table and places Cristiano’s empty juice glass in the sink, and then he takes a few minutes to pray because he doesn’t expect to have much time to go to church.
Kaká lets his mind wander a little. He thinks of football and of how grateful he is to be fit again, to be playing again. He thinks of wind in his hair as he runs and the sound of a ball hitting the back of the net and the feel of his teammates’ hands on the back of his head, his neck. He thinks of Cristiano and the way he laughs and how he had congratulated Kaká on his return to the pitch and how when Kaká wasn’t playing, Cristiano was the one to tell him that it would happen, that he was missed, that he was needed. Kaká thinks of all the people who aren’t as fortunate as he is, and he prays for them, asks God to bestow some of His kindness upon them.
Cristiano’s still out after all of that, and so Kaká decides to rush out to the corner store for some bread and milk, and a few other things that he doesn’t have and that his mother hadn’t filled his fridge with when she stopped by.
The weather’s nice out-cold but not overly so-and Kaká walks down the block, enjoying the feel of the Brazilian air on his skin. There’s a community football pitch off to his right, and there are tons of kids out playing, running, laughing like usual, and Kaká keeps on past it until he hears it.
“Cristiano!”
It’s a child’s voice, high and bright, and Kaká knows it’s stupid to think anything of it, but Cristiano hadn’t returned from his run and Kaká has to know. He doubles back towards the pitch and walks down the small beaten path from the road to the stands. And there he is.
“Cristiano!” a small boy calls again. He’s in the box and has his arm in the air, signaling that he’s open, and across the pitch is Cristiano. Kaká’s Cristiano. He crosses the ball to the young boy, who takes it and scores, and then Cristiano runs to him with his arms open and his smile wide and the boy watches Cristiano with disbelief, like he’s not sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing, and when Cristiano slides on his knees, the boy does the same, and then the whole team is running over, piling on one another and cheering and it makes Kaká’s chest feel warm.
“Aw, come on,” another boy shouts. “You have Cristiano Ronaldo on your team.”
Kaká heads onto the pitch as the other boys join in and start complaining too, but Cristiano’s smiling and waving his hand as if to say, Doesn’t matter, as if to say, You’re just as good, even though they can’t possibly be.
“You don’t want Cristiano Ronaldo on your team,” Kaká says, teasing, and everyone turns to look at him, saying, It’s Kaká! and He’s on our team! “You’ll definitely lose then.” And he means it as a joke; it’s something he didn’t even think about before saying because it’s Cristiano Ronaldo and having him on your team is the fastest way to victory, but then he looks over at Cristiano and Cristiano-
Cristiano is upset. It’s not noticeable, not at all, but Kaká knows Cristiano, knows what to look for, sees all the signs and knows he said the wrong thing.
But then Cristiano snaps back to himself, or back to who he thinks Kaká wants him to be, and says, “Oh yeah, Kaká? Then bring your best and we’ll see who’s on top.” He puts his arms around the two kids next to him.
“Okay,” Kaká says, and then Cristiano flicks the football up from the floor and into Kaká’s face. “Hey,” Kaká says, pointing a finger at Cristiano. “I’ve got my eye on you.”
Cristiano just laughs.
They play five-a-side, running up and down the pitch with the boys, stopping every few minutes to show them something, something cool, something hey, look at this! The kids are good, good enough to take it seriously, and the way they laugh as they score and as they do something ridiculous makes Kaká happy, so happy. He’s tired too, which is a feeling that he loves, although he could keep doing this forever, playing just for the sake of playing.
“No, no,” Cristiano says. “Left leg, right leg. Left leg, right leg.” He’s showing someone how to do his signature footwork.
“Like this?” the boy asks.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and then he steals the ball, takes off with it, yelling behind him, “Too slow, though!”
And after a good hour of playing, when they’re all sweaty and happy, when the young boys have to go home or to wherever they’re needed, Kaká looks at Cristiano and smiles.
“How was your run?” he asks, and Cristiano laughs.
“Got caught up,” he explains. He looks around him, hands on his hips, and breathes. The boys are still in view, still in ear shot, and they’re laughing and constantly looking back as they walk away. “So this is Brazil?” he asks.
“This is Brazil.”
Cristiano insists on bringing a bottle of red and a bottle of white. Kaká tries to tell him it’s not a big deal, that his parents won’t care either way, but Cristiano insists.
“Gotta make a good impression,” he says, flashing a smile. He repeats it again as they’re on the doorstep, and although it sounds like he’s nervous, Kaká knows he’s not, not really. He imagines that Cristiano feels the same way he does, relaxed and happy after playing stress-free football all afternoon.
“Calm down,” Kaká says, and he gives Cristiano a nudge.
“I am calm,” Cristiano says, nudging Kaká right back. “Watch it for the wine.”
“I am watching it,” Kaká says. The door opens the next second and his mother is there, all smiles and gorgeous hair and tan skin.
“Ricardo,” she says, and it comes out almost too quiet to hear. She stretches her arms out and pulls Kaká in, squeezing him so tight that he feels like he might burst, one hand rubbing up and down his back. When she pulls away, she looks right at Cristiano and says, “And you must be Kaká’s Cristiano.”
Cristiano opens his mouth to respond, but she doesn’t give him the time to before she’s hugging him too, and Kaká can see the way Cristiano relaxes into it.
“Come on in,” she says to him. “Tell me-how was the flight over?”
She puts her arm around his shoulders and steers him inside, leaving Kaká on the doorstep. He can hear Cristiano say, “It went fast enough, although Kaká slept the whole way,” and, “Thank you for the feijoada, by the way. It was delicious,” and he can see Cristiano shorten his steps to match Kaká’s mother’s smaller ones. It makes Kaká happy, to see the way Cristiano fits.
Kaká smiles, heads inside.
They stay for a light dinner and some coffee, and it’s really nice to see his parents again, Kaká thinks, really nice to see them and Cristiano at the same time. Cristiano refuses to call them by their first names, only ever calling them ma’am and sir, even though they insist otherwise. Kaká thinks this only makes them like him more.
When they leave, Cristiano smiles at Kaká’s mother and jokes, “I’ll be sure to take good care of him,” referring to Kaká.
His mother looks at Cristiano and puts one hand on his cheek, as if he were her child.
“Take care of yourself, too,” she says, and it’s perfect, exactly what she needs to be saying and exactly what Cristiano needs to be hearing, and Kaká loves her all the more for it.
“I will,” he says, and she kisses his cheek goodbye.
Kaká wakes up the next morning with a crick in his neck and sunlight in his eyes from the window beside his bed that prevent him from falling back asleep. So he stretches and gets up, thinking that Cristiano is probably already up and dressed, and it’s best to not keep him waiting.
He pads down the hall in an old t-shirt and flannel pants, stopping along the way to open the blinds of the windows he passes. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and still, but Kaká knows that it will still be chilly outside.
Cristiano’s in the kitchen by the time Kaká gets there, rooting around in the fridge in nothing but a pair of briefs.
“Do you need something?” Kaká asks, and Cristiano doesn’t even turn around.
“No,” he says. “Just looking for something to make for breakfast.”
“Oh, well hey,” Kaká says. “We’ll just go out. Brazilian breakfast, on me.”
And then Cristiano looks at him, and he’s so much skin, wide chest and well-defined muscles, and Kaká loves it, loves all of it, but all he notices is that Cristiano hasn’t shaved yet, that he’s got stubble on his chin, and that his hair is matted down on one side and that he has pillow creases from where he slept. It’s new to Kaká, who has never seen Cristiano early in the morning, who has never seen Cristiano frazzled and exhausted, who has never seen Cristiano looking anything less than perfectly put together.
Normally, Cristiano is perfect, but this is something else entirely.
“Yeah?” he asks, and he smiles. “What’s that?”
“Bolo de fubá and papaya,” Kaká says. “Maybe some queijo fresco. You’ll never want to leave.”
“I already don’t want to,” Cristiano says, and Kaká feels that one somewhere deep in his chest. It makes him feel oddly proud, that Cristiano likes his hometown. And then Cristiano says, “I’m anxious to get back to practice, though. Gotta start training early if I want to be the best this year.”
And that-that reminds Kaká of why Cristiano’s here in the first place, of how something’s got Cristiano acting differently. Before, Cristiano would never have said that he needed to work hard to become the best; he would know, would believe, that he already was. It all just makes Kaká feel worse about the slip-up he made the day before.
“Alright,” Kaká says, because he’s got to say something. “Well, at least we can hang out until you’re too big time for me.”
Cristiano laughs, one of his real ones, loud and unrestrained, and then he says, “Okay, but let me shave first.”
Kaká almost wants to tell him not to. Instead, he prays and asks God to watch over Cristiano; to give him the strength to overcome whatever it is that has caused him to stumble.
“It must have been nice,” Cristiano says, “growing up here.” They’re reading the newspaper together later on, sitting in the living room.
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “It was nice.” He turns the page of his paper.
“So, what? Did you and your brother share a room?” he asks and Kaká looks up, confused. “Your mom said there were only two bedrooms.”
“Who? Me and Digão?” he asks. “We never even lived in that house. My parents only moved there a few years ago.”
“Oh,” Cristiano says. “Where did you live? Still in the city, right?”
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “Not far. Just down by-actually, hey, I’ll show you.”
Cristiano whines, says he’s tired and that Kaká isn’t letting him get any rest, but Kaká forces him up and out the door. They hop a cab uptown, and Kaká spends the entire time pointing out places that he remembers from when he was young.
“I used to go there after school every Thursday,” Kaká says when they pass a run-down restaurant. “They have the best coxinha there; I’ll have to take you there sometime. It still looked like that back then, too.”
“What?” Cristiano asks. “Abandoned?”
“Yeah,” Kaká says. “It’s nicer on the inside, though. Oh, wait, see that? That corner next to Lojas Renner?”
“Yeah?”
“Digão got in a huge fight there when I was fifteen,” Kaká says, and then he starts laughing. “He was this little twelve-year-old, punching someone in the face. Gave my mom a heart attack.”
Cristiano laughs too, and pinches Kaká’s cheek while he says, “We can’t all be perfect like you.” Kaká backs away, pulls a face.
“Stop it,” he says. “Besides, we’re here.”
They get out of the car and are standing outside of a tall apartment building. The plants outside are dead, cold from the winter, and across the street is a small grocery store, a book store.
“This is it,” Kaká says, looking up. He points out a window. “That was my room, right there.”
“Are we going to go up?” Cristiano asks.
“No,” Kaká tells him. “An apartment is an apartment. That’s not the important part.”
“What is the important part?”
“All of it. Life. Come on, I’ll show you,” Kaká says. He leads Cristiano around back, to where there’s a small garden with a stone bench.
“This is nice,” Cristiano says.
“It is in the summer,” Kaká agrees. “When the flowers are out. This is where I got my first kiss. I was nineteen; her name was Caroline.”
“You were nineteen?” Cristiano asks, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.
“Shut up,” Kaká says. He hits his shoulder against Cristiano’s. “We can’t all be you.”
Cristiano holds his hands up, palms out, and says, “Hey, hey, I’m not judging.”
“You’re judging,” Kaká says.
“Alright, maybe a little bit,” Cristiano agrees. “But I’m sure she was great.”
“She was,” Kaká says. “Very pretty. Now come on.”
He heads back to the street and Cristiano follows, close enough that if Kaká stops, Cristiano will run into him.
“Where to now?” Cristiano asks.
“The football shop down the street,” Kaká says. “I used to practically live there, once I started playing. There was always something else I wanted-new boots, new shorts, new shin guards. I didn’t need them because I always had some, but that didn’t stop me from looking.”
“And after that?” Cristiano asks.
“I don’t know. We’ll see.”
Kaká takes him to the football shop and Cristiano laughs at how Kaká’s life-size cut-out is standing by the register, and then Kaká takes him to his old school, to the park near his house where he broke his arm, to the store where he would buy 7Belo candy whenever he had money.
Cristiano says, “I thought you were going to take me to the São Paulo youth team training grounds.”
“Did you want me to?” Kaká asks.
“Not really,” Cristiano says. “I’d rather see where you went when you had nothing to do.”
So Kaká takes him to the library.
They play football again the next day at the old pitch down the street because they don’t know what else to do. Kaká feels like a terrible host, but Cristiano insists that he didn’t come to Brazil for the complete tour package; he came to spend time with Kaká, and he’s doing that.
“We could go shopping,” Kaká says, and he offers it with a heavy heart. He knows that Cristiano will jump on the chance to buy clothing, but it’s not really up Kaká’s alley. “There’s a big mall not too far away.”
“No thanks,” Cristiano says. He’s sitting down, shuffling a football between his feet. “You think we could just go play football again?”
And that’s something that Kaká did not see coming. A part of him feels bad because Cristiano doesn’t want to go shopping, but a larger part of him is relieved. He hates trying on clothing.
“Okay,” Kaká says. “We can do that.”
So they suit up, throw on trainers and sweatshirts and head out the door. Cristiano reminds him not to forget his gloves and then they walk down the street. It’s a weekend afternoon and so there are kids already there, but most of them were there last time, too, and he and Cristiano are welcomed into the match with no fuss.
That’s the best thing about kids, Kaká thinks. They’re awed when they meet him, but then they get over it and just want to play football. Adults, he has found, are not nearly as simple.
“Kaká, you’re in goal,” one of the boys tells him, and Kaká thinks, Goal? Surprise must be written all over his face because then the boy continues, “You’re the biggest. It makes sense.”
Kaká says, “Okay,” and heads to the penalty box with a smile. Children think in the strangest and most logical of ways.
They play for the next few hours. Cristiano makes finger guns every time he scores, and Kaká’s unwilling to admit that maybe he kicked the ball at the back of Cristiano’s head on purpose once or twice, but on the whole, the match is fun. Kaká never thought he’d like goalkeeping. Before, when he had tried it, everything had been so serious; here, with Cristiano, it’s light and happy and carefree, and Kaká’s heart feels too big for his chest.
They play a game of Five Alive when things get repetitive, and Cristiano has to explain the rules to him because he’s never played before. As it turns out, it’s just a game of penalties. He’s stuck in goal until he blocks one, in which case that person becomes keeper. If someone gets scored on, they lose a point. Last person with points left wins.
Kaká says, “I’m going to be terrible at this,” and all the boys laugh.
In the end, he’s not terrible; he comes in third. Cristiano is one of the first people out because he misses his kick and then gets stuck in goal. When he’s out, sitting on the side, he makes up anti-Kaká chants that the kids find hilarious, and Kaká does, too.
When it’s over and they walk back to Kaká’s apartment, Kaká says, “Those kids are funny.”
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “It was a good time. I wish La Liga matches were like that.”
“Like what?” Kaká asks. “Easy?”
“Fun,” Cristiano says, and Kaká’s heart wants to break. He’s thinking about the Almeria match, and he knows Cristiano is, too.
They watch a movie that night, The Sixth Sense, something that Kaká has never seen but that Cristiano says is one of his favorites. And Kaká doesn’t mean to, of course not, but ghosts and supernatural themes aren’t his favorite, and he falls asleep a little over halfway through the movie.
When he wakes up, the DVD is back to the title menu, the same thirty seconds of music and dialogue playing over and over again. He turns his head to see if Cristiano is asleep, but he’s not, he’s awake too and he’s just looking at Kaká like they were in the middle of a conversation. Kaká doesn’t know what it is-maybe the set of his mouth, or the way his eyebrows are furrowed, or maybe not-but Cris looks exactly the how Kaká felt as he laid on the bed, waterlogged, as the doctors told him that they weren’t sure, that he might not walk again.
And a part of Kaká thinks it’s a bad idea, that he shouldn’t say anything-he knows how proud and how private Cristiano is, knows how hard Cristiano has tried to hide that anything was wrong with him in the first place-but an even larger part of him thinks that if there’s any way he could help Cris the way that God had helped him, he would be selfish and stupid not to try.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, the darkness making him feel like he should whisper. Cristiano doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looks at Kaká and looks at Kaká and looks at Kaká. And then-
“I think I just lost something when I lost the league,” Cristiano whispers, only he’s not looking at Kaká anymore. Kaká doesn’t have to ask, knows what Cristiano's talking about.
“But we lost the league,” Kaká says. “We lost.”
Cristiano shakes his head and says, “I’ve been told all my life to see it one way and now everyone’s telling me to see it another.”
Kaká says, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “At least you stuck around.” And that hits Kaká hard, because he had asked Cristiano what he was doing for the break and Cristiano had said Nothing; Nothing because apparently everyone was suddenly too busy for him. Kaká wants to say, You’re better without them, and, You’re better than them, and, You’re better than anyone I’ve ever met. He wants to say it in a way that tells Cristiano that he means at football and at working hard and at setting an example, and wants to say it in a way that tells Cristiano that he means at being a friend and at making people laugh and at helping people up when they’re down. He wants to say it in a way that tells Cristiano that he means it in every way possible.
Kaká says, “I’m sorry.”
Cristiano says, “I’m going to bed.”
They wake up early the next morning and Cristiano doesn’t mention talking after the movie, and so Kaká doesn’t bring it up, either. Instead, Kaká asks, “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Actually,” Cristiano says, “I think I’m going to go on a run.”
“Okay,” Kaká says. “Just let me throw on some shoes.”
Cristiano doesn’t say that he’d rather be alone, and Kaká takes that as a victory.
Later that day, they throw on their coats and go to a street festival. It’s not one of the big ones that are held over the summer, but it’s nice and there are a lot of food booths and artists out.
Cristiano’s happy again, back to how he was before the movie. It unsettles Kaká because he knows that Cristiano’s not alright, that he’s not okay, that he’s pretending he is because that’s all he knows how to do, because he thinks that's what Kaká wants.
“I used to go to festivals like this in Funchal,” Cristiano says, “before I got anywhere with football. I used to steal pastéis de nata from a man who ran one of the stalls.”
“Cristiano Ronaldo, man against the law,” Kaká says. “I always knew you were a hooligan.”
“Not really,” Cristiano says. “I did it to impress the other kids, but then I always felt bad and left money in the man’s mailbox.”
“I remember when I was really little and my mom wouldn’t buy me a pastel, so I just took one. She yelled at me for a year.” Kaká laughs, “Those things are kind of hard to hide, though, so I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Kids will be kids, I guess,” Cristiano says. “So what’s good here? Come on, I want something.”
“Get caldo de cana-sugarcane juice,” Kaká says. “And some pão de queijo. Those are staples.”
“Alright,” Cristiano says, and he heads up to one of the counters. Kaká watches him order, watches him talk and laugh with the salesman, and thinks, How long has he been pretending? Kaká knows he’s not happy, not really, but he's only just figured it out recently.
When Cristiano comes back, it’s with a large juice and two pieces of cheese breads. He passes one to Kaká and Kaká takes it, grateful, and the bread is warm in his hand.
“They’re the best when they’re hot like this,” Kaká says. “Fresh out of the oven.”
“Shit,” Cristiano says with a mouthful of bread. “These are good.” Then he takes a sip of the drink and says, “Oh God. That’s terrible.”
“Sweet, huh?” Kaká asks.
“Like a spoonful of sugar,” Cristiano agrees, but then he takes another sip, anyways. “I’ll come to love it, just give me a second.”
They walk down the street, eating and talking, and if it was a little bit warmer, it would be perfect. There aren’t many people out, but there are enough so that it doesn’t feel empty, and no one bothers them.
“Maybe you should buy some art,” Cristiano says. “For your apartment.”
Kaká shrugs because it’s a good idea, but, “I don’t really spend too much time there.”
Kaká notices that Cristiano’s not looking at him, he’s looking over his shoulder when he says, “You know what? You need art. Let me buy you some.” And then he walks off, past Kaká and to one of the caricature art stands. Kaká takes one look at the stand and then-
“No, no, no,” he says. “Cris, no.”
“Yes,” Cristiano says, and then he turns to the salesman. “How much for the Kaká caricature? That’s great.”
The salesman is old and has glasses as thick as Kaká’s thumb. He says, “Special sale today. Buy one, get one half off.”
Cristiano pays him four times the regular price-“Keep the change. Thanks, again”-and walks away with a caricature of each of them. He almost buys one of Messi because he wants to draw a mustache on it, but Kaká tells him that is immature and so he passes.
He hangs them up in the living room, right where they would be the center of attention, the second they get home. Kaká refuses to admit it, but he likes it; it’s funny.
part 2