Chapter Text
Sergio raises a glass to Luka, same as everyone else at the table. It's his duty as captain, but he would have done it in any case. "Congratulations, Lukita. I wish you all the happiness in the world!" he says proudly, tipping his glass. The rest of them echo his toast, sipping their champagne and clapping with excitement. Soulmates coming together is a beautiful thing, and it deserves to be celebrated by everyone. Sergio claps too. He can say that he's honestly happy for Luka. That sentiment, at least, isn't fake.
His smile after the toast is, however, and there's not much that Sergio can do about it.
He hates soulmates. Well, shit, he doesn't hate soulmates. But he hates the topic. He hates the process.
He hates that you're just supposed to go about your business until the words start burning on your arm underneath your band... and you realize the person you're speaking to is actually the person you'll spend the rest of your life with.
Why can't it be simpler?
Why can't it be a name? A first name, a last name, a nickname--Sergio doesn't think he's asking for the world, here. Hell, he'd even be willing to take just initials. Sure, it would be hard to track someone down like that, especially with so many people in the world, but it would be something!
Or, okay, if it can't be a name, why can't it be the very first words your soulmate ever speaks to you? That would be fun, right? Building a relationship from that first, exciting moment?
But no, instead it is random words: random words that start burning at a random moment in time when you coincidentally say them to each other.
Luka had known Ivan for years before they'd had their moment. They'd been teammates and friends and seen each other countless times. Why wasn't it until this week that they said the magic words? Why not at one of el clásicos? Why not at the World Cup? Why did it finally happen during some lunch on an unimportant Friday morning?
Luka had described it with breathtaking happiness, smile ear to ear, how they'd both ripped off their armbands in glee as soon as they realized what was happening. They'd covered their words almost immediately after, of course, as was proper. And as far as Sergio knew, nobody else knew what the words said, which was fairly typical and fair enough. Some people shared their words with family and friends, though it was more popular to keep it all private. But now that they knew they were soulmates, they'd buy matching bands with their names to let everyone know they were taken.
So yeah, Sergio was happy for Luka. And Rakitić too.
But soulmates fucking sucked.
*****
Sergio had never shown anyone what was on his arm. Not even Iker. Not because he cared about privacy or any of that rot. Iker knew far worse things about him (and often had photographic proof of such as well). No, Sergio kept this to himself. Mostly because he was embarrassed. Embarrassed and hurt and bitter and angry. His soul mark was a joke. Even now, he can't stand to look at it, but he does anyway. It's easy to push up the band. He barely even needs a typical soul mark band--a fucking rubber band would do.
There, right on the inner part of his left wrist was one small word in black ink: ‘Yes.’
That's it.
That's fucking it.
That's all he has to go on.
He's lost count of how many times someone has said, "Yes" to him over the years. When he was younger, he'd perk up and wait, wait for the burning to happen, wait for the other person to look up in surprise, wait for that magic fucking moment where it would all come together. Except, of course, it never happened. Sergio would be left looking up like an idiot, gaping unattractively in hope.
Now he doesn't wait to see what the other person will do.
He just goes about his life.
He's not the only one to do so. Finding your soulmate is a tricky business that can take decades--and that's even if it ever happens at all--and some people don't even bother these days. Sergio can't really blame them. What's the point of staying alone and miserable for years when you could be fucking your way through your teammates?
Well, that's not *exactly* what Sergio does.
It's what the press says he does.
But it's not what he does.
Sure, he has a little fun here and there. And sure, some of those people willing to have fun are his teammates. But some of them are just friends, and a few are possibly rivals... but everyone is on board and everyone knows what's what. It's about passing time and finding comfort and enjoying themselves. Pretending that they aren't all just trying to wait until they find their special destined one. Because in the end, Sergio does hate the system, but he's not a quitter.
One day he'll find his soulmate.
Until then, though, he needs to pass the time somehow.
*****
Piqué understands everything.
Sergio doesn't know exactly what Piqué's words are, but he thinks there aren't many of them either. Nothing that gives him a clue, or gives him hope. That's only a guess because whenever the topic comes up he looks anguished and tired and depressed. His eyes hide nothing--two big blue pools of pain--and it's largely why Sergio tries to be a little nicer to him nowadays.
When they sleep together, it's definitely more for comfort than it is to scratch any itch. That's not to say it's not enjoyable... but it's definitely not about love.
Neither of them will ever speak about soulmates, of course, because they're likeminded, but when they're in bed afterward in the darkness Sergio can hear the noise of Piqué taking his band off. Maybe just to give it some air, maybe because he's uncomfortable sleeping with it. Sometimes when he's really, really drunk, Sergio imagines Piqué tracing whatever words he has with tentative fingers and wonders if he should do the same, wonders if maybe he and Piqué are ever meant to find their matches at all.
That's the thing about the words--you never know when they're going to come to life.
But they're not in love, for sure, and Sergio doesn't think they ever could fall in love, either. They're too alike. So friends, yes, lovers, yes, but soulmates, no. And they're both on the same page about it. Well, they don't talk about it, they talk about other things, about anything else, really. About the matches or the food or the gossip going on in the locker room.
They both know about Luka and Rakitić, so they avoid that while they search for conversation, though it floats in the air around them.
"And Leo's been pissy ever since Sevilla," Piqué rattles on the next morning as he's scrambling eggs in Sergio’s kitchen. "I swear to god, you'd think he'd been forbidden to even touch a ball. But all we're saying is that he can't be scrimmaging until the bone heals a little, you know?" He flicks his eyes up at Sergio. "I'm adding cheese to these and you're just going to have to deal with it."
Sergio waves a hand. He'll eat whatever Piqué makes at this point and run off the calories later. "Fine, fine. You're the chef. For now."
Piqué splutters something about always being the chef, but Sergio's daydreaming. Well, not really, but he's thinking back to when Messi had broken his arm. Everyone and their mother had seen the replays, or rather, anyone who followed football and paid attention to how Barcelona's season was going. Sergio had naturally watched and wondered if Messi was going to make it to el clásico...
The thing about Messi going down, though, was that Sergio wasn't thinking about the impact the injury was going to have on the game. As Real Madrid's captain, that's what he should have been thinking of... But he wasn't. Instead, he was thinking about the band covering Messi's soul mark. Whenever Messi played, the band attracted Sergio's gaze the most. It was irritatingly large and that grated on Sergio's nerves.
To be fair, Sergio was more jealous than anything else.
Of course, the great Lionel Messi would get to have some long luxurious sentence that probably gave him some giant clue as to who his soulmate was. The band covered near his whole arm, from wrist to elbow. It looked more like a brace than the typical armband, and Sergio hated it.
Fucking Messi.
Some people had all the luck in the world.
*****
El clásico comes and goes, Sergio fights with Piqué as usual and then they get over it. There's still a lot more of the season to go. He tries to stay in shape so that they can finish strong, and that means more time in the gym, unfortunately.
Now, when Neymar matches with Mbappé, the news starts trending everywhere in the world. Madrid is no exception.
Sergio happens to be biking in the gym at that very moment, and he watches disinterestedly as an old dubbed rerun of 'Gilligan's Island' cuts to a very excited reporter who can barely get the story out in his haste. Marcelo is beside Sergio, laughing a bit. "Oh, man, thank fucking god."
Sergio doesn't really care, wishing 'Gilligan's Island' would come back on. It's actually a funny episode and it's making him forget how much he hates biking. "Why?"
Marcelo waves a hand, slowing his peddling down until it's something more like a leisurely bike ride through town as opposed to an intense workout. "I half thought it would be Dani. Alves, that is," he specifies, laughing at Sergio's look of displeasure. "See, exactly."
"Why would you think they'd match?" Sergio asks, not really wanting to know, but unable to stop himself. Maybe it's the fact that Luka's so happy that makes him curious. He slows his peddling too, trying to catch his breath a bit as he takes a few sips of his water. "Mbappé's more his age. Makes more sense I guess."
Marcelo's smiling. "You know that sometimes these things don't really make sense, right? I mean, there's been a lot of tension there between them. Things weren't going so smoothly for awhile. I don't even know if they really like each other that much. They say opposites attract, though Ney had a better relationship with Dani, and I think they were messing around a little, too. Thought that would tip it over into soulmate territory. Sometimes that happens." He leans over to steal Sergio's water and take a gulp. "Although, Dani always thought that Ney and Messi would match. I guess we were all wrong."
Sergio makes a face, taking his water back. "Gimme," he says petulantly. He thinks back to Piqué. "Sexual activity doesn't mean anything. They've been doing studies on that forever and never found evidence to suggest it has any impact on the actual matching." He realizes he sounds like he follows those sorts of things and instantly smooths out his expression into something that looks like nonchalance.
Marcelo glances down at Sergio's covered wrist and his smile changes into something kinder. "Yeah, but--"
Sergio immediately looks away and starts peddling faster again. "Eh, whatever," he mutters, feeling his heart rate start to pick up again. "When are they gonna switch back to 'Gilligan's Island' is what I want to know. I don't care about whatever's happening in Paris."
And he doesn't.
*****
Unfortunately, there must be some vibe being sent out that says he wants to talk to people about their love lives, because Cris calls him to blather on about Paulo Dybala like Sergio's been asking for details nonstop. To be clear, Sergio has not been asking for anything of the sort and had no plans to do so in the future at all. Unless, "How's it going?" counts.
"I think he's the one," Cris confides, and Sergio can practically hear him grinning into the phone. "You should see him, should see how he looks at me. God, he's the cutest little thing."
"You know you can just, tap that," Sergio finally says, when it's clear he is going to have to participate in this conversation. "I know you've never been about that kind of lifestyle," he says, waving a hand in front of his face like Cris can actually see him do it. "But you've only known him a few months, so I don't think he can possibly--"
Cris laughs and Sergio groans.
"Look," Sergio says, barely willing to have this conversation, "Luka knew Rakitić for years before they matched. So if you really think that Dybala is the one, you might have to wait quite a long time to find out. You know?" He doesn't really want Cris to be pining and miserable and lonely, but he doesn't know how else to say it. And again, he doesn't want to be talking about this at all.
"Ah, ah," Cris interrupts whatever else Sergio was going to say in the hopes of changing the subject. "But did you hear about Mbappé and Neymar? They were teammates for what? A year or two? And they just clicked." Cris sighs. "I can't wait until it's my turn. Can you imagine matching when you younger? At this point, we're old bachelors, Sese."
Sergio rubs his eyes and thinks about having some ice cream. "At this rate, I'm going to *die* an old bachelor," he growls, a bit of his bitterness slipping out. "I like the way my life is," he adds as he tries to recover.
Cris just laughs. "You never know when it's going to happen. It could be any day now for either of us. And you can say what you want, but I'm feeling rather positive about all of it for the first time in a while. Wouldn't hurt for you to do the same."
Then Sergio thinks about calling Fernando and asking if he has any plans to come to Spain in the near future. Piqué's closer though, and always willing...
Does it count as a booty call if...
Never mind, it's a booty call.
*****
The next season starts and Sergio's determined that it's going to be their year. He informs Piqué of this gleefully, which results in a few ridiculous arguments, but they end up making up right before they play against each other again. The problem is...
Piqué understands everything until he understands nothing.
"You know," Piqué says, even as the sweat is cooling on their bodies and Sergio's curling toward him in contentment, "I think that Cesc is my soulmate." He sounds so sad and forlorn like he's wrestled with himself about this for ages and ages and only now can bring himself to speak of it. Like it's some great tragic love story and that even voicing it will cause the world to fall apart.
Sergio rolls his eyes and tries to suffocate himself with his pillow. "I regret inviting you here," he mumbles into the fabric, only half sorry that Piqué doesn't hear him clearly. Because Piqué was supposed to be the one that got it, the one who was going distract him from all this nonsense, not bring it up in the worst way possible before a big game.
Piqué sighs, and it's a giant heavy sigh. "Please, Sese," he says, grabbing the pillow and yanking it off Sergio's face. "Please, I'm sorry, I know you hate this. I know. If anyone knows, it's me. But I need help, and I don't know what to do." He tosses the pillow across the room and when Sergio blinks at him in astonishment, he says, "And yes, sorry, I'll go get that in a minute."
"What do you expect me to tell you? Or do for you?" Sergio asks, rubbing his face tiredly. "It's not like I have a whole lot of experience in this area. Obviously. And I can't exactly wave a wand and magically make you soulmates. As far as I understand it, you either are or you aren't. And you have to fucking wait to see what happens. We all do." He drops his hand to his side and peers at Piqué in the darkness. "That's just how it works. It’s the way it is. It’s the way it's always been!"
"Leo thinks that Cesc is my soulmate too," Piqué protests, as if that's going to make a difference in this situation.
"Gerard," Sergio says, "while I am never going to care what Messi says or thinks, if you think Cesc is your soulmate, then why the fuck are you still sleeping with me?" He's asking honestly, as a friend, as a teammate, as a fuck buddy. "Why don't you go over to wherever the hell he is, what is it Monaco now? And just talk to him until you manage to stumble upon the magic words? If you say them he’ll be stuck with you, so...?"
"Do you think that would work?" Piqué asks excitedly, his wallowing put on pause as he considers that idea. "Because I could go after the game tomorrow? Just show up at his house? Just start talking to him constantly about anything and everything? Seriously, do you think that--"
"I don't care. But go get my pillow."
*****
It shouldn't annoy him, but it does. Of course, it does.
Messi's standing there in line with his teammates in the tunnel, waiting until it's time to go out onto the pitch. That should be fine, shouldn't really bother Sergio at all other than that fact that it's Messi so Sergio's already a little uneasy about stopping him on the field. But Messi's not doing anything out of the ordinary, really, except he's playing with that annoying armband stretched out from his wrist to his elbow. It's almost like he's making sure it's fastened correctly and tightly so that there's not a chance of it coming loose during the game.
Sergio rolls his eyes.
All this stupid soulmate shit going around and he doesn't want to think about it for one more minute than is necessary. He knows he shouldn't say anything--especially not before the match--but the reminder that Messi has this long descriptive soul mark spread out across his skin just rankles. Sergio's own band is barely the width of two fingers, and still, it's able to cover up his pathetic soul mark. "Such a show-off," he mutters, half to himself and half to Messi as he passes him to head to the front.
"What?" Messi asks, looking confused, dropping his hand from his armband and trying to play innocent. "Me?" After a second though, he looks back down at his arm and goes back to tugging at the fabric nervously. His nails are bitten down to nubs and there's dirt underneath half of them. And a bandage on his thumb.
"Yes, you, idiot," Sergio says, turning back even though he shouldn't. Marcelo is beckoning him and so is Keylor, while Piqué waves at him excitedly. Sergio gestures for them to wait. He points at Messi's armband instead. “Seriously, though, what the hell is your problem, Messi? Are you compensating for something, huh?" he asks, gritting his teeth. "Can't be like everyone else? Have a normal-sized soul mark? Have a normal-sized band? How come you have to make everything into such a big deal like some diva?"
As a rant goes, it's a stupid one.
Maybe he just wants to unsettle Messi before he goes out onto the pitch.
Messi takes a step back, his hand flattening over his armband protectively like he thinks Sergio is going to try to rip it off. "Wait. Huh?" He tilts his head and his cheeks start to color like he's embarrassed. Very embarrassed. "Ramos, I don't think we should talk about--".
"Oh, I don't give a fuck what it says," Ramos says dismissively, interrupting him. "Never mind." He just shakes his head, realizing he’s making a big deal out of nothing and looks like an idiot. Some of his teammates are starting to look down their way and Piqué is narrowing his eyes in concern.
Sergio didn't really mean to make Messi uncomfortable about his soul mark, and seeing Messi now curl into himself timidly makes him feel a bit bad. After all, Sergio's the last person who should be throwing stones... His damn jealousy's just got the better of him... again. Taking a deep breath he decides he can play off his outburst as a joke.
He'll say something outrageous, something hilariously impossible that will make Messi snap back and roll his eyes at Sergio's inappropriate sense of humor.
"Seriously," Sergio says with a casual laugh, "what could you possibly have written there that needs that much space on your arm: 'I really, really, really wanna bend you over and fuck you until you're screaming my name'?" He mentally high fives himself, half wondering if he should have gone dirtier, while he waits for Messi to say something like 'You wish' or 'Dream on.'
Messi's hand is frozen over his armband, but his eyes widen to be so big that Sergio thinks he might be having a stroke.
And then, before Sergio can say anything else, Messi whispers, "Yes."
*****
Sergio's arm is *BURNING*.
It is *BURNING*.
And he is furious.
Fucked and furious, because Messi--
Sergio finally found his soulmate. Worse, he's about to play el clásico against his soulmate. Scratch that, even worse is that his soulmate is Lionel Fucking Messi. A goddamn culé. And Sergio doesn't know how the fuck he's supposed to do this when his arm is *BURNING.*
*****
Piqué storms into their locker room at halftime and Sergio already knows this isn't going to go well. "Look--," Sergio starts, standing up and holding out his free hand like that's going to stop whatever tirade is about to be directed his way. The other hand is holding a bag of ice against his soul mark, desperately waiting for the burning to stop.
His wrist band is unfastened, somewhere on the bench next to him and he has half a thought to put it back on before they have this discussion.
But then Piqué punches him.
"You fucking asshole," Piqué spits, shaking his hand out after like he might have broken it on Sergio's face. "How dare you! How dare you say that to him? Who the hell do you think you are?!" He's furious, eyes flashing, now being held back by most of Sergio's teammates, obviously still entirely set on hitting Sergio again. "How could you?"
Sergio groans, squeezing his eyes shut, ice bag forgotten as both hands clutch at his nose. It's incredibly painful, but there's no blood at least. "Jesus, Piqué, it was a fucking joke!"
This is the last thing he needs right now.
Somebody's shouting about finding the ref, about Piqué getting a card for violence off the field, how he's thrown the game and going to be banned for the rest of the season. Somebody's screaming about getting the trainers, somebody's looking for Zidane, somebody's wondering if they should get Valverde. It's chaos and noise over the sound of the pounding music and all it does is give Sergio a headache. In the midst he can hear Marcelo, trying to calm everyone down, though of course, he's gotta be wondering what's happening too.
Piqué's laughing now, but it's maniacal, and nobody knows quite what to do.
Sergio manages to open his eyes to see that Karim and Nacho have a hold of one of Piqué's arms while Dani and Gareth are gripping the other. Toni is standing near them looking uncertain, having picked up Sergio's bag of ice like he wants to help but doesn't know how. Nearly everyone is surrounding them now, entirely confused.
Nothing stops Piqué from answering, "Oh, so now sexual harassment is a joke? Do you even hear yourself right now? Are you fucking serious?!"
There are whispers then, about how Piqué's lost his mind, about what Sergio could have possibly said...
"I wasn't--," Sergio says, one hand holding his nose now as the other runs through his hair. "I didn't mean it like that. He was supposed to laugh! Who the hell has something like that written on their arm? I take it back, alright?! I take everything back, tell him to forget it." His nose is starting to feel numb, but it hasn't stopped his eyes from tearing, and he hopes nothing is broken. "It was a joke, my whole life is fucking joke apparently!"
"You can't take it back, Sergio! That's not how this works! That's not how any of this works! You know that!" Piqué's still livid, shoving at Karim and Gareth as he lunges toward Sergio again. "You both said the fucking words, asshole!"
Luka gasps then, covering his mouth immediately and Sergio doesn't know what to fucking do.
Security comes in then, starts dragging Piqué out even though he keeps fighting and yelling about Sergio being an asshole. Nearly everyone watches him go in silence, still able to hear him long after he's forced out of the locker room. When their eyes turn back to Sergio, he collapses onto the bench and covers his face.
*****
Piqué is red-carded as expected.
Sergio's nose isn't broken but it sure as fuck causes him discomfort during the rest of the game.
Real Madrid wins 3-1 with Barcelona down a man for the second half. Karim scores twice and Umtiti causes an own goal to make it three for Real Madrid. Right near the end, Messi manages to nick the ball off of someone and drill it into the back of the net, but it isn't enough for them. Of course, it's Messi.
Sergio books it to the locker room afterward, needing to get away from everyone and everything. Tosses his band in his locker. Tapes a new bag of ice to his wrist. Tries to change and shower and go about his normal after-game routine without losing it. The team leaves him along for a while, happy enough about the win that they can chatter amongst themselves, but the elephant is still in the room.
Marcelo finally decides he's had enough alone time. "So, you gonna explain this all to us, or are we supposed to just guess at everything? Because if you think Piqué is gonna keep his mouth shut about you, I'd bet that you're in for a rude awakening." He sits down next to Sergio on the bench and looks at him seriously. "What did you say and who'd you match with?"
Everyone swings to look at Sergio.
Sergio doesn't have to say anything because at that moment there's a hubbub by the door to the locker room. After Piqué's violent arrival, they'd posted extra security and nobody is getting in without being thoroughly vetted. Admittedly it is a bit of a surprise when Luka winds his way through the crowd and stops by Sergio. "Ivan says that Messi wants to come in and talk to you for a little bit," he says, blinking calmly. "Is that... okay?"
Marcelo makes a choked sound of understanding. "Wow, Sese... Didn't see that one coming." To Luka, "Does he look like he wants to punch anyone?" he asks, as a wave of shock washes over everyone.
Luka shakes his head, peering at Sergio as if trying to read his thoughts. "Ivan says...," he starts, before changing his mind. He shakes his head. "He's got three bags of ice strapped to his arm, and he looks really tired. But he doesn't look angry. And Ivan says he hasn't spoken to anyone else since the game ended."
Sergio presses his own bag of ice against his wrist, wondering when the hell it's supposed to stop burning, because nobody ever mentioned it burning for so fucking long. "Whatever," he mutters, not knowing what else to do. He's dug his own grave, no matter what he said to Piqué about it. He knows he can't take it back. Can't go back.
He's stuck.
They're stuck.
Messi's still in his kit when he wanders in, his boots clacking against the tile lightly. And as Luka said, he's got three bags of ice taped to his arm, now bandless, stretching from his wrist to his elbow. If Sergio didn't know any better, he'd have thought Messi broke his arm again or something.
"You didn't shower?" Sergio asks to break the silence since everyone is still standing there in shock and Messi hasn't said anything either.
"I--, no," Messi says, looking down at himself and then back up at Sergio. His eyes flick down to Sergio's wrist, covered with the ice. His voice is croaky, and he clears his throat. He's not sweating any longer, though there are grass stains on both his shorts and his socks, and he might have tracked some mud in. His right hand is holding his arm gingerly, and one of the bags of ice starts dripping onto the floor. "Why does it still hurt?"
Sergio doesn't answer, and neither does anyone else. He suspects because nobody really knows the answer.
Messi shakes his head and looks at the floor, focusing on the small puddle of water forming. "I'm sorry for--for Geri, um," he breaks off and heaves a sigh. "I'm just sorry." He waits a beat and then looks up at Sergio. "I don't know what to do," he says helplessly. "I never expected this... I'm sorry."
"Yeah, you said that," Sergio says sarcastically, wanting to kick himself when Messi just looks exhaustedly down at the puddle again. "Look, shit, I don't know what to do either, okay?" he says even before Marcelo can poke him in the ribs. "I didn't mean for this to happen either--I didn't mean what I said," he adds, gesturing toward Messi's arm. "I really didn't."
Messi colors immediately, glancing at his arm as if to make sure the bags of ice block the writing.
"Can we just--," Sergio starts, suddenly aware of how many eyes and ears are around them, "take this somewhere else?" He has no idea what he's doing, but he catches Luka smile at him encouragingly from behind Messi's head. "Figure out what to do next?"
Messi doesn't straighten up, but he smiles faintly.
*****
"Geri's always known what it said," Messi blurts out when they're both back at Sergio's house.
The car ride had been incredibly awkward, with the music on the radio the only noise and Messi sitting next to him cradling his arm. Perhaps Sergio should have tried to make conversation, but the truth is he didn't know what to say. Messi must not have known either, but apparently he'd been thinking on the subject as well.
Sergio sets his keys in a dish by the door and looks in the mirror above it. His nose is red, a bit bruised, but it's not crooked at all or anything. He'll live on to be his handsome self thankfully. "He never mentioned it to me," Sergio says, thinking back through every conversation he ever had with Piqué about Messi. "Not that we talked about... that sort of thing a lot."
He doesn't want to say soulmates.
If he says it, it's real.
Which is a stupid way to look at it. Incredibly stupid, since they said the words. And they are obviously soulmates.
"It's just," Messi continues, looking around Sergio's place with a flicker of interest, "that's why he was so..." Here he pauses and looks at Sergio's nose with regret. "Flustered?"
"Did you mean violent and aggressive?" Sergio asks with a hint of irritation.
Messi's cheeks color. "Yes," he says after a few seconds, biting his lip. "I'm sorry he hit you. I didn't want him to do that--I didn't know he would react like that." He looks away when Sergio holds his gaze. "I was surprised when you said--what you said--and I told him because I always tell him everything. And I was, I don't know, nervous and uncertain and I knew he was your friend."
"Yes. *Was.* Past tense, maybe," Sergio says, taking a deep breath and gesturing for Messi to follow him to the kitchen. "We'll see how I feel tomorrow."
"He shouldn't have done that, but he was only defending me. It's just, you don't know what it was like," Messi continues, following Sergio quickly. "Growing up with that--," he shakes his head and the pink in his cheeks starts turning red, "--kind of soul mark." Sergio turns around immediately, but Messi can't meet his eyes, unable to even repeat the words. "It was so, so embarrassing and awful and--"
"And what about me?" Sergio demands, still on edge. He rips off the band he'd replaced before they'd left the locker room. "One fucking word," he says, shoving his wrist in Messi's face. The 'Yes' is darker somehow now, blacker than it's ever been, and still throbbing incessantly. "One fucking word for my entire life! Nothing to go on, no clues, no nothing!"
"And what was my clue?" Messi yells back at him, showing some anger for the first time that night. His embarrassment is turning to fury, eyes dark with rage as he spreads an arm out to show his soul mark too. "Huh? You think this was better than what you had? How do you think it felt to know that while everyone around me had soul marks about love and kindness and beauty, a few words easily covered with a normal band, I had this awful sentence taking up my whole arm!"
"One word, Messi, one word!" Sergio yells back, still caught up in it, all the years of anger and jealousy rising to the surface once more. Messi has no idea what he's talking about, no idea what he's suffered all this time as everyone around them found their soulmate except for him. "Yes? The best you could do was 'yes'?!"
"One word? Are you serious? Oh cry me a river," Messi says like he's reached the end of his rope. "Try being a child whose mother has to explain what 'fuck you until you're screaming' means. Because that's what *your* words say." He turns away from Sergio and collapses into a chair at the table, holding his head in his hands. "What do you want me to do? Say I'm sorry for you? Sure, I'm real sorry for you. I'm sorry for both of us."
*****
"What am I supposed to do?" Sergio whispers into the phone, even though he's sure Messi can't hear him from the room down the hall. Their anger had eventually dissolved into some form of quiet acceptance, or maybe an agreement to table the argument for the night. Either way, Sergio had shown Messi to the guest room and then made a break for his own room. "How am I supposed to live with this?"
Cris sighs from the other end of the call. "I mean, first of all, what the hell? How did this even happen? You and Messi? Seriously, that is fucking weird and I honestly do not get it. Never saw that coming. And I'm not sure what people are going to think when it gets out. But," he coughs, "I guess, second of all, stop yelling at each other because that's certainly not going to fix anything. You guys are in this together now, right? You need to tone it down. All you're gonna do is start hating each other even more than you do now if things go on this way."
Sergio collapses onto his bed and stares at the ceiling like it has all the answers. "I don't hate him," he admits. "But nothing I do is going to fix anything," he says pessimistically. "Nothing is going to make this better. Ever. Nothing except, going back in time and taking back what I said and what he said." After a minute he adds, "I would feel better if I could punch Piqué too."
"Naturally," Cris agrees, stifling a laugh. "But Messi though... I can't see it. I really can't. I don't know if I've ever heard of anyone as--as unsuited? Matching up like this. But, Sergio, they say your soulmate is supposed to be perfect for you, supposed to make you as happy as you could ever be. And I guess, well, there's nothing else to do except give this a chance."
Sergio hums because he doesn't know what to say to that.
"Seriously, though. What's it say on Messi's arm? Because now I'm really curious as to what it is that could have made Piqué so mad about you saying it," Cris says to fill the silence. “Was it about Madrid?”
Sergio opens his mouth and then closes it. "It's," he starts, not sure how to finish "It's not for me to say," he says, which sounds idiotic. "I shouldn't tell you. I would be--," he stops again and shakes his head. "Messi wouldn't like it."
"Oh so now we're all concerned with Messi would or wouldn't like, hmmm?" Cris asks.
"Shut up. I hate you," Sergio replies, rolling onto his side and staring at the wall.
"Yeah, yeah," Cris says. "That's probably a good thing, Sergio, that you’re thinking like that now. Truly. Try to hold onto that feeling. Go with your instincts, because there's some greater power out there that knows the two of you together could be something amazing. It's the weirdest shit to me, but, try to make this work. And you might just end up as happy as they say you can be."
"That's only true if he wants it too," Sergio says quietly.
*****
Sergio has no idea what Messi likes.
Or rather, what little information he has is pretty useless. He vaguely knows that Messi likes mate, but that definitely isn't something that he keeps in the house so he starts brewing coffee instead. Once that's started, he takes a carafe of orange juice out of the fridge along with some milk and creamer. A bowl of sugar is added next to them on the table. Finally, he sets out a loaf of bread for toast and arranges a few blueberry muffins on a plate.
It doesn't look half bad, but it's also not that much.
Sergio really needs to go shopping, since he doesn't have anything else that's fresh like fruit or eggs. He stares blankly at his pantry and wonders what he can pull out. A little jar of raspberry jam is front and center--a gift from someone or another--and as he's staring at it and wondering, something else catches his eye. "Aha!"
"Aha, what?" Messi asks from behind him, scaring the shit out of him.
Sergio spins around, holding his chest and trying not to pass out. "Make some fucking noise, will ya? I'm used to living alone." He takes a long, slow, deep breath and closes his eyes as he lets it out. After a minute, he opens his eyes and looks at Messi again. "Sorry, good morning."
Messi's dressed in the same clothes he'd come over in, dark jeans and a white t-shirt, sans the black hoodie he'd been wearing in the car. Everything's wrinkled, and Sergio has a not so nice moment where he remembers that he didn't give Messi any other clothes to sleep in. The long armband is tied on Messi's arm again, but that's not out of the ordinary.
Sergio hasn't bothered to cover his own soul mark.
"Good morning," Messi answers, echoing Sergio's greeting. He flicks his eyes down over Sergio's wrist and then quickly looks behind Sergio at the cabinet that's open. "What were you aha-ing about?"
Sergio straightens up. "Oh, yes," he turns back to the cabinet and seizes the jar he'd found next to the jam. Turning around to Messi again, he pauses, suddenly a little uncertain. The jar is hidden in his hand and he thinks about forgetting the whole thing, but Messi is blinking at him curiously without any of the tension he'd shown last night and Sergio finally decides 'what the hell.'
"Dulce de leche?" Messi asks, a smile starting to spread on his face as Sergio's fingers uncurl enough to reveal the little jar.
"You like that right?" Sergio asks, trying to regain his control. "I mean, I think I heard something about that somewhere so..." He shrugs and with a bravado that he's unsure is successful, steps by Messi to set the dulce de leche down next to the loaf of bread. "I do have jam," he says when Messi continues to stand there instead of sitting down. "Would you rather?"
"No," Messi says finally, gaze traveling from the table to Sergio's face. "I think this will be fine."
*****
"Can I see it?" Sergio asks later when they're sitting out in the backyard. Breakfast had gone okay, and so had lunch--hard to go too wrong with tacos, really--and when Sergio had suggested relaxing out on the deck for a little while before dinner, Messi had been okay with it. And now, with a glass of wine in his hand, and his feet tapping on the wooden planks beneath them, Sergio's gathered some more of his courage.
"See what?" Messi asks, taking a sip of his own wine. He's staring out at the garden, watching a bird splash about in the stone fountain in the center. But at Sergio's question, his head lolls to the side questioningly.
Sergio raises his eyebrows. He switches his glass of wine to his right hand and then extends his left to flash his soul mark at Messi. The 'Yes' is still entirely visible and Sergio looks meaningfully at Messi's covered arm. "I haven't seen it... And," he tilts his head, determined to follow through, "I'd like to."
Messi swallows roughly, looking down at his armband like he's torn. They hadn't straight out discussed what had happened the night before, and if it were up to Messi, they probably never would. Messi's fingers go slowly to the band, resting over the covering for a moment before he looks back up at Sergio. "Okay," he says quietly, and his cheeks are starting to redden.
Sergio waits.
Messi sets his wineglass down on the table next to him, and then slides off the band reluctantly, his hand hiding the words almost as soon as they're revealed. "I've only ever shown Geri," he whispers. "After my mom got me the band." His eyes are huge as he looks over at Sergio. "It's not--I don't like looking at it." But then he pulls his hand away and leaves the words free to be read.
Sergio's 'Yes' throbs in sympathy. "I'm sorry I said it," Sergio gets out, feeling his face get hot as he reads it. "Honestly, Messi," he shakes his head and corrects himself. "Leo. I'm sorry. I just said it to shock you--wanted you to laugh and I don't know... It wasn't supposed to be like this." He reads it again and again, feeling utterly ashamed. "I would never... never really say that to you."
Messi huffs. "Well, I hope not." But he rubs his hand over his arm and then bites his lip. "But there they are. For eternity." His eyes go back to the birdbath again. "And you said them."
*****
Sergio accepts Piqué's call grudgingly. Messi's gone to shower and Sergio's watching some stupid movie on tv. "What?" There's chattering and noise and the clinking of glasses in the background that makes it sound like Piqué's out at some bar or restaurant. Sergio's not sure why, since he should be hiding at home from the press and the whole of Barcelona after the halftime incident. "What else could you possibly have to say?"
"Well, it's not that I'm sorry I hit you," Piqué says, sounding disgruntled. "Because I'm not. You know what you said. Deserved to get punched in the face." He breathes heavily into the phone and then curses. "I'm sorry it was you, though. I didn't--I never thought it would be you." There's a strange tone to it that Sergio can't read. "I always knew someone would say it, but I never thought it would be you. I thought it would be some asshole."
Sergio rolls his eyes.
"Leo told me I shouldn't have interfered, shouldn't have gotten involved," Piqué continues, laughing lightly. "And that's not even close to the shit I've gotten from other people. Mostly because they cared a lot more about losing el clásico than the whole punch thing... But seriously, fuck what Leo says because I've been there his entire life and seen how he's flinched any time someone's so much as showed interest in him. And that's because of those goddamn words printed on his arm."
His voice has been getting steadily louder and louder, and at that sentence, there's the sound of what Sergio thinks is a fist hitting a table. Laughter follows along with some catcalls and other shouts of encouragement.
"I think you should really see someone about your anger issues," Sergio says, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. "I'll suggest it to Messi when he gets out of the shower." A few cars blow up in a giant explosion on the screen in front of him and he nods appreciatively, wondering if maybe this movie isn't as bad as he thought. "Maybe he knows somewhere in Barcelona that'll work."
"It's still all a joke to you, isn't it?" Piqué asks, all the noise in the background vanishing like he's stepped outside or something.
Sergio tries not to roll his eyes again. It takes a lot of effort, but he's been working on it lately. "Only your part in it," he says, wondering if he should get up and get a beer. Or he could make popcorn. Messi would probably eat that. It occurs to him that Piqué hasn't responded and he clears his throat and tries to pay attention. "You still there?"
"Yeah," Piqué says. "I know we're..." He sounds broken up. "I know you're incredibly mad at me, but can you just listen to what I'm saying for a second. Please, Sergio. Please."
Sergio thinks about hanging up. "Fine, you have one minute," he says, feeling all sorts of generous at the moment. Maybe it's because he's in an okay mood, and things are sorta going okay with Messi. Maybe it's because he had a couple of glasses of wine earlier. Or hey, maybe it's because his team won el clásico and that's a pretty big fucking deal. "Gerard," he prompts when Piqué doesn't say anything right away.
"You know how me and you fucked around, before, right?" Piqué asks bluntly. "Obviously that's done with now, but you remember?"
Sergio laughs. "What's that got anything to do with this? We had a good time. You can't tell me otherwise now, just because of what's happened. Because if so, I'm gonna call you on that one, my friend."
"No--I'm not saying that. I'm just saying," Piqué says slowly. "Not everyone does that. Like you and me. The sex was for fun, no strings, blah blah blah. If I fucked someone else the next day you wouldn't care, and vice versa, obviously. But, not everyone goes out and has a good time like us. Some people barely did that, okay?" It sounds like the words are being forced out of his mouth, because they're harsh and gradual like Sergio's an idiot and can't possibly understand him in a million years.
"Okay?" Sergio asks
Piqué sighs as if physically pained. "I'm telling you that Leo wasn't like us. Okay?" he asks mockingly, echoing Sergio. "I am begging you to understand this. That he shied away from nearly anyone who tried to get close to him, and no matter what you heard--he didn't sleep around with everyone who threw themselves at him."
"Um, okay," Sergio says, sitting up, thoughts of popcorn forgotten. Well, not forgotten. Just put on the back burner. "So, kid gloves, you're saying. I mean, it's not like I was gonna jump his bones immediately. I can take my time."
"He finally gets it," Piqué mutters, and the background noise starts swelling behind him as he goes back inside wherever he is. Someone calls his name and Piqué tells them to wait. "Just, be careful with him. I'm not kidding around, if you think what I did to your face was bad yesterday, it pales in comparison to what I'll do if you hurt him. Get me?"
Sergio hangs up.
*****
"Did Ney sleep with Messi? I don't know why you're asking," Marcelo says as they jog around the pitch before they move onto the next drill, "but as far as I know, no." He's breathing a little heavily as they slow down when they reach midfield. "I'm really afraid to ask about this, but as your friend, I feel like it's my duty to. So come on, give."
Sergio takes a knee so he can untie his laces and redo them again. "Piqué said something," he mutters, not sure if this is the best place to be talking about anything related to the whole business. After all, he knows what the rest of his team thinks about Piqué. What he doesn't know is how they feel about Messi and him matching up. He *expects* their entire wordless support.
Preferably wordless.
"Oh, he did, did he?" Marcelo asks, squatting down next to Sergio to do the same. He waits until Sergio's almost finished lacing up and then shoves him so that he falls over onto the grass. "Why the fuck are you talking to him? You idiot! He punched you in the face! Who the fuck cares what he has to say?"
Sergio makes a face and thinks about just laying in the grass instead of continuing training. "Well, he's like, Messi's best friend, for one thing, so I was bound to have to talk to him again." Then he shrugs. "And he was my friend, too, before. You know." He waves his hand. "I haven't forgiven him, or anything, but he said something and it made me realize that I need to start asking some questions. For the sake of our future."
Marcelo heaves a sigh. "Fucking Messi," he says, though it's without heat. He looks at Sergio's wrist, obviously having seen that the wristband is nowhere to be found. He doesn't say anything about the 'Yes.' "I can try to find out more if you want, but..." He makes a face and looks at Sergio again. "From what I remember, Ney was head over heels. Tried everything he could think of to get Messi to feel the same. I'm talking romantic shit like flowers, chocolates, expensive watches." He's ticking things off on his fingers. "And then there were the little things like just hanging out and playing video games, or eating lunch together, or carpooling. He didn't make his feelings a secret at all."
"And Messi?" Sergio asks, feeling guilty for even asking, like he's going behind Messi's back to find out his secrets. "Did he go for it?"
"And Messi turned him down. He told Ney he didn't want anything like that," Marcelo said, shrugging. "I remember one time Ney decided he was going to just go for it, just kiss him or something." He stands up and brushes grass off his shorts. "I think it nearly caused a huge rift in the team because Messi acted like Ney shot him."
Sergio takes the hand that's offered to him. "From just a kiss?"
Marcelo nods. "That's what Ney said," he says, thinking for a moment. "And, well, from wanting to see Messi's arm." He winces. "I think he might have tried to convince Messi they were matched, when they weren't." He looks apologetically at Sergio, clearly knowing that was a shitty thing to do. "Obviously they weren't."
"Obviously," Sergio says, looking toward the goal, anger flickering inside him.
*****
"Ivan and I talked it over and we think we know what happened," Luka says as they sit down to lunch. And when Sergio looks up in shock, trying to think of something to say that can quickly steer them away from reliving the embarrassing moment all over again, Luka holds up a hand gently. "Oh, no," he says, trying not to laugh. "I don't mean that we know what you said. But, what I meant was, we think we figured out why it hurt so long."
"Oh," Sergio says, dropping his fork to his salad.
"We think it's because you didn't want it," Luka says then, taking a sip of his water and watching Sergio's face for a reaction. "Both you and Messi. Neither of you wanted the match, and you were both so angry, which meant that the mark reacted badly as a result. If you'd been accepting, the pain would have faded away immediately."
Sergio looks down at his arm. Nobody has said anything about the 'Yes,' but he thinks that he's received a lot of understanding glances now that it's revealed. Which, fair enough, he'd been a bitch about his one word forever, so it made sense that they'd all figure out why now.
That said, the 'Yes' no longer burned.
It hadn't burned for a while now.
Not since...
"Does it still hurt?" Luka asks, noticing him looking at it. He peers over at Sergio's wrist as if he's trying to figure out a second theory. "Ivan and I were sure that was it..." He slumps over and holds his head up with his hand. "Otherwise I'm not sure why--"
"It doesn't," Sergio admits, feeling bad that Luka's going to blame himself for whatever reason. "It... stopped." And he hadn't asked Messi necessarily, but Messi hadn't been using ice bags so Sergio figures Messi's isn't hurting either.
Luka perks up. "Oh," he says, looking a lot happier. And then he starts to smile genuinely, his happiness growing as he processes that. "So you and Messi then? You're okay?"
Sergio chews on a tomato. "Well, we're getting there." He ignores the way Luka does a little dance in his seat. "Relax, man. We're not besties or anything like the way you and Rakitić were before, so it's a little harder than it should be for us to figure this whole thing out. A lot of trial and error," he says, rambling on and not sure what he's even saying.
Luka's nodding like he understands everything.
"Oh, will you stop that," Sergio scolds, focusing back on his salad and trying to stop himself from looking at Luka. "Seriously, don't get all excited," he warns, chewing on another tomato in an effort to avoid a radish. "We're not going to start acting all lovey-dovey, and you know it, so don't make this into something it's not."
"Not yet," Luka says, waggling his eyebrows.
Sergio throws the radish at him.
*****
Messi doesn't seem to be in any hurry to go back to Barcelona.
Sergio's not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, but he doesn't try to push him out the door either. Both teams and the people in charge know what happened now--the matching, not the actual words said--and so Messi's been given some leeway about remaining in Madrid. It's the end of the season anyway, only one unimportant game remaining. Or maybe because Messi's able to turn it on and off, and doesn't necessarily have to train every day like the rest of humankind.
That said, Sergio doesn't know what to do with their time.
They aren't quite prepared to go out in public, to a restaurant or a museum or even to a picnic in the park. Being who they are, they'll get swarmed. Being who they are and revealing they're newly matched? They'll get swarmed even worse. So instead they hang out at Sergio's house, watching movies or cooking, sometimes kicking the ball around in the backyard for a few minutes in the evening. They talk about music and traveling, about clothing and endorsements.
It's a way to slowly, gradually, eventually get used to the other.
To learn what each other likes and dislikes.
Messi doesn't like spicy food, for example, which Sergio thinks is hilarious. He needs everything to be a mild flavor, or else he needs some sort of sauce to cool his food down. Sergio had learned that the hard way during taco night. The next night, he learns that Messi doesn't like sushi, or anything raw. He likes his food cooked until it's nearly burnt, almost as if he wants to get as far away from the raw as possible. Sergio's tried to convince him to expand his palate but has been shot down each time.
Messi also loves horror movies. The more zombies the better, according to him, which grosses out Sergio more than he can say. It's nearly caused every disagreement that they've had in the short time they've been together. Messi's tastes tend toward bloody and murderous, while Sergio would much rather watch a blood-less comedy. They've been taking turns with the Netflix choices, but Sergio's starting to regret it.
Every once in awhile he thinks about broaching the topic of Piqué's phone call, but then... he fucking wimps out.
In a way, this whole thing might be his fault, since he started out with something so sexually explicit. Not that Messi's going around bandless and reminding Sergio about what was said every second of every day, but the problem is how does Sergio go back to square one.
How does he start with something simple?
How does he get Messi to kiss him?
*****
"You haven't kissed him yet?" Luka asks him, sounding terribly disappointed in Sergio. "What have you been doing?!" He frowns at Sergio and then threatens to start pouting. "I thought you were doing okay, not that you were trying to fuck this up."
"I told you we weren't lovey-dovey. And shut it, I am not trying to fuck this up," Sergio patiently repeats, trying not to roll his eyes up into the back of his skull. "I am, we're--," he throws his hands up and sighs. "I don't want to scare him off, alright? Things are fine the way they are. I don't want to rush, that's not what this is about."
Luka's still sulking. "I don't think you know what this is about at all. This is your soulmate that we're talking about. It shouldn't be hard, shouldn't be work. Things are supposed to be effortless. And Messi," he clears his throat," excuse me, Leo, is your soulmate now, Sergio! Whether you like it or not. You're going to have to learn to live with that."
Sergio looks at Marcelo for help.
"I don't think that he's trying to deny that," Marcelo says soothingly, patting Sergio on the elbow and nodding that he'll take care of this. "That's not very fair, Luka. You know this is new for Sergio, and he's doing his best. It can't be easy for him to meet Messi halfway, especially given how things have gone for them in the past."
Sergio rolls that over in his mind, wondering if that's really the kind of help he wanted.
"In fact," Marcelo continues placatingly, "if they haven't killed each other yet, it's really a huge step in the right direction. I mean, the two of them living together under one roof? Blanco and culé?" He smiles winningly at Sergio. "We should really be congratulating him!"
Sergio presses his palms to his face. "Thank you ever so much," he grates out. "But that is not something to be congratulated about." He takes a deep breath and then drops his hands. "We're not the first couple from different teams, you know--look at Luka and Rakitić, obviously. But that said, the rivalry isn't the issue, we're not anywhere close to killing each other! We get along fine! It's just taking the next step, okay? That's what I'm worried about!"
Luka's expression changes. "Why are you worried, Sergio?" he asks softly. "Ivan and I worked out, and as you said, we were from different teams. Taking the step from friendship to something more just happened without us even trying. It's not so insurmountable, really. Not if you want it."
Sergio looks away. "That's not it, okay. I mean, aside from the fact that we are still working on that base layer of friendship. It's just... I'm not sure, that Messi's had a lot of experience..." He's hesitant to mention exactly what Piqué had said on the phone, but he knows his friends will be discreet. "I don't know what he's done, or with who, but I don't think it was a lot. And I just don't want to scare him off." He shrugs. "I don't want to possibly push too hard and ruin what could happen in the future."
"Oh, then you're right to go slow," Luka says quietly. "Go slow and do what feels right. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Sergio looks to Marcelo, but he's nodding. "Lukita's right, Sergio. This is your life. Your soulmate. And despite the shit we all give you, you're the one in control of your own destiny here," Marcelo agrees.
And just when Sergio's starting to feel better about the whole situation, Keylor approaches looking unhappy. "Bad news, Sese. The press found out."
*****
Messi's out in the backyard when Sergio gets home. He's filling up the birdbath with the hose, dipping his fingers in the water for a few seconds before flicking the excess off into the flowers. It's a little childish, but it makes him look light and carefree, and Sergio pauses up on the deck because he's not sure what to say.
"It's alright," Messi calls over his shoulder, having heard the patio door slide open and shut. "Luis called earlier. Told me we're trending on twitter." He laughs lightly. "It's funny, isn't it? I don't even have twitter."
Sergio says a small prayer that he doesn't have to be the one bringing the bad news, but he still goes down the stairs slowly and walks over to stand beside Messi. They both silently survey the birdbath, watching as Messi carefully fills it up until it's nearly overflowing and then turns the water off. Sergio probably wouldn't have filled it that high, but it doesn't really matter.
"It's alright," Messi says again, this time looking at Sergio directly. "We knew this would happen. Knew we couldn't hide here forever."
"Is that what we were doing?" Sergio asks. "Hiding?"
Messi stifles a laugh. "Some of the time," he says, dipping his fingers back into the water. "Surprised it didn't get out sooner, really. Especially after el clásico... Geri certainly kicked up such a fuss, can't believe nobody was lurking around to hear it or push for the exact words that led to his expulsion."
"If they were loyal to me, they might have sat on it for a few days," Sergio says off the top of his head. And when Messi looks up at him in surprise, Sergio nods. "What? You think you have the monopoly on loyalty? Plenty of people wouldn't have wanted to let this get out... unless it was to smear Piqué of course. Or you." He shrugs. "But since it was mainly about me..."
"Could have leaked from Barcelona, too," Messi says, sighing. He flicks his fingers at the garden again, wiping his hand on his shirt to dry the rest. It's Sergio's borrowed shirt, actually, hanging hugely over Messi's thin frame. "Lots of people there don't like you," he adds with a laugh.
Sergio's not sure whether to be insulted or not. In the end, he's not. Barcelona's always disliked him and he doesn't give a shit. "It doesn't really matter," he says quietly. "I don't give a fuck, about them, I mean." And when Messi looks up at him again, he says honestly, "It really only matters whether you like me."
Messi opens his mouth and then closes it.
"Do you?" Sergio asks, feeling like he's back in school, passing notes over to his crush. "Do you like me?"
The truth is, he's not sure what he's going to do if Messi says no. What is there to do? Just keep going on with life? Try to erase his past sins and win Messi over somehow? That's all he can do, right? There's nothing else to do except fight for his soulmate and if Messi's going to be a dick and tell him--
"Yes," Messi says then, interrupting Sergio's train of thought.
*****
Hearing Messi say the word 'Yes' is never going to get old, or at least that's what Sergio decides after they go inside to eat pizza. There hadn't been that much more conversation in the garden after that, both of them a little uncomfortable with what had just been admitted, stumbling over their words and their feet until Sergio suggested they eat.
Messi gets pineapple on his pizza, which nearly makes Sergio throw up. But then, Sergio already knew he had awful taste.
After pizza there's coffee. Not mate for Messi, although Sergio's managed to have some delivered and it's in the kitchen anytime Messi feels like having it. But they have coffee out on the deck again, a little tray with creamer and sugar stuck between them. There's also a little bottle of whiskey there which Sergio had added as an afterthought, but Messi seemed more than happy to pour a tad into their mugs.
Only one of them has training in the morning, after all.
They sit, curled up in the chairs, and watch the fireflies blink in and out of the darkness. It's dark enough now that Sergio's lit the torches to give everything a fiery glow while they relax. It's almost strangely domestic, but Sergio finds he doesn't mind. Perhaps that's why he finally gains his courage. (Either that or the slow, building heat of the alcohol coursing through his veins.) "I've been thinking," Sergio says slowly, turning in his chair to face Messi.
Messi mirrors him, hands cupped around his mug as he bends to take another sip. "About?" he asks, swallowing his coffee and sighing in contentment. "This?"
"This, and you," Sergio allows, balancing his mug on his knee. He studies Messi intently, trying to figure out what he's thinking and failing miserably. That's the thing about Messi--he always seems completely unreadable. Still, Sergio's not finished. "You, and me," he adds, taking a breath.
Messi just blinks at him, and it's so damn annoying. "Oh?"
Sergio laughs. "What, you haven't been thinking about you and me?"
Messi laughs lightly then too, breaking some of the tension. "Maybe," he admits as he stares down into his mug. "You're different than I thought you would be. A good different." He shrugs and looks back up at Sergio. "I never hated you or anything, but I can't say I wanted to be... friends with you either."
Sergio nods. "Fair enough. Back at ya." He wrestles with himself, and then comes right out and says it. "And now, that we're friends," he starts tentatively, watching as Messi slightly nods in agreement. "Now that we're friends, have you thought about... being more than friends?"
The question hovers in the air and for a minute, Sergio thinks that Messi's not going to answer and going to go back to his irritatingly quiet self. But Messi doesn't do that at all. Messi answers him firmly, unexpectedly. "Yes," Messi says, fingers tightening their grip on the mug, head tilted down like he's slightly embarrassed.
He doesn't see the way Sergio's body straightens in anticipation.
Always at that word. Always at Messi's 'Yes.'
"Have you thought about... maybe me kissing you?" Sergio asks slowly, almost trying to give Messi time to stop him from saying it. A firefly zooms around their heads, but he finds that he doesn't feel the need to watch it. He watches Messi instead, trying to get inside his head, trying to figure out his every thought and see if they're on the same page.
Messi keeps his eyes on his coffee. "Yes," he says again, but this time he licks his lips.
Sergio leans forward at that, setting his mug down on the tray between them because he's afraid he's going to spill it all over himself. "Do you want me to kiss you now?" he finally just blurts out, all ideas of finesse and caution thrown out the window. Days of concern and planning and good intentions just ignored like he's a fucking teenager who can't keep it in his pants.
Messi's eyes glimmer in the firelight. "Yes."