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Kun is alone in yet another hotel room with Leo Messi. Time blends together somehow; all the hotel rooms and training sessions identical to the ones before and the ones before that. It's telling that, after all these years, they still share a hotel room, him and Leo, just like they did during the Olympics. Here they are again, after yet another game in yet another strange city, but today something different happens. And it all happens quickly.
It's impulsive of Kun, or maybe it's been building up for a long time. Either way, he finds himself compelled from his bed as if by unseen forces across the small room. He doesn't pause, just climbs onto Leo's bed, ignores Leo's soft, confused, "What?", pulls back the sheet, and cups Leo through his pajama bottoms. It's direct, it's brave, and Kun likes to think that he fucks like he plays, so it's right , too. This is the right way to do it.
Leo freezes, catches Kun's hand and tries to force it away, but Kun is persistent, keeps saying, "Let me. Let me, Leo. Let me."
Only Leo is scrambling now, both hands grabbing at Kun's fingers, his wrists, trying to keep him at bay. Leo has never had long fingernails -- he bites them off nervously before matches and even worse if he's on the bench -- so it's just the rough pads of his fingers digging into Kun's skin as he fights. Leo is strong, but Kun is stronger, and a quick struggle has Leo's hands pinned, his pajama bottoms down, and Kun's hand on his soft cock, pumping slowly. Kun never looks away from Leo's eyes. Leo looks back, questions and uncertainty on his face, his lips parted, that one uneven tooth both strange and endearing.
Kun says, "Please, let me show you," and something changes. He can feel Leo's small body relax, feel him give in. Kun lets go of Leo's wrists and Leo moves, but not to fight anymore. There's a sudden vice grip on Kun's wrist, Leo holding on with one hand as Kun strokes him. The hand's not pushing him away, just seems to be there because Leo doesn't know what else to do with it. His other hand is loose by his side, almost unnaturally still.
It's dark in the room, the only light coming from a small nightlight; even still Leo's eyes seem brighter than ever, showing that shocking intelligence that flashes when no one is expecting it. So there he is , Kun thinks, the real Leo Messi .
The real Leo Messi is someone only a select few get to see because Leo has made himself into something inscrutable. It's there in the blank look on his face whenever the cameras catch him; in every bland response he gives to scintillating questions:
"Do you still have a special relationship with Pep Guardiola?"
"Are you friends with Cristiano Ronaldo off the pitch?"
No matter the innuendo, the implication, the scandal, Leo can give an answer as dry as toast, as boring as bran cereal.
Leo became this dull creature years ago, when the fans started bowing down to him and chanting his name -- when he became something closer to a god than a footballer to them. Now Leo disappears inside himself whenever he has to face the world, rarely ventures out of his house, and never answers a question sincerely when he's forced to deal with the media. No one knows who he is because he refuses to be known.
Kun considers himself lucky: Leo is honest with him. Or more honest than he is with others, at least. Leo jokes around with him, doesn't hide his mean streak, and tells him what he's thinking, his plans to nutmeg this player or that one just because he can . Yet there is one more layer to Leo beyond the one Kun sees. And Kun knows most of the time that even he doesn't get the uncensored version of Leo.
All it took to expose that last layer, it seems, was climbing into bed with him and giving him a handjob.
Kun has seen Leo naked hundreds of times, has joked with the rest of the team about the size of his cock in the locker room, how funny it is that a little guy ended up with a cock this big.
So, yes, he's seen him naked hundred of times, but not like this. He's never seen him hard; never seen him turned on. Now Kun's touching Leo's too-big-for-a-small-guy cock, pulling it's foreskin back, feeling it grow hotter and longer in his hand. He thinks of it wet in the shower after a game, a stream of water dripping off it and wonders if now that they've come this far, Leo will let Kun suck him off in a shower sometime. He swallows convulsively at the thought, imagines the mix of water and come on his tongue, the wet sound of Leo's cock sliding in and out of his mouth.
He realizes it's silly to fantasize about what he could have when he's in the middle of having it , so he pushes wet, showering Leo from his mind and thinks about the sweaty, squirmy one he has beneath him.
For now, he concentrates on moving his hand and squeezing his fist in a way that makes Leo twist, makes Leo's head roll back, makes his breathing labored.
It shouldn't be funny, but it is, that Leo is even quiet with his best friend jerking him off in a sub-par hotel in Buenos Aires with air conditioning that doesn't work properly and a nice view of a dirty alley the best features of the place.
Leo's quietness is nice. Convenient, even. None of the their teammates in adjacent rooms will hear them doing what they all think they're doing anyway, what they all joke about them doing together in the dozens of hotel rooms they have shared over the years. What they have, in fact, never done before today.
But Leo is letting Kun touch him like this, and Kun can't think past right now , fantasies about the shower aside. He doesn't care if Leo doesn't touch him back right now . That's not what this is about really. He doesn't know if Leo will let him kiss him or not, and that's maybe okay, too.
Kun's not thinking past feeling Leo come all over his hand, watching Leo lick his lips nervously, watching Leo watch him back. Leo is finally making little gasping noises (so quiet, barely audible), and his narrow hips have started to rock up and down. He's fully hard now, a bead of come leaking from the tip of his cock as it peeks out from the foreskin. Kun says something, low and rough, and he's not sure what exactly he's saying, but he knows himself well enough to know that it's praise. He's praising Leo, complimenting him.
Maybe not about the one-sided sex, but about everything else. Kun is honest enough with himself to admit that it's the everything else that's led to the sex. He's as bad as the fans -- worshiping Leo, admiring him, wanting to stand in the light he emits without seeming to try.
He'd looked up at Leo in training today, seen him do some ridiculous trick with the ball, pass it around foot to foot like it was a part of him and Kun had felt overwhelming admiration, almost cripplingly intense. He had wanted right then, more than anything, to make it clear to Leo that he loved him, that the world loved him. Everyone loved him for his ridiculous, perfect dribbling, his blurred, cartoon legs and hunched shoulders as he ran; his perfect cross-field passes, his balletic solo-goals streaking past defenders. The whole world worshipped Leo, Kun just got to do it closer up, right next to him year after year, game after game, hotel room after hotel room. Maybe it was always going to boil over like this: Kun looking over, seeing Leo sprawled on the bed careless and rumpled, and deciding that he just had to touch him, just once, the way he deserved to be touched. He had to worship him properly.
Now Kun has Leo shaking and jerking beneath him, and he has no idea if this is the way to make all his jumbled emotions clear to Leo or not. He's seen fans almost kill themselves jumping down from the stands to hug Leo, kiss him, bow down at his feet. Nearly drowning themselves to swim to his yacht. He's seen fans cry in joy when Leo gives them his shirt or a hug. This is his equivalent, Kun imagines. This is as close as he comes to praying anymore.
They're lucky: the bed isn't squeaky for all that it's small. Just another thing to keep this quiet and secret. Something just between the two of them.
Kun is turned on just getting Leo hard, feeling the tip of his cock leaking, seeing Leo have to clutch at the sheets, squeeze his eyes shut, and bite his lip. Kun lowers his body down and to the side, adjusts the angle of his hand, and pushes his hips against Leo's thigh. He starts to rub himself off against the bunched muscles of Leo's leg, rolling his hips in time to the pumping of his arm, feels the friction of fabric burning his dick. Then Kun has an idea, has to stop fisting Leo's cock just to get his own boxers down. He almost groans aloud when his skin is finally against Leo's because Leo is baby smooth, has been hairless since he got all the tattoos. He is soft skin and firm muscles, a ridiculous contradiction of a man. All that power in a tiny, unassuming package.
Leo stills when Kun starts to rock against him, streaking come across his thigh. Kun doesn't like Leo still, Leo unsure. So he leans down low to kiss his chest, mumble for Leo not to stop moving, to keep fucking his hand.
There's a delay, then Leo moves again, pushes his thigh hard against Kun's cock. An invitation, and Kun has never been so grateful. Suddenly they're rocking together, Leo hard up into Kun's fist, and Kun hard against Leo's thigh. His dick is slipping and sliding, and Kun feels a thrill of triumph when Leo touches his hair, softly; hesitantly, but deliberate, like Leo saying, "I'm here, I'm here." Only Leo doesn't say anything but his name; says "Kun," so softly it's like something right out of Kun's imagination.
He comes before Leo because of course he does. Leo touching his hair and saying his name is apparently all it takes. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against Leo's pale neck and shoulders as he spills all over his legs, the bed, the waistband of Leo's pajamas. He trails his kisses down lower. One lands on Leo's nipple and Leo makes the only other sound he's made the whole time -- a gasp -- and Kun regrets not kissing his nipple before. He should have sucked Leo's nipples, licked them, loved them. He should have kissed Leo from head to toe -- God, his toes, his feet . His left foot.
Now that's it's almost over, he's having a million ideas about how it should have been instead, and it makes him almost panic wondering if he'll ever get to kiss Leo's feet, trace his tongue along the scars and bruises on his legs and knees; kiss away the proof that men have tried to drag him down to their level, stop him, hurt him.
With the last of his will left after coming like a teenager, he jerks Leo faster, whispers embarrassing things he's not sure Leo hears or not. Leo makes another noise, still not loud enough to wake their neighbors, but practically screaming for Leo. Then he clings to Kun's shoulders, jerks out of rhythm and wild, and spills all over Kun's hand and his own flat stomach. A rope of come streaks across his nipple, some hits the thick column of his neck, slides down his collarbone. Kun isn't embarrassed, just licks it all up, tastes Leo on his tongue and moans, rocks his hips a few more times against Leo's slick thigh even though there's no way he's going to get hard again. He isn't young anymore, but he wishes he was. They could have been fucking during the Olympics. They could have been fucking during every Copa America.
It's too late to regret all the things they haven't been doing, Kun decides. They have this now and if Leo decides they're never going to have it again, Kun will go along with it because Leo always gets his way. It's easier for everyone when Leo gets his way.
After Kun licks up the come on Leo's neck, he pushes up, hovers over Leo's flushed face, scans down his body, marvels at how he goes red from the top of his head to the center of his chest, how he can spend weeks in the sun and never tan. Then he looks into Leo's eyes. What he sees there makes him lower his face down slowly. Leo turns his head to the side just as their lips are about to touch, and the kiss lands chastely on his cheek instead, right on his ridiculously high cheekbone. That answers that question , Kun thinks.
Kun inhales the smell of Leo, is satisfied enough with just his lips on Leo's cheek that it's pitiful. He could chase the kiss, he could force it, but he won't. He keeps kissing the side of Leo's face instead, peppering every place he can get with kisses: Leo's soft hair, his temple, the skin by his ear.
Leo tolerates it a little longer, then pushes him away with firm hands on his shoulders, and there's the strength, the strength Leo didn't use to stop him before. He's using it now to tell him it's over.
So Kun pulls back, sits on his haunches, and pulls a face at the cooling, flaking mess all over his hips and thighs. Leo's even worse with semen drying just about everywhere. He sits up, abs rippling, and scoots back, lets his head rest on the headboard. But he keeps his eyes on Kun. He's not going to say anything, Kun knows. Leo's going to wait and wait for Kun to say something first. Even then he might just stay quiet.
Leo is often petulant and spoiled, which Kun guesses is what you become when people keep calling you a god.
Kun scratches the back of his head, a gesture he got from Leo, too cartoonishly nervous for it to be real when anybody else does it, but with Leo it's genuine. Then he rubs hard at his face, wiping away sweat and salt and really just trying to think of what to say. Leo is still watching and waiting and they're both covered in come so he has to say something , doesn't he?
"We don't have to do this again if you don't want," is what he finally blurts out. It's not enough to make Leo do anything but shrug. Kun sighs and tries again.
"I want to, though. If you're okay with it. You don't ever have to...you know…" he adds, hoping Leo can understand what he means without him having to say it. You don't ever have to touch me. I just want to touch you, to show you what you do to people, how you make people love you, is what he means, but he gets the feeling Leo knows that.
Because Leo has Antonella, his giant family, his endless network of ex-teammates who still talk about him with reverence to the press daily. He has every single Cule wrapped around his finger. He makes Chelsea fans cry every summer simply by refusing to join their rag-tag team. Pep talks about him constantly in the Man City locker room, trying to motivate the team, to make them strive for great things, but really just making them all feel inferior. If Pep isn't in love with Leo, Kun will eat his old Atletico kit. In short, Leo's not shy of people to love him.
Hell, for all Kun knows, someone else has hit the same breaking point he has, the point where they've run out of words to describe Leo and simply have to hold him down and worship him with deeds instead. Kun has seen Neymar drape himself all over Leo, seen him look at Leo like he's the answer to everything; has chuckled at how tightly Luis Suarez holds Leo after Barca wins -- and they win so very much. Maybe Neymar has visited Leo in his hotel room late at night, while they're trapped in Madrid or Seville. Maybe Luis Suarez has touched Leo just like this.
So maybe this is all old and familiar to Leo. Kun will never know because Leo will never say.
Kun finally gives up on trying to put words to his actions and just waits, wonders if he can out-quiet Leo like he did during the Olympics, after fighting with Leo over Playstation games and simply refusing to speak to him for days and days. Leo had given in eventually. Leo had even apologized, which proved that miracles can happen. They happen again, and Kun is almost shocked when it works, when his silence makes Leo speak.
"It's fine," Leo says and scratches at the back of his neck just like Kun had, only this is the real thing, honest-to-god bashfulness. Kun is charmed despite himself.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"Yeah," Leo says. He lifts his arms and then lets them drop to his thighs. "We can...do this. It's okay. Only, I'm not very...good at this sort of thing," he admits. "Anton is patient, that's all."
Kun opens his mouth to mention that he knows Leo is no Casanova; that, in fact, the whole world is aware that Leo is crap in bed -- the press has had a field-day talking about it for years. He shuts his mouth before can say anything about big-breasted, loudmouthed, Playboy Bunnies who have repeatedly said that sleeping with Leo was like sleeping with a dead body. Kun just barged his way into Leo's sex life, so he figures he has no right to criticise him, to poke at sore spots.
Besides, it's not really about the sex, and Kun is pretty sure they both know that.
"I can be patient, too," Kun says at last.
"Oh, good," Leo says. Then his eyes drift to the bathroom door, then back to Kun. "I can't sleep like this," he says. "I'm going to go shower." It's said in a cautious way, like Leo is afraid of opening a door he doesn't know how to close.
And Kun isn't foolish, he knows this is not an invitation. "I'll shower after you," is all he says.
Leo nods and looks relieved and that...stings. Just a little. But even if Kun didn't know what he was getting into when he climbed into bed with Leo, he has a better idea of it now, can't let himself be surprised by Leo being Leo.
Leo isn't self-conscious about nudity, not shy about his body. He gets off the bed slowly -- all broad shoulders and tapered waist -- and moves to the bathroom quickly, closes the door behind him, and locks it very deliberately.
Kun flinches, just once, at the sound of the door closing, the loudest noise to come out of their room all night despite it all.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He's sitting in the middle of Leo's bed, which is wet in patches and smells like sex and sweat, and the only thing he can think is that Leo should take his bed after his shower. Yes, Leo should have the clean bed . Leo should have everything he wants.
Kun shakes his head and smiles at his own foolishness. Then he gets up and makes both beds, starts to doze off in the dirty one, surrounded by the smells, the memory of Leo coming all over himself without a sound.
When Leo comes out of the shower, Kun is just awake enough to seem him go right to the clean bed, like he knew it was his all along. Then Kun drifts off to sleep, sure that everything in the world is as it's meant to be.