Chapter Text
"So you kissed him, obviously?" Cris drawls.
"Yes, I fucking kissed him!" Sergio hisses into the phone, stomping across the pavement like he wants to make his path crack in half. He'd decided to go outside so as not to run the risk of being overheard. And so he wouldn't destroy anything valuable inside. "And then he gulped the rest of his coffee down and practically ran upstairs to his room without another word."
"Was it not a good kiss?" Cris asks, sounding confused. "I didn't think you had any complaints in that particular area. At least not that I heard..."
Sergio closes his eyes and he's back on the deck with his lips pressed to Messi's. "It was a good kiss," he says quietly, the anger draining out of him and threatening to turn into despair. "It was short, short and simple because I didn't--" He cuts himself off and opens his eyes again. "I didn't want to scare him off. Except that's exactly what I did, isn't it. It's barely been any time at all and I pushed--"
"I don't think Lionel Messi would be scared off by one little kiss, Sese," Cris says soothingly. "I mean he's one tough bastard out on the pitch. I think it would take a lot more than you laying one on him for him to freak the fuck out. What's the worst that happens now? You think he hates you? After saying he'd thought about it? That sounds ridiculous."
"Maybe I should call Piqué," Sergio mutters, rubbing his eyes and trying to think. "Maybe he'd know what I should do? Or shit, is that a bad idea? Now I don't know anything. Seriously, this stupid soulmate shit has had it in for me since the very beginning!"
"Alright drama queen," Cris says, snorting. "Calm the hell down. For one thing, I'm sure Messi's already called Piqué, so forget about that. And for another thing, have you considered that he might have just been... I don't know? Nervous? Overwhelmed? Hell, maybe you didn't scare him, so much as just, I don't know--turned him on?"
Sergio pauses. "I did not consider that."
"Well, did he look disgusted?" Cris asks, sounding exasperated now. "You said the kiss was good, but then he drank his coffee and ran off? How did he act when you actually kissed him?"
Sergio had told the truth when he said it was a good kiss.
Messi hadn't moved from his chair as Sergio approached, but he'd gripped his mug tightly and looked up trustingly at Sergio. He'd been nervous, and Sergio had too, but he hadn't tried to stop Sergio and that said a lot. For a moment, Sergio had just stood there and looked his fill. Dark lashes, dark eyes, dark hair spread out over that pale skin, but Sergio's eyes had gone to his lips.
And so had his mouth.
The first kiss is always one you remember, and Sergio was going to remember that one for sure. It was short, sweet from the coffee and sharp from the whiskey. A quick taste that made Sergio want more, a sharing of breath that lasted only a heartbeat or two.
When Sergio had pulled back, Messi's eyes were closed, a faint smile appearing on his face for an instant. And there was color on his cheeks in the most alluring way.
"He liked it," Sergio says to Cris. "He did. He liked it," he says, more sure of himself now. What happened after doesn't seem as harsh as it did then--Messi's decision to drink his coffee and retreat to his room. "You're right."
"I'm always right," Cris answers breezily. "Now go to bed. You need to figure out how to go from here and I have a feeling that you need to sleep on it." He coughs. "Things are probably going to get... messy."
Sergio groans.
"I know, man," Cris says instantly, laughing hysterically, "I'm hanging up, I'm hanging up."
*****
Messi's perfectly pleasant in the morning when Sergio wanders down to the kitchen, murmuring a hello while he spreads dulce de leche over his toast. There's no sign of it being different than any other day, no indication Messi regrets what happened between them the night before.
Sergio fills his coffee cup slowly, trying to think.
"I've been talking to, well, Barcelona's been talking to me. My people want to release a statement," Messi says, interrupting him. "Just a general one, probably identical to whatever your people want to put out--we're matched, we're very happy, we ask for privacy, etc. The usual." He takes a bite of his toast, chewing for a moment and then swallowing. "Probably should have done it before."
Sergio sits down across from him at the kitchen table. He'd thought of it days ago, but since the news hadn't been leaked yet his people had decided it was best to wait. "Yeah," he agrees, "that's a good idea. Won't do much to calm the fervor, really, but it can't hurt." He leans over the mug and inhales the steam. "The fans probably don't know what to think right now. We should post something on Instagram too."
Messi shifts in his chair, drawing Sergio's gaze. "Well," Messi says, clearing his throat. "You should post. I mean, I can, but." He shakes his head and laughs suddenly.
It's so unexpected that Sergio smiles to see it. "What? You have Instagram, that I know."
Messi shakes his head. "I forgot my password again," he says, sounding embarrassed. "My phone updated and then it wanted the password and I forgot it, because it's been so long since I had to type it in... And everything I tried it said wasn't right, and well, I feel like an idiot--"
Sergio stifles a laugh, listening to Messi ramble on. "Fine, fine," he says, "I can post! No big deal." He sips his coffee and smiles as Messi turns back to putting more dulce de leche on his toast. "Although, I mean you really should reset the password, because at some point you're probably going to need it."
That said, Sergio pulls out his phone and after a second, takes a picture of Messi and his toast. The sound of the shutter makes Messi look up.
"Did you just--?" Messi asks, knife in one hand and toast in the other.
"Yep," Sergio says, setting his coffee down so he can flick through filters. The picture actually isn't bad: Messi looks relaxed in his borrowed t-shirt, hair falling over his eyes as he focuses intently on his breakfast. More than that, it shows Messi sitting at Sergio's kitchen table, with the deck and the backyard plainly in sight out of the window behind him. It's casual, comfortable, and a little bit domestic, really. Finding a filter that he likes, Sergio leans over to show Messi. "What do you think?"
Messi shrugs. "It's fine, I guess." He looks uncertain. "And you think people will want to see... me?"
Sergio saves the post to his drafts, figuring he'll wait until the statements have been released. "I think people will want to see us. See proof that we're soulmates. And you being here, in my house, will go a long way to ease their minds." He sips at his coffee and wonders what Messi's thinking. "Alright?"
Messi's eyes go from Sergio's phone back to his toast. "Alright."
*****
"I'm going to ask you a very personal question," Sergio says as they sit out on the deck that night. They've settled into a sort of a nightly routine, which includes a drink out on the deck. Coffee sometimes, wine others, or something stronger if they feel like it. Tonight it's wine--a very good red, at that--and Sergio's moving the glass around in his hand as he looks over at Messi in earnest. "You don't... you don't have to answer."
Messi sips his own wine. "If anyone has the right to ask me personal questions at this point, it's you," he simply says, though his face slides into that typical unreadable mask. "And I think you're aware of that."
Sergio rolls his eyes.
"Alright then," Sergio says slowly. He wets his lips with the wine once more, bare feet sliding against the deck restlessly. His conversation with Piqué is still running around in his brain, and then what Marcelo had said about Neymar. "I just thought, since we're continuing to get to know each other, we should probably talk about some of--," he waves his hand, "--our history." Then he clarifies. "Sexual history." And when Messi stares at him, still blank, Sergio clears his throat. "Are you a virgin, Leo?"
Messi's whole face changes at the question, with what looks to be uncomfortable laughter spilling out of him until he's nearly bright red with embarrassment. "What? Do you think I'm some sort of monk?" The 'you idiot' is implied, but not said.
Sergio finds himself laughing too, relief flooding out of him without having realized how much he was worried about the answer. "I'm sorry," he says, once they've both calmed down some and Messi's taking deep breaths. Sergio just shrugs. "I'd heard... conflicting things, let's say... And I just wanted to check."
Messi smiles at him, and there's fondness there, Sergio's sure. "Thank you for that, then," he says gently, hesitating. "I'm sorry too, I didn't mean to laugh at you like that. Especially if you were trying to be kind and careful and considerate. Which I think you were." He looks down at his wine and then back up at Sergio again. "Which I think you are most of the time."
Sergio's not sure why, but whenever Messi says something nice to him, he doesn't know how to act.
"I wouldn't say that I'm incredibly experienced," Messi continues. "If we're being... completely honest, that is. And I should be, with you, though it's hard for me to..." He blushes, but it's enough to be seen in the dim light. And then he hesitates, the tip of his tongue touching his upper lip for a second. "I've always kept my private life as private as possible. But um, you could probably guess that Kun and I, of course--. He was my first crush, you know. And we--well, when we were younger. And... a few times when we were not so young. When we both needed comfort."
Sergio feels his grip tighten on his wine glass but he nods. He'd heard that ages ago, the rumors about Messi and Agüero swirling about every international break. And he certainly can imagine Messi needing comfort here and there over the years. "You don't have to explain." Sergio's relationship with Piqué had started in quite the same way. "I understand," Sergio says quietly. "I really do."
*****
Sergio stays home from training the next morning, still thinking about his talk with Messi. It's not that he's dying to have sex with him. Because while yes, he can appreciate Messi's more attractive qualities--slim waist, interesting tattoos, gorgeous ass--he knows it's important to build a foundation first. Messi's his soulmate, which means he's perfect for Sergio. And Sergio is willing to work to keep him happy.
That said, the sex stuff will eventually factor in there. And Sergio would rather be prepared as opposed to unprepared.
"Wanna work out for a while?" he asks Messi over breakfast, stuffing the rest of a banana into his mouth. He chews noisily and then swallows most of it down in a gulp. "I've got to at least do some cardio today since I'm staying home and missing training. Otherwise, you'll end up running rings around me next clásico. And we can't have that, can we?"
Messi snorts and finishes his usual toast with dulce de leche, seeming amiable. "I already run rings around you," he retorts half-heartedly as they head downstairs. He borrows some new t-shirts and shorts from Sergio, and they dig up a pair of sneakers that will fit him. In no time at all, they're both jogging on the treadmills down in the gym, feet thumping in time as Sergio's playlist starts to play over the speakers.
"So, Agüero, huh?" Sergio asks, kicking himself as soon as it comes out of his mouth.
Messi looks over at him incredulously. "What about him? You don't like him? Everybody likes him."
"Well, he played for Atléti, so... It's been a while since then, though. So I guess he's okay. I don't really know him well," Sergio says, trying to decide what else to say now that he opened this can of worms. "But, I'm just curious. You said that you and he were close. I mean, that's obvious, but... What made you two get together? If you don't mind me asking."
Messi half laughs, looking away from Sergio and staring out of the window as he continues to run on the treadmill. "Kun's great. We clicked right away," he says smiling, apparently untroubled by the question. "They thought we might be rivals, since we were both so young and both reasonably talented, but that was ridiculous. Neither of us played the same position, really, and together we were unstoppable."
"Yeah," Sergio prods, wanting something other than what Messi normally says in interviews, "but what made you get *together*." He wiggles his eyebrows up and down even though Messi isn't looking at him. His tone should really be enough to imply what he's asking. It's not much more than normal locker room banter, though it might be a little inappropriate to talk about this so soon.
The thing is, Sergio wants to know. He really wants to know.
Messi shakes his head, blush creeping up his face. Either that or he's red already from the exertion. "Me and Kun? Well, Kun's... He's just so kind, so happy. Loves to smile, to laugh. Loves to make everyone around him laugh. A genuinely good person who cares about everyone, and I just gravitated toward him. It was hard not to." His voice is full of fondness, and Sergio's just about to say that's still not what he's really asking, when Messi coughs. "But if you mean--he's strong," he finally blurts out, steadfastly looking forward, eyes firmly on the window. "He's... That's what... That's what I like."
"Yeah?" Sergio asks, trying not to sound too interested, trying to hide his growing grin.
"Yeah," Messi says, turning the speed up on his treadmill until he's beginning to sprint and has no breath left to spend on talking.
Sergio takes the hint. And matches him.
And if he chooses to spend some time with the weights after he's finished the treadmill? Well, that's his own business.
*****
The statements get released that day, as expected. Social media continues to blow up with some people still saying it can’t possibly be real. Sergio posts the picture of Messi to his Instagram account, watching with glee as his fans and then Messi's and then the rest of the football world freak the fuck out. It also causes a flood of genuine good wishes, which Sergio occasionally chooses to read aloud to Messi.
“'I hope Messi treats you the way you deserved to be treated, Sese,'” Sergio recites, winking at Messi across the room. “'And maybe try to convince him to move to Madrid while you’re at it,' writes Sergio4evaRM.” He pretends to think it over. “What do you say, Leo? Doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, huh?”
Messi just shakes his head, focusing on cutting up tomatoes. He’s already done the garlic and onions and had cilantro up next. His knife moves across the cutting board in rhythmic strokes, eventually sliding everything into a bowl next to him.
“Oh, here’s another,” Sergio continues, kicking his feet up on the kitchen table. He drums his fingers as on his knee. “'Capi, now that you and Messi are together, please tell him to play for us.'” He flicks his eyes over at Messi. “That’s from Ramos13486. Seems to be a perfectly objective third party, so maybe I should listen.”
Messi moves over to the fridge. “Do you have any limes? Or lime juice, really, that’ll work in a pinch.” He scans the shelves, reaching out and finding the bottle of lime juice. “Never mind, found it. How old is this?” he asks, looking for an expiration date. "Oh, good, it's new."
“I feel like these people either don’t know you at all, or they’ve greatly overestimated my powers of persuasion,” Sergio muses, skimming down pages and pages of comments. He frowns as he sees a bunch of not-so-nice ones, knowing his PR team will deal with it at some point. “And some are just plain assholes,” he mutters.
“Why? What are they saying?” Messi asks, stirring his salsa and adding more lime juice than is probably necessary.
Sergio shuts his Instagram and tosses his phone across the table. “What? Who? What? Nothing. Never mind. When is this salsa gonna be done? Because I’m about to start eating the chips right out of the bag.”
Messi rolls his eyes and brings over the bowl. “Here, tell me what you think,” he says as he holds a spoon out for Sergio to taste.
There’s definitely too much lime.
“It’s good,” Sergio lies through his teeth. If he eats enough chips it’ll cover up the taste, he’s sure. Or maybe he can get a beer and—
Messi sets the bowl down and leans his hip against the table. “You’re a shit liar,” he says conversationally, crossing his arms. His armband is still hiding his soul mark, but Sergio's getting used to that by now. And while Sergio is thinking about the best way to answer, Messi leans down and brushes his lips against his. “It’s cute that you try.”
*****
"So he kissed you?" Cris confirms, voice on speaker while Sergio finishes the sit-ups he's doing down in the gym. Messi's watching some newly released zombie monstrosity up in the entertainment room and Sergio's slipped away without much fuss. A little at odds with himself, he'd decided to get in another short workout session before bed. "Kissed you unexpectedly without any kind of prompting? I think we're making progress, here."
"It's not like there's a script to follow," Sergio pants, touching his elbows to his knees and then going down on his back again. "Or that we're on a timetable. I don't know how you can measure any sort of progress in a situation like this. What are you comparing it to? A typical soulmate match?"
"Well, I don't know. But yeah, but the last time you kissed, he ran away, so... Baby steps. Did he run away this time?" Cris asks, sounding like he's trying not to laugh. "I'm guessing not, since you'd sound angrier otherwise."
Sergio sits up again, taking a breather. "No," he admits, feeling a little happy about that. "I mean, he surprised me. It was just so out of the blue, so quick. I barely had time to enjoy it before it was over again. He just walked away and started to clean the cutting board in the sink like everything was normal." He closes his eyes and groans. "I don't understand him at all."
"Honestly, Sese," Cris says, "I don't think anybody really does?" There's a burst of laughter. "He fucking hardly ever says how he really feels. It used to annoy the hell outta me when they sat us next to each other. Gotta say that I'm glad he's your problem instead of mine."
Sergio's a bit miffed. "He's not my problem," he protests, as he collapses on his back and stares up at the ceiling. "But... what do I do now?"
"You just told me there's no script," Cris says, still very amused. "And you're right. So, there isn't really any specific thing you're supposed to do next." He pauses. "This is all part of the process. Isn't it? Getting to know him? Figuring out how to read him and his blank face? Deciding how the rest of your lives are going to be? I don't know, seriously, you're the one with the soulmate. Not me."
"Does it sound stupid if I say that I never thought I'd get this far?" Sergio asks as he scratches the side of his face. "I never thought I'd find my soulmate, let alone it would be Messi, let alone he'd be willing to kiss me." He scrunches up his nose. "I mean, truthfully, the guy's not half bad, Cris. I thought it would be a nightmare, but now I think I might have lucked out."
"So what's the problem?" Cris asks.
"He puts pineapple on his pizza for one thing," Sergio grumbles, finally sitting up and stretching. "Overcooks his meat, for another. Can't cook at all, really, for a third. God, he can't even make salsa right. I can't understand how anyone ever let him near a kitchen growing up. He should be banned for life from ever attempting to enter one."
"Is that all?" Cris asks dryly.
"Likes movies with blood and gore," Sergio throws out, ticking it off on his finger like it means something. "Hates Madrid. Plays for Barcelona." He sighs. "Maybe those last two are the worst, eh? I haven't even really thought about them until now. We never talked about it. How are we supposed to survive the season? Playing against each other? Not just during el clásico, but competing for la Liga? I mean, I'll be hoping for him to lose every week... That just sounds so shitty."
"In a way," Cris ventures, "it's the same as being friends with the guys on the national team, though. Don't you think? You hate their guts on the pitch and then love them the rest of the time. Besides, you managed okay with Piqué all these years, didn't you?"
"Well, the last time I saw him he punched me in the face so..." Sergio snorts, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. "But I get what you're saying."
"I really think the rivalry aspect will be okay," Cris says. "I'd worry a lot more over the pineapple pizza thing. I mean, really? That's disgusting."
Sergio gags. "You're telling me."
*****
Sergio strips off his shirt and wipes his face. He's in desperate need of a shower after his workout, sweating in the most disgusting way. Tossing the shirt over his shoulder, he runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "Anything in particular you want for dinner?" he asks Messi, once it's clear the television is off. Sergio says a little prayer of thanks that the stupid zombie movie was a short one, reaching for a water bottle.
Messi licks his lips, reaching for his own bottle of water on the coffee table. He takes a long gulp, staring at Sergio in a very strange way. "No," he eventually says, voice a little croaky, immediately taking another gulp. "Whatever you want."
Sergio hums, drinking his own water. "Takeout. Chinese?" he suggests, stomach already growling. "Hey, are you coming down with something? You sound a bit off." He pats his belly lightly, trying not to be embarrassed by the noises it's making, although Messi's eyes are already fixated on it so it's clear he's pretty loud. "Sorry, hungry, obviously."
"I'm fine," Messi mumbles, voice still not completely normal. He clears his throat and shakes his head. "Fine," he says again. "And Chinese is good," he agrees. He takes another long gulp of water, finishing the bottle and then wiping his mouth. "I like... it."
There's a flush in his cheeks and his eyes are bright, so Sergio wonders if he's got a fever.
"You pick what you want," Sergio says, grabbing a menu for his favorite place out of the folder in the kitchen. He hands it to Messi, wondering if he should fetch the thermometer. "Call it in when you're ready? I'll take beef and broccoli with fried rice, and an egg roll, please. They'll put it all on my card. I'm gonna head up and shower in the meantime."
He contemplates Messi again, who seems to have zoned out. "You're sure you're alright?" He leans down and puts his palm on Messi's forehead. Truthfully, he's not quite sure how to tell if someone has a fever this way--it was a talent his mother had but Sergio had never learned. "Would you rather just go to bed?" he asks, dropping his hand when Messi looks up at him with wide eyes.
"To bed?" Messi repeats slowly, biting his lip as he stares up at Sergio. He opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it, flicking his eyes over Sergio for a moment. "Oh, no, I'm fine. I'll order the food. You can go shower."
Sergio's not entirely convinced, but. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "Alright," he agrees, deciding he'll just keep an eye on Messi. He can probably bully him into going to bed early in any case, and maybe a little food will do him good. "Don't forget the egg roll," he tosses over his shoulder as he turns on his heel.
*****
"Hot or not?" Isco asks in the locker room the next morning as he leans over to show Sergio a picture of some guy he doesn't know on his phone.
Sergio mulls it over. "Eh, not bad," he decides, waving his hand in the hair to indicate middling. "Style is good, but the hair could be better," he adds, as Isco nods knowingly in agreement. "If it were a little longer on top, not so shaved on the sides... Definitely has potential."
Isco scrolls over to a new picture. "How about this?" he asks, showing the same man again. This time the man is shirtless, standing next to a pool and shiny with what Sergio assumes is suntan lotion. He's wearing sunglasses and smiling happily. "You can't tell me this isn't hot."
Sergio concedes the point. "Well, that's different," he admits, finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the gleaming muscles in front of him. "You get any half-fit guy, strip off his shirt and get him all glistening and there's no way you can see him as anything other than--" He stops mid-sentence, suddenly having an epiphany. "Holy fucking shit."
Isco pulls his phone back protectively. "What??"
"Not you, idiot," Sergio murmurs, thinking back to the night before. He realizes now--and only now, not last night, because he's a fucking dumbass--that when he'd been standing sweatily next to the couch and rambling on about Chinese food and takeout, that Messi had been staring at *him*. Messi had been staring at his stomach--not because of the noise, but because... "It's just..."
Messi hadn't been sick.
Oh, no, Messi had been flushed for a very different reason, indeed.
Sergio grins, making Isco back away in alarm. "Exactly what I said," Sergio says, though he can't seem to shake the smile off his face. He's fucking flattered as hell, knowing that Messi was looking at him like that. He laughs, feeling so stupid to think that Messi's dry throat and bright eyes had been because of a cold.
Isco looks confused, going back to his phone and very clearly deciding not to ask Sergio any more questions.
But that's just fine for Sergio. Because he's already plotting what to do with this new information. "Baby steps," he murmurs to himself, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. That Sergio looks at him knowingly.
Sergio just winks.
*****
Barcelona has the Saturday game, and Messi's obviously feeling nervous about not being there--no matter how much he attempts to play it cool.
Sergio graciously gets the channel all set up for him, pushes him down onto the couch and tells him to relax. "It's not important," Sergio tells him. And he doesn't have to lie, because it's true. "Season's practically over. Everything's decided. It means nothing."
Messi's tense under his hands, but he settles back against the cushions and pretends he's listening. "I probably should have gone back," he mutters, as they both ignore the way the announcers are talking about their soul marks matching during el clásico. "Everybody said it was okay that I stayed... But I should have gone back. It'll become some big thing about how I don't care about the team and suck as captain."
Sergio collapses down next to him and shrugs. He can't be sorry. Not because he wants Barcelona to lose and Messi being here could lead to that happen, but because the two of them needed the time to settle things, to try to figure out how the hell this has all happened. "Eh, if you guys win, nobody will say a thing. And if you lose, well, give it a few weeks and they'll start talking about next season and it won't matter." He nudges his foot against Messi's. "Let's just watch."
And that's really the end of that, because Suárez scores two in quick succession and Messi's relief is more than evident.
"He was offside!" Sergio cries, nearly spilling his beer with how incensed he is at the blatant cheating after the second goal. "Look at this," he says, standing up and moving over to the television as they show yet another replay. He points to the last defender and then the way Suárez is a full step in front of him. "Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I swear to god, he's paying the ref!" With every word, he taps on the screen.
But when he turns away from the television and back at Messi, he freezes.
"What are you--?" Sergio asks cautiously.
Messi's got his phone pointed in his direction. "Didn't you say that I should post something on Instagram?" he asks, smiling calmly. "Don't worry, it's not a video," he adds, looking down at the phone and starting to type. "Just you angrily trying to break your tv."
"You can't post that," Sergio protests, knowing he'll get shit for watching Barcelona--no matter his bond with Messi. Although if he's pointing to the obvious offside, maybe it would be okay? But then again, Messi's a notoriously awful picture-taker, so Sergio can't trust him to post anything that's even in focus. He probably didn't even add a filter. "Alright, well, let me see it first." He sets his beer on the table and looms over Messi, trying to grab the phone. "How do I look?" And then when Messi jerks the phone away, "What, hey, Leo! Let me see it!"
But Messi's a strong little fucker.
He refuses to release the phone and if anything, tightens his grip as he turns onto his side and tries to shield the screen from view. Sergio's arms are around his waist at this point, trying to pull his wrists away. "I'm not finished! Stop! I have to write the caption," Messi says, trying to shake Sergio off, but he's laughing. "I'm posting it!" he shouts as Sergio finally falls on top of him in an effort to try to pry the phone from his hands. "Ha! It's done!"
Messi's still laughing, gleefully now, even as Sergio presses him face first down into the couch.
"Well, let me see it, then," Sergio says, and Messi mumbles something uncomplimentary while handing the phone over his shoulder reluctantly. As pictures go, it isn't the worst one Sergio's seen of himself. He's blocking the part of the screen with Suárez, but he's gesturing angrily with Barcelona in the background. It might be okay. The caption though... 'Watching with my other half. Let's go, Luis! Let's go team!'
Sergio feels something tighten in his chest. He doesn't know what to say. Messi's still laughing quietly to himself beneath him, sprawled out on the cushions while Sergio's leaning on him. And it's all so casual and comfortable and normal that Sergio nearly--
"Yes! Luis!" Messi says then, head turned toward the television.
Sergio forgets what he was going to do and turns sullenly to see Suárez score his third of the day. It's a free header inside the box and it makes him grumble, annoyed with the center backs of the opposing team. "He was wide open," Sergio says, slowly pushing himself back over to his side of the couch as he watches the replay. "Look at that. Just parked himself on the spot and had all the time in the world."
Worse than the replay, though, is Suárez' celebration. He holds up ten fingers and then blows a kiss. It's for Messi. Sergio knows it is.
And he finds that he really, really, doesn't like it.
*****
Sergio likes it even less when Suárez facetimes Messi sometime after the game.
They're still on the couch, watching the postgame show and the commentators drool all over Barcelona's performance. There's talk about it being Suárez' game of the season, and how the assist Alba gave for the third goal showed why he was one of the best left-backs in the world. In the middle of one of the pundits listing the reasons why Barcelona's ter Stegen is irreplaceable, Sergio rolls his eyes so much that he's afraid they're going to get stuck.
When Messi's cell rings, Messi lets out a little, "Oh," of excitement. Suárez's name and face flash across the screen and Messi looks delighted. "Do you want me to--?" Messi asks, motioning toward the kitchen like he thinks he has to leave.
Sergio waves a hand. "No, no," he says, unbothered. He wants Messi to think of this as his house too, and in any case, he would never make someone leave the room if they wanted to talk on the phone. Especially since they're not watching anything in particular. But as Messi answers and Suárez starts blathering, Sergio decides to take his empty bottle to the kitchen and get another one.
That accomplished, he dillydallies to give Messi some time to get all the pleasantries out. Sergio opens the fridge and putters around for a bit, wavering on whether or not he's hungry. Finally, he decides on some cut up red peppers and carrots that he can dip into a container of hummus. That's easy enough to set on a tray with some crackers and cheese in case Messi wants anything.
Messi's still talking to Suárez as Sergio carries it all back into the tv room, but it's quietly and sincerely and Sergio feels uncomfortable intruding for a hot second. Then he decides that he lives there and Messi was going to just talk in front of him anyways, so he continues in and sets his tray on the table.
It's just in time to hear Suárez ask, "Who kisses better?"
Sergio pauses, frozen dipping a piece of red pepper into his hummus. He's not sure if what he just heard is really what he just heard. He raises his eyebrows as Messi immediately turns red and hisses, "Luis!", clearly wanting Suárez to know that Sergio has returned to the room.
Sergio tries not to laugh as it sinks in that Messi's been talking about them kissing. That's definitely a good thing, means that Messi's either getting more comfortable with it or wrestling with his growing attraction. Either way, more progress. He smothers his laugh, but can't hide his smile. It grows as he grins at Messi because Messi's refusing to look at him at all except out of the corner of his eyes. Sergio's enjoying himself, with Barcelona's win forgotten, contentedly chewing on his red pepper while he turns back to flip through a few channels.
Except then Suárez continues, "Come on, Leo! Tell me, honestly. Who's the better kisser? Me or him?"
And Sergio starts choking on the red pepper.
*****
"Ew," Luka says.
"Ditto. But, hmm, that explains a lot," Marcelo says slowly, pulling his foot up onto the bench so that he can tie his laces. The locker room is always noisy before a game, but still, he's managed to keep his voice quiet over where he's sitting next to Sergio and Luka. "I wouldn't have guessed, but now that you say it... Well, it makes sense. I wonder if Ney knew?"
Sergio doesn't respond.
Luka leans back against the locker. "I mean, I don't get it, but... Anyways, why are you so upset about this? It isn't that you're threatened by their relationship, is it? Because I don't think there's really a comparison to make." And when Sergio looks at him questioningly, Luka shrugs. "Soulmates are soulmates, Sergio. I can't be jealous of who Ivan was with before me, because I know he's happy with me now. And that's all there is to it."
"Yeah but you and Rakitić actually liked each other before," Sergio grumbles, rubbing his eyes. He takes a deep breath and then looks at the clock, knowing that they'll have to go out and start warming up soon. "I mean, for all I know, Messi and Suárez were banging up until el clásico."
Luka looks at him disapprovingly.
Marcelo raises an eyebrow. "And Piqué wouldn't have mentioned it?"
Sergio throws his arms up in frustration. "Well, I don't know what to think now! Piqué says Messi didn't sleep around like the two of us did, so that means anyone he's been with was--I don't know, about a deeper connection or some bullshit. Right? But I thought he'd at least have given me a heads up about this."
"Or Piqué didn't know," Luka suggests, putting a hand on Sergio's knee to try to calm him down. "Messi seems rather close-lipped," he pauses, "excuse me, pun not intended."
Marcelo makes a face. "Well, here's the thing. Messi didn't mention it before, Sese. And honestly? The guy isn't really a liar, right? You said he mentioned Agüero, which means he probably thought of Agüero as being the most important relationship he had in the past. So his thing with Suárez? Hell, maybe it was just kissing. A little fun, regardless of what Piqué said about Messi's history. Did you ever think of that?"
Sergio had, in fact, not thought of that.
Sergio had thought a great deal of other things. Things including how Messi said he liked that Agüero was strong. And how, under pressure, Sergio might admit that Suárez was also strong--the same body type, the same style.
Messi liked number nines, apparently, Sergio thought disgustedly. Next, he was gonna hear that Messi hooked up with Karim and Diego Costa or some shit like that.
"Besides," Luka says, standing up and twisting his body from side to side, "weren't you and Piqué sleeping together up until el clásico?" He knows very well that they were, so he just gives Sergio a look. "Did Messi know that for sure? Have you told him?" And then, "I think you two need to have another discussion because if you're jealous and upset, I don't think it's fair to assume he's perfectly okay with everything."
Sergio groans. "I hate you," he says, standing up too. Luka beams at him, and Sergio waves a hand in his face. "Game first. Messi second."
*****
Messi's out in the back when Sergio gets home, walking barefoot through the grass with a ball at his feet. Sergio watches him drag it this way and that, finding a sort of beauty in how effortless it is--when it's not against him, that is. Still, Madrid had won today and Sergio had scored right at the end to make that happen, so he could afford to be appreciative.
"How did it go?" Messi asks, sensing his presence and looking up. The ball comes to a gradual stop and his toes touch the top once more before he side foots it over in Sergio's direction.
"You didn't watch?" Sergio asks, feeling a surge of disappointment shoot through him as he catches the ball softly with his instep. It's followed by a whisper of anger that Messi couldn't be bothered, but that dissipates when Messi smiles at him.
"I'm just kidding," Messi says kindly. "Of course I watched." And then with some enthusiasm, "I wanted you to lose, of course, but damn that was a good goal." He shakes his head ruefully. "I mean you were talking about Luis being wide open yesterday, but hell, if there's one person not to leave unmarked in the box in the 93rd minute... You'd think everybody would have learned that lesson by now."
Sergio taps the ball from foot to foot, torn between being flattered and being jealous at the reminder of Suárez. "Agreed," he finally says, when he realizes he's taking too long and Messi's waiting. "Well, I'm starving," he adds, kicking the ball back to Messi, "so should we eat?" His stomach growls and he thinks about what he'd seen in the fridge this morning. "There's definitely some leftover chicken... Tacos?"
Messi pops the ball up to his knees, juggling a few times before hitting it higher so he can balance on his head. "Sounds great." He looks up at it with crossed eyes before bringing it back down to his feet neatly. "Oh, and we still have some salsa left!"
Sergio's mouth is already puckering as he remembers the lime. "Yes, yes we do," he says, trying to think of how he can spoon it down the sink before Messi realizes. It'll have to be discreetly, so as not to hurt his feelings, he thinks as Messi crosses the lawn and steps into his space. "Perfect."
"You're still a shit liar," Messi says as he brushes by Sergio to head inside. "And I can definitely tell you're planning something," he throws over his shoulder. "If anything happens to the salsa, I'll know." It's said with a threatening tone, which just makes it sound silly coming from Messi.
Sergio makes a face, mimicking him behind his back. "Oh, you'll know, will you?" he asks, continuing inside behind Messi. "Gosh, that frightens me to bits." He fake shudders.
Messi turns around and Sergio nearly smacks into him. "Did you just say 'to bits'?" Messi asks as Sergio grabs his shoulders and steadies them so they don't fall. He looks amused, tugging on Sergio's shirt playfully around the ribs before dropping it. "You crack me up. I never thought you'd be..."
Sergio lets go of Messi's shoulders and waits. "I'd be, what?"
Messi shrugs. "I don't know? Funny." He has to tilt his head back to look Sergio in the eye. "It's nice, I mean. I like that you're funny." He raises up on his tiptoes with a smile, hand against Sergio's stomach, leaning against him comfortably.
Sergio shouldn't say it. Shouldn't ask it. Shouldn't think it. Shouldn't even wonder. But he does, of course, he does, because he's a fucking idiot and he can't go one full day without sticking his foot in his mouth. "Am I funnier than him?" he asks, shifting his weight, knowing it's wrong even as he asks it.
Messi doesn't get it at first, bless his little heart. "What? Who?" he asks, dropping down to be flat-footed again.
Sergio should leave it alone. "Who's funnier?" he asks instead. "Me or Suárez?" And if there's a nastiness to the way he says Suárez' name, that's unintentional. "Can't blame me for wondering. After all, you've gotta be making comparisons between the two of us, right? You have to be thinking if what you have now is as good as what you left behind, right?"
Messi takes a step away from him, frowning now, all levity gone. "I didn't--I wasn't--I'm not comparing you to anyone, Sergio," he says flatly. His face smooths out too, his expression turning to the one he uses for the press interviews, the one that doesn't give anything away while at the same time says that he doesn't want to be doing this. "I don't think I'm very hungry as it turns out," he adds, taking another step back. "Might turn in early. You should eat without me."
And then he walks away and leaves Sergio standing there.
"Fuck."
*****
Cris is quiet for a minute after Sergio blurts the whole story out. "Jesus, Sese, you're an idiot. And an asshole, I think. Why do you have to be so goddamn nosy all the time? What does it matter if he slept with Suárez? I mean, gross, but what does it matter? Does it really change anything at this point?"
Sergio's too frustrated to really say what he means. "It's not that he slept with Suárez," he finally gets out. "It's that he didn't tell me about it! I asked him if he was a virgin and he said he'd been with Agüero. He didn't say anything else about other people!" He thuds his head against the fridge, leaving it there so that he can feel the cool metal against his forehead.
"So? Did he say it was just Agüero? Did he specifically say he'd been with one person only, for his entire life?" Cris prods. "Again, not that it was really any of your business, was it?"
"Well, no," Sergio says, closing his eyes and thinking back. "But Piqué said--"
"I think that's your problem right there," Cris interrupts. "Who the hell cares what Piqué said?" he says scornfully. "If you want to know something about Messi, ask Messi. If you want to know something about Piqué, ask Piqué. I feel like this is a no brainer. They're different people, Sese, and it doesn't matter that they've been teammates and friends for years. That friendship doesn't mean they know *everything* about each other, and nor should it. There's plenty of stuff I don't know about you!"
"I didn't mean for this to be so--," Sergio cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. "I only wanted to know because of Piqué warning me to be careful. I just wanted to make sure that Messi was okay with everything. That I didn't push him too fast into something he wasn't comfortable with. Seriously. That's it." He straightens up and opens the fridge to stare at the chicken he was going to use in tacos. "I don't think it's fair that now I'm the bad guy here," he says sullenly.
Cris just laughs at him. "You're not a bad guy. But you are the one who messed up. So you'd better start being the apologetic guy pretty darn soon, or you're gonna lose all the progress you've been making with him. And then you'll both be miserable when you could've been happy."
Sergio closes the fridge. He's no longer hungry either. "What should I do, then?"
"Are you kidding me? You just--," Cris pauses. "Go fucking make up with him, idiot!"
*****
Sergio waits three days to knock on Messi's door. Despite living in the same house, they haven't seen each other since Messi walked away from him. And in that time, Sergio's tried to find the words to apologize. And the courage to bang on the door. Finally, he's managed to make himself do it. What's the worst that could happen? Messi tells him to go away? Still, he doesn't want that. At all. Bracing himself for disappointment, he knocks.
And what do you know? Messi tells him to come in.
Sergio takes a deep breath and enters, closing the door softly behind him. Messi's sitting crosslegged on the edge of the bed, on the phone with somebody, but when Sergio comes in he ends the call. He doesn't look angry or anything. In fact, he's wearing that phony blank expression as if he's got his shields up in preparation for whatever Sergio has come to say.
"I'm sorry," Sergio says first, needing to get that out. Because the truth is that he is sorry, and he didn't mean to make Messi upset. He just couldn't control himself. It probably won't be the last time he says something like that Messi, but he'll always apologize if he's in the wrong. Which he is, in this case. "I shouldn't have said anything about Suárez at all. If you want to tell me about you and him, that's up to you, but, Leo, I'm really very sorry."
Messi's face unfreezes slightly. "Do you want me to tell you about me and him?" he asks.
Sergio bites his tongue, having not really expected that. He doesn't want to know... but he also really does. At the very least, he needs to know what he's up against. He needs to know if he has to be competing with someone--the whole soulmate thing aside. "If you don't," he finally says, chewing on his lip, "I'll always wonder."
Messi weighs that, eyes flicking over Sergio as if considering his sincerity. "Alright," he allows, swallowing once, tilting his head as if to invite Sergio to sit next to him. "I don't know why you're so hung up on it," he says once Sergio sits gingerly beside him. "Luis and I haven't been together for quite some time now."
It's still so weird to think of Messi and Suárez in a relationship at all. Suárez is the most unappealing person in the world. Sergio just cannot figure it out. "When was it?" Sergio asks, trying to think back to if there'd been anything on Instagram he might have seen that would have indicated some sort of... fraternization.
Messi waves a hand, a little of the tension leaving his body. "After Neymar left." He laughs, shifting to turn more in Sergio's direction. "It was unexpected--Neymar leaving, that is. Well, I guess me and Luis getting together was unexpected too... But, we were both hurting. It just made sense for us to turn to each other. It was only for about a year. Things got too complicated around the World Cup and we decided just to continue on as friends."
"You didn't mention him before, is all," Sergio says, trying to explain why he's even bothered. "You mentioned Agüero," he explains, watching Messi's cheeks turn pink at the name. "And I thought he was the only one that had..." He can't think of a better way to say 'fucked you,' so he doesn't say it. "I just didn't get it. Why you wouldn't mention him. To me."
"Do you want a list?" Messi asks, pressing his lips together and looking put out.
"No," Sergio says, feeling even more like an ass. "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. None of this is what I meant. I'm saying it all wrong." He collapses backward onto the bed, spreading his arms out and staring up at the guest room ceiling. "Piqué implied you were inexperienced and that's my fault for believing him and letting what he said color my behavior."
Messi sighs and leans backward too until they're both flat on the bed next to each other. Then he turns on his side and props himself up with his elbow. "It would be a short list," he offers quietly. "It would be Kun and Luis. That's it. They're the only two people I've been with in my entire life."
Sergio turns his head. "Alright," he says softly. "Thank you for telling me." It truly doesn't matter if there were people in Messi's life before this. It only matters that they're all gone now. He stares at Messi, trying to figure out what he's thinking. "So you're... completely unattached, you might say."
Messi's lips quirk up slightly. "Unattached except for the owner of this," he says, tapping his armband twice to indicate Sergio's words underneath. He takes a deep breath. "And I can't believe I have to ask this, but I assume that you are also unattached? Because I know that you and Geri..." he trails off and Sergio feels a surge of guilt for not bringing this up sooner.
"Me and Piqué are finished," Sergio says, mirroring Messi's posture by holding himself up on his elbow. "It was never anything serious, just for comfort, and at this moment he's the furthest thing from my mind."
Messi doesn't say anything immediately in response to that, but there's a quiet acceptance. A touch of approval in the way he ducks his head and absorbs what Sergio has just said. "And if I asked you for a list?"
Sergio nods. "I'd give you one. Although, it's quite a bit longer than two people and it might take me a little time to write them all out." He'll do it though. If that's what Messi wants, he'll do it. When Messi doesn't immediately reply, Sergio smiles gently at him. "Do you want it?"
Messi's lips quick again like he's just heard something funny. "No," he finally says, leaning in toward Sergio's mouth. And then in a whisper, "I just wanted to know that you'd give it to me."
*****
Messi comes down for tacos that night.
Not that Sergio had to do much to get him to come down with the way both of their stomachs started growling after awhile. Whatever tension that had been between them seems to have disappeared, and the back and forth conversation has come back. (The salsa does end up on the table, but Sergio just chooses to ignore it.)
"You're like him, you know," Messi offers, talking with food in his mouth like a heathen. "Luis," he confirms, when Sergio raises an eyebrow.
"What? No! How?" Sergio splutters, nearly spitting out a whole mouthful of tequila. He reaches for a napkin and dabs his shirt, trying to catch any droplets that might have escaped. "I am not. Take that back right now," he adds, torn between laughing hysterically and being outraged.
Messi shrugs, smiling easily. "I'm not an idiot," he says, dipping a chip into the salsa and then crunching down on it. "It's been pointed out to me that I have a type," he admits. "And while you might be a little different... er, um, physically," he says, blushing, "your personality is very similar to Luis'."
Sergio mentally adds Messi's ability to compare people to the list of things that he's bad at. And he wants to come back to the physical part, but he has to address this right now.
"Name one thing that's similar," Sergio says, crossing his arms. Because this is ridiculous and he will not stand for it. Not in his own home and not--
"You're both very funny," Messi says, interrupting his thoughts. "Quick-witted. A little blunt in your humor, but it's funny. You might make fun of someone else, but it's never so far as bullying. You can take it as well as you dish it out. You like to laugh, but you like to make everyone else laugh, too."
Sergio points his finger at Messi and pauses. "That's..."
"You're both kind," Messi continues. "You go out of your way to make sure that other people are happy and comfortable around you. For example, you stocked mate practically the first day you bought me home. You've given me anything I could possibly want or need while staying here. And you've done it all without a single complaint."
"That's just basic hospitality," Sergio says, fumbling for a way to turn this around.
"You're both cautious," Messi says then, sipping at his own drink thoughtfully. "While you might also throw yourselves headfirst into things on the field, off the field you is very different for you. You try to think things through and get advice before doing anything rash." He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. "None of these things are bad, Sergio."
"I don't like being compared to him," Sergio finally says honestly. Is there another way to say that he hates Suárez with nearly every fiber of his being?
Messi's finger circles the rim of his glass over and over, finally coming to a stop. "It's funny, do you know why Luis and I finally came together?" He runs his hand through his hair and looks over at Sergio directly. "I know I said it was because of Neymar, and it was. But I mean, crossing from friends into something else still was a huge step..."
Sergio sips his tequila again, guardedly.
Messi licks his lips and looks embarrassed. "He kissed me. And I looked at him and waited. I waited for myself to react poorly, to push him away and tell him I didn't want it--just as I had when Neymar tried all those years ago. Just as I had with others before him. But the way he looked at me, and the way he spoke to me..." Messi turns his eyes to his glass, clearly still embarrassed. "I knew then, that he would never say the words that were printed on my arm. That he was safe."
*****
The days pass. But what Messi said never really leaves Sergio's head. As a result, he's far from calm as he lights the torches and trudges up the steps to take his usual chair on some random night out on the deck. Messi's carried out the tray with their drinks, Sergio's coffee and it's fixings next to a thermos of hot water and a gourd for mate. Messi's even added a little plate of cookies, cinnamon swirl alternating with chocolate chip if his eyes don't deceive him.
"You said he was safe," Sergio begins tentatively, holding his mug against his stomach. It's hot. A little too hot, but he'll make do. He wants to gulp it down, to give him the strength for what he wants to ask. But he forces himself to be cautious. He knows Messi will know what he means, even if the conversation was ages ago. Sergio's certainly been thinking about it all this time, and he thinks Messi might have been too.
Messi doesn't look at him, pouring the hot water slowly into his gourd and stirring the bombilla around slightly as his custom. "Wha--Luis? Yes." He doesn't add anything else to the conversation, maybe tired of it, maybe not knowing where Sergio is going with it.
"So everyone else that you pushed away throughout your life... Neymar and you know? Were they not safe?" He sips at his too-hot coffee and tries to understand. "Does this mean that you don't feel safe with me, then?" There's a pit in his stomach that isn't going away, no matter how much coffee he drinks. He's tried to make sense of what Messi said, but he's thought about it every time they've kissed or touched.
"Sergio," Messi says, shaking his head. "It's not..." He starts and then stops, trying to choose his words carefully. His eyes drift from Sergio out into the backyard, focusing on the garden before shaking his head again. "We've fought about this before. About how you had one word and how hard that was for you. About how I had this awful--," he cuts himself off and looks down at where his armband is. When he looks up at Sergio, he looks sad. "I was afraid of the type of person who would say that to me. And yeah, so anyone I thought might... I refused to get close to."
"Because it's dirty?" Sergio asks, fingers tapping on his mug. "Sexual?" He and Messi have gotten closer and closer and they've both been more than happy with how things have progressed. Kisses have come naturally, but they haven't gone much further than that.
Messi tilts his head. "Dirty, sexual, and to be completely honest with you--fucking scary. I was terrified when I was younger. It sounded violent, even once I understood what sex was. Threatening." His cheeks are red again, the ever constant blush still vivid in the darkness. "Even when I got old enough to really understand that it *could* be just banter, I still didn't like it--didn't like the idea that someone could say that to me. That my soulmate would think it was okay to say that to me. If they knew me at all, how could they think that?"
"And then I said it," Sergio says, grip tightening on his mug, feeling disgusted that he'd ever thought it funny. Especially knowing that it scared Messi this much? He's horrified. "I'm sorry, Leo," he says earnestly, setting the mug down on the table and coming over to kneel down beside Messi. He brushes his fingers against where Messi's still holding the gourd of mate. "I can't say how sorry I am."
Messi's color doesn't dissipate, but he sets the gourd down next to Sergio's mug and then boldly reaches for Sergio's hand. "I know," he says instantly. "I know, Sergio. And I forgive you, because I know you said it as a joke and I know you didn't mean it to be anything other than that." He looks serious. "I forgave you nearly as soon as you said it. I was never ever afraid of you in that way."
The tension in Sergio's body gradually decreases, and he takes a deep breath. The deck is hard on his knees and he's not as young as he used to be, so eventually, he's going to have to get up. But for now, "I'm still sorry." He looks down at where Leo's holding his hand, their fingers tangled together tightly. Very slowly, not sure if he's doing the right thing, he presses a kiss to the back of Leo's hand.
*****
Things take a while to go back completely to normal, but as more time passes, they settle back into their routine. It helps that the season is over, and vacation can finally begin. Sergio doesn't need to go to training in the morning and can sit and have long, leisurely breakfasts with Messi if he wants.
Which he does.
They talk about traveling, maybe finding a beach on some private resort where they can just enjoy the sun. Somewhere private, without tourists and fans, where they wouldn't have to worry about the press analyzing their every move. Sergio thinks about how they're going to need to buy stock in sunscreen just to keep Messi's porcelain skin protected. And then he thinks about how he wouldn't mind helping rub it into Messi's skin and his thoughts get derailed entirely.
They run on the treadmills together, fighting over the playlist nearly every day until Messi finally gives up and lets Sergio have his way. Sergio's music is better, everyone knows that, but he adds a few of Messi's favorites in there just to keep the peace. He asks about Agüero and Suárez sometimes when they're running. Not to be nosy, but just because he wants to get a fuller picture of Messi. Messi's honest with his answers--sometimes a little tooooooo honest--and then he figures out that it means he can ask about Piqué and Fernando and Sergio quickly discovers that everything has backfired on him.
Cris laughs for days when he hears.
They continue to switch off on Netflix, although Sergio refuses to watch zombie movies when it's not his turn and starts to smuggle his phone to movie nights so he can watch 'Gilligan's Island' on the down-low.
Messi's started to add to the garden in the back, completely disrupting Sergio's landscaper's plans, but nobody really stops him. It's hard to tell him no when he shows such enthusiasm, digging neat little rows all around the birdbath while he wears red and blue gardening gloves that Sergio itches to throw out. New plants show up day after day, colorful flowers and things that Sergio couldn't identify in a million years, along with all sorts of herbs and vegetables. Some of them are going to, unfortunately, make it into the terrible salsa, but Sergio finds that he's getting used to Messi's flavor choices.
Sergio buys strings of fairy lights to wrap around the railing of the deck, since they spend so much time out there now. Sure, in the daytime they don't really matter, but at night, they're a nice addition to the torches. And with the new night-blooming flowers curling around the posts, Sergio admits that everything looks quite nice. Smells a little bit like fresh mulch, but that'll go away in time.
Messi doesn't get Twitter. But he does post on Instagram a lot more often, usually to keep up with how much Sergio's posting. Or to show off his work in the garden. The red and blue gloves show up more than Sergio would like, but there's not much Sergio can do about that except casually suggest black and white filters.
Suárez likes every picture.
Sergio blocks him and unblocks him several times.
Life's not completely rosy, and they have the occasional fight just like any other couple. Sometimes it's because Messi's being a bitch, and sometimes it's because Sergio's unwilling to compromise. Mostly because Messi's being a bitch, if Sergio's being completely honest. And of course, they fight about Barcelona and Real Madrid. About all sorts of things from games that they probably shouldn't even remember, but they do, about fouls that weren't fouls and penalties that weren't penalties. About referees and other players, about tournaments and trophies.
Messi holds Barcelona's dominance in la Liga over Sergio's head and Sergio counters with Real Madrid's undeniable success in the Champions League. Luka and Rakitić are quite frequently over for dinner in an attempt to settle things, or at least demonstrate how a culé and a blanco should be able to get along. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Messi often tries to invite Piqué over, and Sergio gleefully informs him that he owes him a punch in the face.
Piqué does not come over.
They do end up spending the last two weeks before preseason in the Bahamas, drinking copious amounts of mixed drinks out of coconuts and jet skiing even though they're not technically allowed. They run out of sunscreen on the first day, and even though Messi doesn't care, Sergio leaves in a huff so he can take the boat over to the resort gift shop and buy more. People definitely take pictures of him as he's leaving with his hands full of said sunscreen and even though he doesn't check, he knows they end up all over the internet. As punishment, Sergio *accidentally* throws most of Messi's bathing suits into the ocean one night until only teeny tiny ones remain, and he's really very sorry about that.
Ha. Yeah right.
What he had not considered was, the smaller the bathing suit, the more area needed to be covered by sunscreen. And Messi just smiles when he asks Sergio to help rub it in. The upper back, the shoulders, the trim waist, the curve of the thigh... Sergio is very thorough.
Thankfully, Messi is happy to return the favor.
Neither of them gets a bit of sunburn the whole two weeks.
Beard burn, however...
*****
On the last day of their vacation, at that little resort gift shop, Sergio buys matching bands for them. They're not perfect, not custom, not necessarily the ones that Sergio would have chosen out of all the bands in the world, but somehow he thinks that they're just right. And that night, as they're watching the sunset over the water, their feet in the sand, Sergio gets down on his knees and holds the longer one out to Messi. "Can I?" he asks, fingers trailing over the ties to Messi's current band.
Messi smiles. And then he says, "Yes."