(no subject)
Bad Weather
Pairing Cristiano Ronaldo/ Ricardo Kaka
Wordcount 1362
Disclaimer All publicly recognizable persons, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners and are fictional. Any resemblance is purely coincidental
Summary Next year is going to be our year!
The moon shone in a bright yellow light. The stars lightened up against the dark night shades. The rain poured down but the streets of Madrid were as always; they were never empty. The rain made it’s way from the clouds above the Spanish capital.
The white, silk, curtains were softly blown to the inside for once in a while, whenever the wind decided to whisper for a bit. The door to the balcony was opened and someone stood outside. In the pouring rain, whispering back words to the wind.
The drops of rain danced together while they found their way to the ground. Their destination. They fell down with elegance. At least they were never alone. They never came alone. He had never felt a single drop of rain, they were always followed by more. Until it was pouring. Until it soaked everyone. They came together and they left together. With elegance.
He exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment. The wind ruffled through his soaked hair and the rain embraced his face. It slowly made it’s way around the curves of his face, until it dropped down from the edges of his cheeks. He inhaled.
Sounds came back to his ears when he opened his eyes again. The silence that had overwhelmed the Portuguese, had died on the Brazilian’s lips as soon as he, the Brazilian, began to speak.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the Brazillian said.
The Portuguese didn’t have to answer the question. They both knew the beauty of Madrid. Especially when it rained.
“Aren’t you going to tell me I should come inside? That I’ll get sick if I stay here, for another hour in the rain?”
“If you know it yourself, why do I have to tell you that then, Cristiano?”
Cristiano shrugged and stared to the buildings in front of him. He looked down onto the road in front of him. Everything went so fast. He wondered if people did realise, while passing the hotel, that the light of the second lantern at the right was more dimmed. Probably not. People didn’t stop and looked at the little things for a while. They were always in a hurry.
Cristiano doubted if Ricardo was still with him on the balcony. He wanted to turn and see if he was still there, but instead a hand cupped his cheek and lifted his head a bit.
“Let’s go inside, Cris. You’re freezing.”
“Just another minute.” The Portuguese answered and the Brazilian left. The Brazilian knew that he couldn’t change Cristiano’s mind. If the Portuguese was up to something, no one could change it. They just had to wait and see what would happen.
He imagined himself standing on the pitch again. He replayed the match in his head. Again and again, over and over, detail for detail. Every mistake, every failure, every mistaken pass or every misunderstood run. He regretted everything.
Cristiano shivered and pulled the zipper, of his soaked sweater, up. Water ran over his back and he bit his lip. The wind caressed his heart and tried to fill it with air. Tried to make it somewhat easier. Unfortunally it was empty, or empty, it felt unusually heavy. How could emptiness feel this heavy?
Suddenly, two arms slid around his waist. There were no words spoken, only actions. Their fingers intertwined and they danced for a while, while the rain kept falling down from the black clouds.
“You scared me, I thought you’d been drowned by now.” The Brazilian whispered.
“How come?” the Portuguese whispered back.
“You’ve been standing for another hour in that rain.”
“Oh.”
The Brazilian didn’t say anything, but in response he took Cristiano’s hand and he kissed it gently. The striker smiled and closed his eyes. He felt how the Brazilian took him inside the hotel room and the Brazilian closed the balcony doors. He gently put a hand on Cristiano’s back and shoved him into the bathroom, but the Portuguese didn’t move. He stared in the mirror, to his own reflection. He touched his cold face with a trembling hand.
“Do you see it?” he asked the Brazilian.
“I see a talented, young, handsome man, that needs to shower if he doesn’t want to catch a flu.”
“Ricardo” he paused for a minute. “All I see is a failure. I’ll never be good enough for the press. I will never surpass Lionel Messi. I will never.. never be as good as him. I will always have to watch from a distance.”
“I don’t see that..”
“Oh no? Why did you bring me to the mirror? The message couldn’t be any clearer. I have to start with the man in the mirror, no?”
The Brazilian jerked his head up. The slumped shoulders of the Portuguese spoke a thousand languages and a million words.
“Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro, listen to me, come on. Look at me.” The Portuguese threw a look via the mirror.
“You are the most amazing player I’ve ever met. Listen to me. Remember 2008? The Fifpro awards? You couldn’t vote for yourself and you had to choose another player. I chose you. Already, in 2008, Cristiano. They asked me last week whom I preferred, Lionel Messi or you. Do you know what I voted?” the Brazilian asked while he started to undress Cristiano. He took a towel from the neatly folded pillow. He rubbed over the Portuguese’s skin until the stopped shivering. Cristiano hadn’t said a word. Only stared in the mirror. Not throwing a look on himself, but he was watching the Brazilian. He was watching him with that sparkle in his eyes.
“They asked me who the best player in the world was. I answered with; ‘Lionel Messi is an extraordinary player, but to call yourself the best player in the world you have to contribute with the team. Lionel and Cristiano are the best, but Cristiano is more complete. He can score with his right leg, with his left leg, with his head and he can score from set-pieces. Cristiano is in my opinion the best player because he’s brilliant and he has the ability to think fast, act fast.’ That’s what I said.”
The Portuguese had closed his eyes and lend back against the warmth of the Brazilian. A slight smile, almost non-recognizable was drawn across his face.
“You told them I was the best player in the world because I am brilliant? It’s my beaty what makes me the best and most wanted player.”
“If that’s what you believe, then it must be true no?”
Ricardo left the bathroom and laid down on a bed. He shut his eyes , he let his mind wander for a couple of minutes and heard how the rain gently knocked on the windows, begging to be recognized. The wind whispered words at the rain and accompanied the raindrops.
The moonlight gave the room a mysterious glimmer and when Ricardo opened his eyes, the clouds certainly looked a bit lighter. They weren’t black anymore. They were grey. Heaven had stopped crying and the last tears dropped down over the edges of the cheeks. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow-
“Tomorrow is going to be the start of our year, Ricardo. We’re going to win the Champions League, we’re going to win la Liga and I’m going to be chosen as player of the year. But if that doesn’t happen, it won’t matter anyways. As long as I have you to temper me, as long as you accompany me like the wind accompanies the rain, everything will be like it’s supposed to.”
The Brazilian smiled and the Portuguese accompanied him on the bed, his head on the chest of the Brazilian man. Together as skies lighting up against the night shades. Together, caressing each other’s hearts, like the wind. Together as the raindrops from the black skies. Together, with elegance.