When the game ends, Neymar isn’t happy.
He stands there and he can’t smile.
He thinks he’s going to cry instead.
It’s a bunch of things all coming together and hitting him at once, and he can barely hold back his tears.
Because yes, he’s always emotional when he puts on the shirt. When the crest is over his heart, he feels it sink into his skin, feels it become one with his body. It’s always the same, and he’s never prepared for it. But it’s not just that—it’s playing in Brazil, playing in this stadium. It’s playing where the 7-1 happened, where his team made history for the wrong reasons.
And it’s where they did it without him.
He’s never going to forget his terrible injury. Never going to forget when he went down and couldn’t move. Never going to forget the pain and the tears and the countless hours of rehab.
He’s never going to forget Brazil’s 7-1 loss. Never going to forget watching that game on a grainy television. Never going to forget thinking he was high on painkillers as he watched his teammates lose.
No, he’s never going to forget.
But this helps.
This helps ease some of the pain.
It’s a *reminder* of that pain, of course, but it’s also easing it at the same time.
Because they played well. They played beautiful football. Tonight they were the Brazil of old, the Brazil that could and should be beating everyone around them when they play games at home.
And not only did they play well as a team, but he had a good game too. He *felt* like himself again, felt like his teammates were there for him. Marcelo knew where to pass. Dani made the right runs. Phil was right there beside him.
And to beat *Argentina*!
It’s like a dream, like a strange dream he had as a child, where they won against anyone who challenged them.
So he stands there, fighting back tears, just gazing around the stadium, taking in the sea of yellow jerseys and joyous faces. The young, the old, all of them screaming and shouting, singing at the top of their lungs and bouncing with excitement. This is the way he likes to see his people. This is the way he always wants to see his people.
He closes his eyes and just listens, trying to take it all in.
When he opens them, he wants to cry again—this time for another reason.
Because he sees Leo.
Sees Leo walking away from him, blue and white striped jersey hanging off his thin frame.
Neymar wants to chase him, wants to hug him, wants to tell him something. But the words just won’t come. And he can’t make his feet move.
He knows what Leo is like after a loss. Because it’s usually his loss too. But this, this is Argentina’s loss. This is Argentina’s Messi. And that’s a whole different creature. It isn’t his Leo, who smiles and plays so happily, who jumps onto him with excitement.
No, Argentina’s Messi is weary.
Dani hugs Messi, Neymar notes. But Messi doesn’t turn around to find Neymar. And Neymar can’t blame him. So he stands and watches Messi walk away, watches the number 10 stretch out across his jersey, watches the armband move across his bicep.
Dani comes to hug him too. He knows what this Messi is like. “Later,” Dani says. “You can see him later.” He hugs Neymar tightly, pressing their foreheads together. “Be happy for now,” he says, grinning. “Tonight is for us, yeah?” He waits for Neymar’s nod before he moves on to hug some of his other teammates.
Neymar watches him, finding his glee infectious. And he smiles.
Hours later, Neymar feels his euphoria wear off. He’s trading messages with his dad, with David, with Luis. His dad is proud of him as usual, encouraging him to talk to the press about the win. David is flirty, talking about visiting Barcelona in the upcoming weeks. Nothing new there. And Luis is his normal silly self, congratulating Neymar on the win, joking about how the press is going to want to bring Phil to Barcelona now.
And it’s that simple word—Barcelona—that brings Neymar back to earth.
It makes him think about Leo.
Neymar can’t sleep without going to see him. He rolls out of bed and grabs his room key, dropping a cap onto his head and then peeking out into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear. It should be—it’s late. It’s really too late to be going out. But Neymar needs to see Leo.
He tries to hide his eyes beneath his hat as he sees a few of the staff on the way down, but even if people recognize him, nobody questions him.
It’s not until he’s almost out of the back entrance that somebody stops him.
“Well, well, well,” a voice says slowly, cutting through the dark room and seeming to echo throughout the hallway. “What do we have here?”
Of course, it’s fucking Dani.
He’s sitting in an armchair in the dark, a glass of something alcoholic on the table next to him. As Neymar watches, Dani presses his palms together in front of his lips and taps the tips of his fingers together. He’s grinning mischievously, the light from the fireplace reflecting off of his eyes.
He’s only missing a cat on his lap.
But other than that, he looks like some sort of evil genius.
“I—,” Neymar starts, feeling like a child who’s been caught out of bed by his parents. “I just-,” he says, trying to put it all into words.
Dani stands up and walks over. He puts his hands on Neymar’s shoulders. “I know,” he says dismissively. He looks seriously at Neymar and then reaches up to fiddle with Neymar’s cap. “You come back here if he won’t see you, okay?”
Neymar swallows the lump in his throat. “You think he won’t want to see me?”
Dani focuses on Neymar’s hat, turning it this way and that until he’s satisfied. “I think he’s very upset. And I know what he’s like when he’s upset.”
Neymar hits Dani’s hands away. “I’m going,” he says, taking a step back. “I don’t care what you say.”
Dani laughs. “I didn’t say not to go,” he says, crossing his arms. “I just said come back if he’s being a bitch… Though actually—,” he says before Neymar cuts him off.
Neymar takes another step back. “I’m going now,” he says, not wanting to hear what else Dani’s going to say.
Dani rolls his eyes. “Kid, I know that. I’m not trying to stop you, but, you’re going to need some shoes,” he says, looking downwards.
Neymar looks down at his bare feet, realizing that in his haste to leave, he’s forgotten to put on flip flops. “Oh,” he says dumbly.
Dani shakes his head and kicks off his own sandals. “Take mine and don’t be an idiot. You can’t stay the night, you hear me? You go, you visit, you come back. Otherwise, you’re going to get in big trouble.”
Neymar nods, putting on Dani’s shoes. He pulls his hat back down over his eyes. And then he’s gone.
A normal person would probably have trouble accessing Argentina’s compound. But Neymar isn’t a normal person.
His people love him.
Security is happy to let him through, especially after Brazil’s win. All it takes is a smile and the mention that Neymar really would be so much happier if he could drop in on his friend Leo. A few autographs and pictures don’t hurt either, and Neymar even gives away his signed hat as an extra incentive to stay quiet.
And before Neymar knows it, he’s standing in front of Leo’s room.
He takes a deep breath and steels himself, reaching up and tapping lightly on the door. Some light is spilling through the crack underneath the door, so he assumes someone is awake. And he’s right because someone opens the door a few seconds later.
Agüero’s hair is mussed like he just rolled out of his bed. He’s wearing a pair of low-slung sweatpants, the cord not tied nearly tight enough at his waist, and they drift down an inch to reveal that he’s not wearing anything underneath. His feet are bare.
There’s also… well, Neymar tries not to notice… But there’s something wet streaked across his stomach.
“Neymar,” Agüero greets, looking tired but not surprised.
“Sergio,” Neymar responds, scuffing Dani’s sandals against the carpet. “Can I—can I see him?”
What he wants to say is that he knows—he *knows*—this is Sergio’s time with Leo. He knows this is the only time they get to see each other. He knows they take advantage of that. And he knows there’s a line that he wouldn’t normally cross… but this is different.
Sergio looks at him appraisingly. He doesn’t seem annoyed about the request, but he also doesn’t seem happy about it either. He hangs on the door and reaches up to scratch his hair. “He’s not,” Sergio says slowly, “really himself.”
Neymar clears his throat nervously. “I know, but…” He winces. “I don’t want to leave things like this. Please, can I just—?”
Sergio looks back inside behind him, seeming to waver. “Let me ask him, alright?” He turns back to Neymar. “But I’m sure you know he’s not happy, Neymar. And I don’t know if you’ll make things better by speaking tonight,” he warns. “Maybe you should sleep on it… Wait until you’re both back at Barcelona.”
Neymar’s heard it from Dani, he’s heard it from Sergio, but all he can think about is how he needs to hear it from Leo.
So he stands firm, doesn’t move from the door.
Sergio dips his head and then closes the door lightly so that it doesn’t click all the way closed. He’s only gone a minute, but when he returns, he’s wearing a shirt and he’s tying the string in his sweats. “Good luck,” he says, eyes focused on Neymar’s. He looks like he wants to say something more, but then he tilts his head towards the door and steps into the hallway. “I’ll be in the lounge. You have an hour and then I’m coming back.”
An hour isn’t much, but it’s an hour of Sergio’s time with Leo. And he *didn’t* have to give it. So Neymar merely says, “Thanks,” and steps into their room.
The room is hot, the air slightly thick, musky almost.
Leo’s in bed with a pillow propped behind his back, arm above his head, carelessly playing with his hair. He’s bare to the waist, and his feet are flat on the bed with the rumpled sheet draped over his lower body.
It doesn’t take a genius to tell what Leo and Sergio were just doing.
And now he’s even more grateful that Sergio left.
Neymar kicks off Dani’s shoes and lets the door fall closed behind him. After a beat, he pulls the deadbolt across. “Hey,” he says, somehow only now realizing that he never came up with exactly what he wanted to say.
Leo’s eyes meet his for a moment before he turns his gaze towards the ceiling. “Hey,” he says quietly, tugging on his own hair.
Neymar chooses to take this as an invitation.
He walks over to the bed, making a face as he narrowly misses stepping on a wet washcloth on the floor. “Gross,” he mutters, knowing what that was probably used for. Leo doesn’t react and continues looking at the ceiling. So Neymar takes a deep breath and sits down on the end of the bed. “Are you okay?” he eventually asks, having no idea if it’s the right thing to say.
Leo makes a strangled sound in his throat. “I’m fine,” he says, finally looking at Neymar. His eyes are red, hazy, and there are little lines grooved into his forehead that Neymar doesn’t think were there before. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Neymar says, biting his lip.
“Great, then,” Leo says, dropping his hand to his lap and pulling the sheet a little higher on his stomach. “We’re both fine.”
Neymar stares at him, willing him to say something else because this is not helping at all. His fingernails begin to dig into his palms and he bites his lip in frustration as the silence builds. Everything is awkward and he hates it, because this is Leo and it shouldn’t be like this between them—it should be easy, should be so easy…
Somehow his misery must make Leo take pity on him because the other man starts talking again.
“But that’s not true, is it?” Leo asks softly, still focused on Neymar’s face. “You think I don’t know you?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “You weren’t fine after the game. I could tell.” He trails his eyes down Neymar’s body to where his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “You should be happy.”
Neymar looks down at his hands too. He forces himself to relax, staring at the little semi-circle indents he’s made with his nails. “Yeah, well, you know,” he says vaguely, not exactly proud that he had gotten so emotional. “7-1,” he explains then, looking back up and meeting Leo’s gaze.
Leo’s expression doesn’t change. “I know,” he says. “Of course I know. That’s what I mean.” He lets out a long sigh. “You played well. Your people have hope.” He starts twisting his fingers into the sheet crumpled across his stomach. “You should be happy,” he repeats. “I want that for you. Be happy, Ney.”
Neymar reaches out to tangle his fingers in Leo’s, needing to touch him.
Leo lets him.
“I’m fine,” Leo repeats, this time in a whisper. He squeezes Neymar’s hand. “It’s not—you don’t—,” he starts, before shutting his mouth abruptly. He squeezes Neymar’s hand harder and then lets his hand go limp. “Why are you here?” he finally says in that soft slurry drawl of his, and it’s so quiet that Neymar can barely hear him.
And for the first time, Neymar knows what to say.
“I’m here because you’re not fine,” Neymar whispers back.
Leo closes his eyes in response, and Neymar feels a flicker of pain come to life in his chest.
“I know you, too,” Neymar breathes. “You’re not fine… And I can’t—I can’t fix everything for you. I would if I could, I’d make it so you never felt like this ever again,” Neymar says earnestly, trying to explain as he stares at the way Leo’s dark lashes are fanned out across his cheeks. “You deserve to to be happy, too.”
Leo keeps his eyes shut, but then Neymar feels a tug on his hand. He goes willingly as Leo pulls him closer, lets himself fit between Leo’s knees, cover Leo’s body with his own. He can feel Leo’s arms wrapping around his back, and Neymar ducks to nose against Leo’s neck, shutting his own eyes. The sheet is caught between them, making it all the more evident that Leo’s naked underneath.
For a few seconds they’re both content to stay like that, limbs intertwined, feeling their hearts beat in sync.
And then Neymar opens his eyes. “Be happy,” he whispers into Leo’s skin, gently pressing a kiss into the warmth he finds there. He hears Leo sigh, so he repeats his words and repeats his actions—dropping kisses up and down Leo’s throat, along his jaw, where his neck meets his shoulder. He can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop, knows he only has an hour, and yet can’t pull himself away.
Especially since Leo’s squirming beneath him, his fingernails digging into Neymar’s back, trying to pull Neymar closer.
Neymar lets him, his own hands threading through Leo’s hair to hold him still. He can feel that Leo’s hard beneath him, and he wonders how far along Sergio and Leo got, or if Leo’s been hard this whole time. But then every thought of Sergio goes out of his mind because Leo starts to try to rub up against him, murmuring, “Make me feel happy, Ney.”
And Neymar can only obey.
He tilts his head back so he can finally kiss Leo, taking second to admire the rosy cheeks and pink lips before he dives in to taste the sweetness he’s being offered. And Leo parts beautiful for him—he always does—and every kiss is always as delicious as the first one was.
Neymar can’t give this up, he could never give this up, never give up the way Leo’s breathy moans echo throughout the dark room.
He slides his tongue against Leo’s, searches out every corner of Leo’s mouth. It’s wet and messy, lips and teeth and tongue, and he never wants to stop, never never never. Not with Leo writhing beneath him, not with Leo’s nails digging into his back, not with the way those hips are trying to rub up against him.
When Neymar needs to breathe, he yanks his head back, ignoring the way Leo gasps and tries to drag him back. “Wait, wait,” Neymar says, hastily pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it somewhere off to the side.
Leo’s fingers start tracing his abs, sliding up and down his chest before they start to sneak into his shorts. “Ney,” he says, drawing the name out like he always does when they’re in bed.
Neymar laughs, smacking his hand away. He rolls to the side and pulls off both his shorts and briefs, dropping them over the side. And then he turns back to Leo. He wants to catch his breath, but he can’t, not when Leo looks at him like that—lips parted in desire, eyes bright with lust. Neymar’s practically shaking with want, and he forces himself to slow it down. His fingers are trembling, but he reaches out and draws the sheet down, revealing Leo’s nude body.
Neymar almost doesn’t know where to look, and he takes Leo in greedily, staring at the miles of creamy skin spread out before him. Leo’s cheeks flush harder, and he turns his face away. “Ney,” he says impatiently, fingers dropping down to brush against a peaked nipple.
He’ll take care of himself if Neymar lets him.
But that’s not happening tonight.
Neymar laughs again, taking Leo’s hand in his. “That’s mine,” he whispers, ducking down to lick at the rosy bud and give it a suck. Leo arches beneath him, gasping again, and Neymar smiles, sucking harder. His fingers toy with Leo’s other little nipple, rolling slightly and then pinching. Leo inhales sharply, trying to hold Neymar’s head closer, and Neymar bites the tiniest bit. This time Leo lets out a low moan, and Neymar bites once more, just to hear it repeated.
He could spend ages there, toying with Leo’s pretty pink nipples, but in the back of his head, a voice is screaming that he doesn’t have much time. And so he works his way down that flat stomach, tracing the muscles with his tongue, sucking kisses wherever he feels like. Leo’s fingers are trying to grab at his hair, but it’s not quite long enough, and they end up just scratching his scalp desperately. “You’re so beautiful,” Neymar says, unable to help himself, pressing kisses into the soft skin reverently.
He’s still unable to believe his luck after all this time.
Leo merely sighs, spreading his thighs wider as Neymar goes lower, and then lower, and then lower.
Leo’s thick cock is red and angry, dripping against his belly, smearing precome all over both of them, and Neymar ignores it in favor of nipping at the insides of Leo’s thighs. “Beautiful,” he whispers again, focused on sucking pink marks into the milky white skin.
Leo’s fingers drop to claw at the sheets. “Ney,” he whines, drawing the name out again. “Please,” he says, the word turning into another long moan as Neymar’s hands grip his hips.
“Shhh,” Neymar breathes against Leo’s skin, tongue dipping down against the softness of Leo’s inner thighs. “Just wait,” he says, dropping kisses on top of the marks he’s left. His hands slide down Leo’s hips to his thighs and urges him to spread wider, cupping that plush ass and groaning. Leo does eagerly, draping his legs over Neymar’s knees and digging his heels into Neymar’s back.
And then, Neymar doesn’t know where it comes from, but Leo’s fumbling a tube of slick into his hands.
But Neymar doesn’t stop to think about it, pouring the lube into his hands and then leaning down to press his fingers between Leo’s spread legs. “Leo,” Neymar says, circling Leo’s entrance gently. He can feel his own cock throbbing between his legs, can feel sweat dripping down his neck, but he focuses only on Leo. “Leo,” he says again, increasing the pressure until one of his fingers slides inside that velvety heat. He finds he can’t speak, can’t utter another word as he feels Leo cling to him.
He doesn’t know—he doesn’t—how Leo’s always so tight, so hot, so eager for him. But he is, he always is, every single time, and his eyes are wide as they stare back at Neymar.
“Another,” Leo begs instantly before he’s ready, and they both know it. “Another,” he repeats, tipping his head back as Neymar slowly adds the second. Leo’s sweating just as much as Neymar, droplets sliding down from his hairline, making his skin glisten in the dim light.
Neymar scissors carefully, sliding his hand up Leo’s chest to thumb at one of his nipples. “Easy,” he says, watching Leo swallow in anticipation. And then, mouth watering, Neymar surges up and licks a stripe up the side of Leo’s neck. The taste of salt is heavy on his tongue, and he savors it, sucking a bruise into the side of Leo’s throat even as he starts to move his fingers in and out between Leo’s thighs. He loves the taste of Leo—he’d open him up with his lips and tongue if they had time—just to hear him keen above him.
When he’s satisfied with the lovely purpling mark he’s left on Leo’s pale skin, he moves to kiss Leo again, nips at those pouty lips until they’re both breathless.
“Make me happy, Ney,” Leo mumbles against his lips, clinging to Neymar’s shoulders as he starts moving his hips to meet Neymar’s fingers.
Neymar’s heart is beating so loud that he thinks Leo can probably hear it, but he responds, “Yes,” as best as he’s able, in between those glorious kisses. He pulls his fingers out slowly, groping for the tube to slick up his own cock. When he finds it, he pours out too much, but he can’t bring himself to care. Then he’s back into position, back between Leo’s thighs, and he’s pressing inside.
Leo’s lips part soundlessly, narrowing into an oval as Neymar slides into him, and his eyes flutter closed. “Ney,” he breathes, tipping his head back again. His throat bobs with want.
“Leo,” Neymar answers, trying to be patient as Leo adjusts. “Fuck,” he says, only barely able to hold still. It’s hard, oh, it’s so hard, because Leo’s so fucking hot—he’s burning, clenching around Neymar’s cock like he was made for it. And then when Leo gives the sign, Neymar starts moving, starts snapping his hips, aiming for that little spot that will make Leo see stars. He knows where it is, gets it almost immediately and Leo’s resulting moan lets him know.
“Ney!” Leo cries, arching up like he’s in pain.
But it’s not pain, it’s pleasure, it’s that type of fiery pleasure that Neymar would die to give him.
“I’ve got you,” Neymar pants out, his hands slipping from Leo’s thighs to his hips to his chest. He can’t stop touching Leo, can’t stop smoothing his hands everywhere. It shouldn’t be so delicious, shouldn’t be so good, but it is—every fucking time it is and Neymar knows that even when he closes his eyes tonight he’s going to see Leo spread out beneath him like this. And it’s because of him, it’s because of what Neymar’s doing to him that Leo’s squirming and groaning, and that spurs him on even more. He presses Leo’s thighs closer to his body and starts to snap his hips faster, starts to fuck him harder and deeper, enthralled by the whimpers that start to escape from Leo’s lips.
It doesn’t take long, and Neymar knew it wouldn’t—not with how they’ve both been feeling with the game.
Leo comes first, fingernails scratching down Neymar’s back as he spills between them without Neymar even dropping a hand to help him. Neymar fucks him through it, feeling Leo squeeze around him tighter and tighter until he goes limp. And it’s gorgeous, it always is, and Neymar knows it’s going to send him over the top.
And it does.
He feels his vision whiteout and stops breathing as he comes inside of Leo in jerks and waves. His forehead falls to Leo’s shoulder and he slows the movement of his hips until finally, he collapses on top of him. Leo’s arms come up around him, hands tentatively tracing the scrapes that are probably scored down Neymar’s back. Later, once the adrenaline has worn off, they’ll probably ache like hell.
But as it is, Neymar couldn’t care less.
They stay like that a moment, both of them coming down, their hearts taking their time to return to normal. Leo’s hands slide from Neymar’s shoulders to his neck, fingertips tracing over the wings of Neymar’s tattoo.
When Neymar shivers, Leo laughs.
And the sound makes Neymar smile. Because he knows that everything is going to be alright.