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For Paolo Maldini, on and off the pitch was like two parallel Galaxies.
Upon the first meeting, many people were surprised with his calm, gentle demeanor. On the pitch he was the captain, the leader, ready to do whatever it takes to reach the victory. It often meant quick decisions, authoritative voice interrupting angry outbursts of the fellow players. On the pitch, nobody cared about the personal, at least that's what was taught to him.
"Shut up, Gennaro, you're going to ruin it for us!" he called out once, his voice firm, his body presence emitting cold anger. He roughly grabbed the midfielder's arm, quickly pulling him away from the fight.
Later, after the match, Gattuso didn't seem offended. At least that's what Maldini thought. After all, the younger man has always been a bit too rough on the edges, showing his affection with simple, everyday actions rather than words or big gestures.
He never imagined his life outside of Milano. His beloved city. His safe fortress. His beacon of life and beauty. In Milano, he was raised, schooled, groomed for his career. In Milano, he found his true love.
Andriy came out of the bathroom, white towel around his waist. In the aggressive hotel room lights, his dragon tattoo seemed to stand out from his pale skin even more. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, he grabbed a pair of boxers from his suitcase, he dropped the towel on the floor. Paolo carefully watched his every movement.
"What are you looking at?" Andriy laughed, pulling up the underwear band.
"I'm trying to get enough of you." Paolo answered, his voice as soft as always. "So I don't get distracted on the pitch."
"So you'll stare a bit, get bored and move on?" Sheva pouted at him, pretending to be offended. Paolo gently, but firmly grabbed both of his wrists.
"Never." He said, and Andriy looked at him fondly.
On the pitch you are a soldier... No, you are a gladiator, expected to fight beautifully and go down with equal impact, leaving the audience with their hearts beating fast, hungry eyes focused on your every movement. Only after walking off the pitch, you can become a whole person again. As horrifying as it might have sounded for the outsiders, Paolo had always found strange comfort in it. He had, until the little personal Galaxies started to clash.
It was hot and sunny outside that day. Paolo took off his sunglasses as he approached the suburban house, and tucked them into the neckline of his unbuttoned shirt. Before he even touched the doorbell, the door opened. Paolo reached his arms to hug Andriy.
"No, not through the door." He stepped back before Paolo could grab him.
"Right, I forgot." Paolo laughed softly. "Bad luck."
He expected Andriy to pull him inside for a kiss, or to playfully slap his shoulder for laughing at the superstition. He did no such thing. Instead, he waited in silence as Paolo stepped inside and took his shoes off. Only then he opened his arms to greet his guest, his polite smile not reaching the eyes.
No, he never imagined his life outside of Milan. Not after his father adopted Milan, blended in, intertwined his soul with the city's heartbeat. His mistake was believing that anyone who ever experienced Milan will feel the same.
Andriy's dark eyes were shining with tears as he spoke. Every word felt like an arrow in Paolo's chest, like he was falling, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness.
"I can't go on like this." He told him, his voice shaking.
"But I don't understand, what do you mean?" Paolo could feel his throat tightening. He desperately tried to hold onto the last string of hope, to deny reality in front of him.
"It's becoming so hard for me to-" Andriy stopped to choke back the tears. "To step on the pitch and pretend that you are just my teammate."
"I am your teammate, Andriy."
"Shut up! Don't use the captain voice on me!" He broke into sobs. "Stop acting like you don't know what I mean!"
"But... I don't. You-... you told me once that you knew years before. Remember?" He tried to reason with him, to calm him down. He stood up from the sofa, reached his trembling hand out to stroke Andriy's cheek, but the man turned away. This gesture alone made Paolo feel like a hole was being drilled into his heart.
"It was different then." he averted his gaze. Paolo sat back on the couch, leaned closer, but Andriy still didn't meet his eyes.
"I understand, I also feel lost sometimes." He said, despite not truly understanding it at that moment. "You can tell me everything, you can ask for a break, I'll understand." He gently rested his hand on Andriy's thigh, his face so close he could smell the conditioner on his lover's hair. "We will make it work."
"I made my decision long ago, Paolo."
He couldn't pretend that he didn't understand for any longer. The lie of two parallel Galaxies was crumbling rapidly. The private and the public, on-pitch and off-pitch grew dangerously close. Before, there had been Sheva, the lethal striker who made the crowds chant his name in awe, and Andriy, the boy with the sweetest smile who made him feel like home. Now, he didn't know where one ended and the other began.
The press called Andriy Shevchenko a traitor, but Paolo would never use such words. Asked about his departure by an interviewer, he mindlessly slipped: "a love story can come to an end". Another piece of his carefully crafted world turned to dust.
Paolo would never utter such words out loud, for everyone to hear them, or worse, agree with them. His thoughts, however, were a safe space for everything ugly, drunk and desperate. In his thoughts, he'd curse himself for getting too close to the people pleaser who never said no. For believing he could be an exception for the manipulator who mastered the art of telling others exactly what they wanted to be told. He sat on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand, and let himself be consumed by hatred.
He hated himself for committing the hubris of ever thinking he could understand Andriy.
Paolo sat in the bus, the team heading to Udine. Behind him, Sandro and Rino were loudly discussing the newest football rumours. In front of him, Dida was trying to read a newspaper despite the noise, and Kaka was listening to music, unbothered by his surroundings. Next to him, Andriy was staring out the window, his eyes blank, unfocused.
"Is everything alright?" Paolo asked.
"Yeah, it's fine." Sheva answered. He seemed lost, having been violently pulled out of his thoughts.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure." He gave him a forced smile. It wasn't the first time that month when Paolo caught him like this. He decided to push.
"I can see something's bothering you." He looked at him softly.
"It's nothing. I was just... thinking of home."
"You miss it?"
"Yeah, you could say that." He laid his head on Paolo's shoulder. This time a genuine smile appeared on his face. "But anyway... Your birthday's soon and you still haven't shared any plans with me… Maybe I should ask if anything's wrong."
Life will find a way. It always does, no matter how hard you try to force it into the ground with the sole of your shoe. Paolo will go to Milanello day after day. He'll joke with his teammates and he'll train as hard as he always has been. Then he will go on the pitch, listen to the crowds chant, leave them with their hearts beating fast, eyes hungry for more. He'll laugh and yell and cry and celebrate. And one day, it will all become as natural and obvious as it was before.