Chapter Text
Leo stares at the sloping stonewalls of the dormitory building, the arching front entrance, the vines which feed off the fleshy walls and travel to the skies. It’s a warm early September day, a few clouds scattered across the skies, guys milling about aimlessly without worry, for school doesn’t start for a couple days. They wear out of uniform clothes, straying from the normal oxford, khakis, sweater vest, tie, and blazer, sporting t-shirts and shorts willingly.
Leo’s eyes travel to the dorms once again, tracing the bold letters etched into the rock. Illyria Prep the sharp wording reads, and the duffels in Leo’s hands feel heavier by the second, weighing his arms down. His chest tightens, and he averts his eyes quickly, following his student guide into the building, speechlessly.
The building is loud, crowded, boys filling the halls, talking and grinning, some throwing American footballs, others just playing cards on the carpeted floors. They pay little mind to Leo, occasionally glancing up, if they’re on the floor, down if they’re standing, at him. His guide, Neymar, moves quickly, encouraging Leo to keep up, turning and grinning to make sure that Leo hasn’t dropped his bags and run in the other direction yet.
All the doors look strikingly the same and by the time they have reached room 128, Leo’s head is spinning, the building overly humid, the voices unnecessarily loud. Neymar couldn’t open the door slower.
The inside of the room looks exactly like he’d expect from a typical boarding school dorm. It’s about the size of a large closet, in the nicest light, two twin size beds occupying the room, one on each sidewall, along with two generic dressers, and two plain-looking work desks. He tosses his stuff on the unclaimed and unmade bed on the right.
“So, training is at 8 tomorrow, and classes aren’t until Monday. You have your schedule, and uh your roommate-,” Neymar seems to be checking off a mental list of crap he’s supposed to be saying. He looks to the bed across from Leo’s expectantly.
“He was supposed to be here to finish the tour,” the Brazilian hisses under his breath, peeking his head out into the hallway temporarily before glaring at the empty bed once again.
Leo’s roommate’s bed is perfectly made, deep royal blue covers with silver trim and lush silver-shimmering sheets with blue-trimmed sheets adorn the mattress, and at least five bleach white brought-from-home pillows occupy the head of the bed. Two posters are mounted on the wall facing Leo, a modern-version red Ferrari on one, a bikini’d model wearing Gucci on the other. Beneath the bed itself sit duffels, all different brands of expensive: Dolce and Gabbana, Armani, Versace, Dior, and of course Gucci. Leo didn’t know they even made duffels. Leo is gawking at the fact that his roommate brought an actual rug covering his half of the room to school when the guy makes an appearance.
“Uh what’re you doing in my room?” The boy, about seventeen or eighteen, broad shoulders filling out his plain gray t-shirt (probably Gucci to be perfectly honest) completely, biceps and pictorials stretching the fabric, speaks to Neymar, looking down at him, for he’s about 6 feet tall. His skin is an even golden bronze tan and hair looks gelled and styled with care, and he wears simple Nike-endorsed shorts, yet expensive boat shoes. His ears are pierced, a diamond earring in each, glinting in the light. He doesn’t pay any mind to Leo.
“We talked about this, Cris,” Neymar says tiredly.
‘Cris’ rolls his eyes and grins a little out of the side of his mouth, “Yes, we may have ‘talked about this’, but that doesn’t mean I listened and it still doesn’t explain why you’re in my room.” His accent is thick and apparent in his voice, and Leo can’t decipher where he could be from, Spain or Colombia possibly?
“Your new roommate… the transfer from Bishop…? Do you remember talking about any of this?” Neymar appears to be losing his patience very, very quickly. He tilts his head in Leo’s direction where the Argentinian stands out of place in front of his desk.
Cris flicks his gaze from the Brazilian to focus on Leo, and he senses the heat of the taller boy’s gaze immediately. Leo feels out of place, unwelcome, as if he really shouldn’t be standing where he stands. Cris narrows his dark, unreadable eyes, eyebrows furrowing momentarily before they soften completely, and a warm, relaxed grin forms on his face.
“Ah yes, the football player. Cristiano Ronaldo. Left wing,” Cristiano reaches a hand out and shakes Leo’s firmly and easily as if he is an old friend. Neymar stands in the doorway, almost shocked.
“Lionel Messi, uh center forward,” he says, focus flicking uncertainly from Cristiano to Neymar.
The Brazilian is sifting through papers clipped to his clipboard as though it will hand him the answer to how he should deal with a situation in which Cristiano Ronaldo actually does the correct and expected plan of action. He removes his eyes from the clipboard, where apparently his efforts were proved fruitless. He gives Leo a tight smile saying, “Well, that’s the end of introduction. If you have any questions, just ask,” Neymar pauses for a moment, the name stuck on his tongue as if he can’t believe he’s about to form it, eyes flicking toward the taller man, “Cristiano.” Neymar gives a short wave before exiting the room.
Cris hoists himself onto Leo’s bare bed, leaning so his back is against the plain white wall, “So, Lionel, where are you from?” He pats the spot next to him on the mattress, but Leo declines, moving toward his duffel and unzipping it.
“Originally, I was born in Argentina, but, I, uh, started boarding at Bishop Stamford a couple years ago,” Leo begins taking out his clothes and placing them in his dresser drawers, not that he’ll need them very much. He eyes the red blazer and sweater vest, gray tie and pants, and variety of white dress shirts and polos laid out on top of the dresser. Two pairs of sperries sit by the desk. It’s a completely different sight from Bishop’s uniform, the green-blazered white-pants establishment, which he once called his home away from home. Leo knows that Illyria will be different, Bishop’s rival school, and by staring at the uniform, at the crest on the left breast, he can feel the change already.
Cristiano is talking, about Portugal where he grew up until he was eligible to be scouted and was soon well-sought after by Illyria’s recruiting department, but Leo isn’t really listening. His fingers move like a rickety, wooden machine, clearing out his suitcase languidly and gracelessly, mind foggy.
“Why did you transfer again?” Cristiano’s voice pierces his subconscious.
Leo stands, shutting the last drawer and side sweeping his duffel underneath the bed. Cristiano’s eyes are locked on his.
“Uh, I, skipped too much class,” Leo grins sheepishly.
Cris laughs a bit at this, an amused smile tugging at his lips, “Skipped too much class? Hah. The guys were placing bets about it, saying you sent strippers to the headmaster’s office or set the dorms on fire or something insane.”
Leo shakes his head. He hardly steps out of line.
A knock is heard at the door, and without permission, four boys, obviously footballers as well, enter into the oversized closet-space that is their dorm room. Cris switches his surveillance from Leo to the other occupants of their space. A wide genuine smile permeates his face, eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Mis amigos! Come in, come in!” Cris spreads his arms out across his kingdom.
“Is that?” A fair brown-haired, boy toward the front asks, looking to Leo.
“Boys, this is Lionel Messi, the transfer,” Cris stands next to the Argentinian, swinging his arm around his shoulders, bringing him in close to his hip for an awkward side-hug, but the Portuguese doesn’t seem to notice Leo’s discomfort, beaming at his companions proudly.
“Lionel, these are the four biggest idiots on campus, Sergio Ramos, Gareth Bale, Marcelo Vieira, and Iker Casillas,” He looks down at Leo, beaming, and he suddenly feels small in his hold.
“Hi,” is all Leo can manage, feeling the heat flooding to his ears and cheeks. He wishes that Cris would just let go.
“We were going to throw rocks at the freshmen before curfew, wanna join?” Sergio addresses Cristiano.
“I don’t see why not,” Cris glows.
From the left, Iker punches the other boy’s arm, “We will be doing nothing of that sort.”
“Oh, come on Iker, it’s senior year, live a little,” Sergio replies easily.
“I will not ‘live a little’ if it is at the expense of some poor freshman,” Iker replies distastefully.
“Oh, do you always have to be so saintly?” Sergio almost whines.
Leo feels uncomfortable, especially when Cristiano whispers, “Want to come with?” in his ear, breath ghosting across his neck.
Leo’s heart pounds in his chest, and he shakes his head no, tongue struck numb, unable to speak at the moment.
Cristiano makes a face, a fake pout of sorts, before squeezing Leo’s arm and releasing the shorter boy, rejoining his friends who have already filed out into the hallway.
Cristiano is gone, but the blush still lingers on Leo’s cheeks and his heart still races and Leo doesn’t know why.
*
*
*
They sit in their usual spot, the window seat on the highest floor of the dorms, where they’ve been meeting since freshman year. Cris takes the inside, watching a group of underclassmen throw a Frisbee on the mall in front of the dorms. The orange sun sinks below the trees along the horizon, streaking the sky with pink strokes of color. It reminds him of the sunsets back home. He hasn’t visited in years, always vacationing with friends over the summer in his father’s various leisure homes across the world, in Fiji, the Greek Islands, Japan, Belgium, Mexico, etc., and over the winter holidays, he spends the break with Iker and his family, never in his four years away has he spent it with his own blood.
Marcelo sits across from him, leaning his head against the glass, “How’s the new kid?”
“What was his name again?” Bale stares at his nails, disinterested, to Cris’ left.
“Apparently he’s an unbelievable footballer,” Marcelo replies easily.
“Ooh, watch out, Cris,” Sergio grins.
“I expected him to be… taller,” Iker chimes in.
“I’m going to fuck him,” Cris says all of the sudden.
Bale looks up from his nails, “What?”
“You heard me,” Cristiano retorts, his tone is dead serious, not a hint of humor in his expression.
“Is he even your type?” Bale continues to press.
“How old is he anyway?” Sergio looks to Iker for backup.
“He’s in the grade below us,” Cris says calmly.
“Why, Cris?” Marcelo stares in awe.
“You could probably have anyone you want and yet you choose the tiny, pale-skinned transfer?” Sergio states. Everyone knows it’s true; Cristiano Ronaldo can have anyone he wants, without even asking. It’s been that way ever since the Portuguese showed up a week before school four years ago in all his glory, freshly tanned from spending his summer in the virgin islands.
“I can have anyone I want, yet that excludes Lionel?” Cris snaps, slightly irritated. He surmised that his closest friends would support him through this decision, especially since he hasn’t sought after anyone since the beginning of sophomore year.
“What about the new kid, the freshman, uh, what’s his name, Iker?” Sergio looks once more to the captain.
“James?” Iker seems only slightly disturbed by Cris’ selection.
“Yeah, that’s the one! He’s decent, he practically worships you, why not him, Cris, huh?” Sergio speaks only to dissuade Cristiano’s mindset.
“A freshman? As if that’s somehow better than fucking Lionel,” Cris replies spicily.
“Yes because ‘Lionel’ is, like, three feet shorter than you,” Bale practically spits the words out in disgust.
The tension between them is palpable and Cris glares at Bale beside him.
“Let’s just take a breath, c’mon guys, relax,” Marcelo attempts to soothe the obvious rift that has formed.
“Where did he come from again?” Iker asks, in his own little world outside of the argument.
“Bishop Stamford,” Bale hisses between a locked jaw, eyes still lasered onto Cristiano.
“Hmmm,” Iker paces in front of the windowsill, “And please if you would be so kind to remind me, it seams to have slipped my mind at the moment, which team beat us in the championship last season?”
Cristiano can feel the blood rushing to his face, “Bishop Stamford,” he quips.
“Ah, I see,” Iker pauses momentarily, examining the floorboards before returning his eyes to focus on Cristiano, “And you want to fuck this kid again, why?”
“Because it’s none of your damn business,” Cris replies rather calmly, lips turned into a grin.
And the conversation is dropped just like that.
*
*
*
Mist loiters on the early morning pitch, rays of golden light permeating the dimness feebly. Players stretch on the sideline, all wearing their matching training kits, an eerie gray matching the dusk of the fog, dew fresh on the grass.
Leo sits beside Neymar and another junior who introduced himself as Kun Aguero. They talk among themselves about the lineups and the new pitch, apparently paid for by Cristiano’s dad.
Cristiano himself stands about twenty or thirty feet away by the tunnel, a tight, thin blood red and forest green Team Portugal windbreaker over his gray practice uniform. He’s among the four boys who barged into their room last night, all talking and laughing comfortably.
“Those are the seniors,” Kun says following Leo’s gaze, locking eyes with him momentarily before the Argentinian drifts back over to Cristiano.
“The tired-looking one with the goalie gloves is Iker, better known as San Iker, he’s the captain and starting goalkeeper,” Neymar says respectfully. Iker’s hair is a dark mess, and he rubs his eyes and yawns constantly. “He’s not much of a morning person, but he refuses to drink coffee. Says it screws with his head.”
“I heard that when he was a freshman, he took the senior goalkeeper’s starting position,” Kun says, almost in awe.
“He’s the only player to be named captain as a sophomore,” Neymar finishes.
“Next to him, the insanely Spanish-looking one, that’s Sergio Ramos, he and Iker are, like, a package. He’s a defender with Marcelo, the one with the hair,” Kun continues.
“And you know Cristiano,” Neymar looks Leo dead in the face, but the Argentinian isn’t paying attention, because Cristiano is laughing at something that Marcelo said, head tosses back, flashing his perfect, pearly white smile, “His dad owns purebred racehorses and is, like, a billionaire,” Neymar says dryly, “They never lose a race.”
“Cristiano has his own private jet,” Kun adds.
“And last year, he tried to land it on the pitch after celebrating the win against Valencia Esquire Academy and ended up destroying the algebra classroom next door. But the jet was fine.”
“Nike, Under Armour, Adidas, and Reebok pay him to wear their stuff.”
“Team Portugal has been scouting him since he was 7.”
“I heard he is dating a Russian underwear model.”
“He has a limo drive him and his friends around on the weekends when they go to town.”
“And Bale, the angry-looking guy, he’s really close with Cristiano, you wanna stay away from him as much as possible,” Kun speaks in a hushed tone.
The Portuguese’s hair is gelled and combed, hands shoved deep in the jacket’s pockets, unaware of Leo’s watching. He studies Cristiano’s cleats, gold and white, expensive-looking, just like everything else that Cris owns. Engraved on the sides is the letter-number combination of CR7.
Bale, the serious-faced, no-nonsense kind of kid, notices Leo’s staring, bringing the group, and Cristiano’s, attention to it. They all turn to stare back at Leo, who averts his gaze immediately.
Two uncertain-looking boys to the right gawp at everything and everyone around them, shifting weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, never making eye-contact with anyone.
“Who are they?” Leo nods toward the two boys.
Neymar cranes his neck to see, “Oh them? Those are the freshmen, James and Toni.”
“Only two freshmen?” Leo is in disbelief.
“The only two freshmen who made it,” Kun grins.
Coach Enrique’s whistle interrupts the morning peace, signaling the beginning of practice.
*
*
*
Leo attempts to get through the morning, tries so hard to focus, tells himself that he needs to make a good first-impression, that he can’t screw this up but the seniors won’t stop staring at him, one in particular especially.
Cristiano is fast, sleek, a panther, aggressive and fierce as he weaves in and out of defenders like cones. He glides across the pitch so easily, effortlessly, as if he floats instead of sprints like everyone else. Coach Enrique switches the lineup halfway into training, and Leo finds himself standing in the middle of Bale and Cristiano, exactly where Kun warned him not to be. He glances to the sideline where Neymar stands next to James and another player, Luis Suarez.
Bale eyes Leo warily, saying nothing. Cristiano grins, patting him on the back a little too hard, “So we’re linemates and roommates now.”
Leo nods.
A sheen layer of sweat dots the taller boy’s brow, cheeks pink, eyes alight with excitement. He licks his lips. Leo looks away. He can feel Cristiano’s eyes still on him. A little ways away, Iker stands in goal, shaking his head, eyes glued on the three of them at the midline.
Practice seems to crawl on at a the pace of molasses after that. They run through drills and exercises and every time Leo looks up, he catches Cristiano watching him, eyes hungry, determined, dark. Leo always looks down.
*
*
*
Classes start the next morning at 8:30. Neymar’s tour barely helps with the navigation piece of things, and Leo finds himself constantly standing in the hallway staring blankly at the classroom numbers.
Third period is chemistry on the third floor, and it’s practically impossible to find the stairwell in the mess of other red and gray-uniformed boys all yelling and laughing and shouting over the other. Leo’s head hurts; he wishes that everyone would just shut up for two seconds so he can figure everything out. And then someone is grabbing his hand and pulling him into the stairwell that is surprisingly empty.
Warm brown eyes meet Leo’s.
Cristiano smiles, glancing down at Leo’s schedule. He’s extremely close to him and Leo can smell Cris’ cologne. It’s earthy, familiar, like a burning fire, yet distant and new like an expensive car.
“I see we have chemistry,” Cristiano grins, bringing his eyes to focus on Leo’s.
He has to remember to breath for a second.
“What?” Leo whispers.
Cristiano’s finger drifts along the paper, “Third period, Ancelotti, chemistry.”
A persistent thumb tips Leo’s chin up to face Cristiano. The space between them is practically nonexistent. The hand wanders to Leo’s cheek, cupping it as the taller man leans in. Leo attempts to take a step behind, managing only to find the wall trapping him where he is as his back hits it coldly. Cristiano’s other hand travels to his lower back, tingling wherever it goes. Their lips are inches away. Leo can feel Cris’ breath caressing across his cheek. And then the bell rings. Leo pushes Cris away, sprinting up the stairs and down the hall to his chemistry class, slipping into the first available seat at a lab table unnoticed by Mr. Ancelotti writing electron configurations on the board.
The blush has just cleared from Leo’s cheeks and heartbeat returned to a normal pace when Cristiano waltzes in ten minutes late, a grin playing at his lips.
“Mr. Ronaldo, it is so nice of you to grace us with your presence today. Would you be so generous as to join me in detention at 3 to make up for your absence?” Mr. Ancelotti turns from the board, a tired expression painted on his face.
Cris’ grin disappears, mumbling a, “Sorry, sir,” before walking a couple paces toward the empty seat directly across from Leo.
The Argentinian glares at the vacant stool that Cris pauses thoughtfully in front of before taking it, dropping his backpack to the floor with a loud, confident thud.
Mr. Ancelotti continues lamely with the lesson.
Cristiano leans forward across the lab table, expression playful, “What are you doing after school?”
“Nothing that involves you,” Leo hisses, eyes on the teacher still focusing solely on his chalkboard.
Cris scoots his stool in closer, bringing his face nearer to Leo’s, whispering, “Ah, so you’re free, why don’t we find something to occupy ourselves with.”
Leo doesn’t miss a beat, “I’m positive you have further arrangements that don’t involve me.”
An outside voice interrupts the conversation. “Mr.,” Mr. Ancelotti searches the class list attached to a clipboard sitting on his desk for Leo’s name, “Messi, please, I’d be so delighted if you would only share with me what it is you and Mr. Ronaldo find so intriguing… at 3 o’clock detention.”
“I guess you will be with me after school,” Cris winks, sitting back in his seat.
*
*
*
At lunch, Cristiano, Marcelo, and Bale all sit at the same table, Sergio and Iker running late from Trigonometry in the far building on the west campus. School food is gross, so Cris orders all his meals from the 4 star restaurant five minutes down the road in town every day and gets it delivered to the front gate where he can pick it up after 4th period. It’s not out of the ordinary to Cristiano, and people stopped commenting on it long ago.
Bale stares at his tacos distrustfully and Marcelo takes a sip of his water.
“Where’s your buddy?” Bale asks scooping a spoonful of beans into his mouth without a second thought.
“Yeah, have you, y’know… done it yet?” Marcelo looks up sheepishly from reading the label on his bottled water.
Cris rolls his eyes, “No,” he huffs out, resting his chin on his fist, annoyed, “I haven’t had time to get a real conversation going.”
“What do you mean? You share a room with the kid and have like four classes with him,” Bale replies, almost disappointed.
“Yeah, but every time I try and start something, he just ends it right away. It’s like he doesn’t want to talk to me,” Cris thinks aloud.
Silence overcomes the table.
Marcelo and Bale share a glance.
“Like he doesn’t want to have sex with you?” Bale grins into his spoon, ducking his head momentarily.
“How awful. It must be so hard to be you,” Marcelo mocks, taking another sip.
Cristiano narrows his gaze, “It’s like he’s bored with me or something, I don’t know.”
From the left, Iker and Sergio come stumbling into the lunchroom, out of breath, pink-cheeked from running, grinning at each other, trays in hand.
“How’d you two get your lunches so fast? We had to wait in line for 20 minutes and that was before the junior classes let out,” Marcelo watches the two Spaniards as they take their seats at the table.
“We cut in front of some freshmen,” Sergio beams proudly.
“You too, San Iker?” Bale eyes him consciously.
The goalkeeper nods, taking a bite of his taco, an emotion that can only be described as disappointment and shame tinting his cheeks.
“So, what’s new?” Sergio begins, sorting his rice into one corner so they don’t touch the beans.
“Ancelotti gave me detention,” Cris pokes at his salmon, slightly uninterested, mind occupied elsewhere. In the back of his mind he still pictures Leo’s intense, dark eyes, soft lips, the way he shuttered almost under Cristiano’s gaze in the stairwell.
“Ah, he still has it out for you even after freshman physics, good man,” Iker shoots Cris a sly grin from behind his taco.
Sergio and Bale laugh a little.
“We’ve finally found the one person on earth who doesn’t want to have sex with Cristiano,” Marcelo cuts in.
Sergio chokes on his rice, “What?”
Iker pats the defender’s back from across the table, “Who?”
“Why does it matter?” Cristiano groans.
“Because I need to find them and give them a metal of honor,” Iker says with a straight face.
Marcelo laughs at this.
“It’s our good friend, Lionel,” Bale grins.
Cristiano puts his face in his hands.
“You’re joking,” Sergio coughs, “The one person-,”
“Yes,” Cristiano cuts in, “But he’ll warm up to me, we have a date set for after school today,” the Portuguese raises his eyebrows to make his point.
“I thought you said you had detention…” Marcelo points out, but Cris isn’t listening. His eyes are locked on a small Argentinian making his way with his tray over to a table with some of the younger footballers.
Bale follows Cristiano’s gaze, whistling. Iker grins.
“Speak of the devil,” Sergio snickers.
Cristiano ignores them, eyes following the Argentinian. A fire within his chest burns, and he longs to press Leo up against a wall, bite bruises into his pale skin that will raise questions and eyebrows until they fade days later, wants to see him blush and hear him moan Cristiano’s name in ecstasy. He must have him.
*
*
*
Leo stares at the clock in the back of room 331. 3:02 it reads. He looks around at the empty classroom, not even Mr. Ancelotti showed up on time for detention and Leo feels so stupid.
Footsteps can be heard from outside the classroom and Leo whips his head around just in time to watch Cristiano make his entrance. His hair is perfectly gelled and combed, a black stud in each ear. He wears the red sweater vest underneath his red blazer, gray pants that are too tight to be legal, fitting and complimenting all the right places. He loosens his tie and tosses his backpack down by the door haphazardly as if he owns the place, making his way over to Leo. As he passes, he lets his hand slide across Leo’s shoulders, taking the seat directly to Leo’s left. The shorter boy suppresses the shivers that run from his touch.
“Where’s Mr.-,” Leo begins, but Cris presses a finger to his lips to silence him.
“Carlo had a conflict, a meeting with a certain Mr. Ramos about the most recent Chemistry lesson,” Cristiano beams.
“But Sergio doesn’t take Chem,” Leo stares at the door as if he expects Mr. Ancelotti to come striding through any moment.
“Hmmm?” Cris seems unfazed by this change in events, fingers coming up to tug on Leo’s gray tie experimentally.
Leo pushes Cris’ hands away, “Stop it.”
Cristiano’s eyes are a faded, focused brown, his face amused, mouth slightly agape. He can see his perfectly straight, white teeth and only imagines how much money his parents paid to get them that way. His lips are a pale pink, shiny, and Cris must catch Leo looking at them and grins. Leo blushes, saying nothing.
“It’s alright, Lionel,” Cris says softly.
“Leo,” the Argentinian replies all too quickly.
“What?” Cris stares, but Leo won’t meet his gaze.
“Call me Leo,” Lionel smiles a little, and it’s the most gorgeous thing Cristiano has seen in a while.
Worn freckles dot the bridge of Cristiano’s nose, barely noticeable. His eyelashes are long, graceful. Leo doesn’t realize how close they are until Cris is covering his lips with his. It’s gentle, slow, tentative almost, as if Cristiano is waiting to see how Leo will react. At first, the shock hits Leo and he freezes up, eyes wide open, watching Cristiano’s. The older boy’s eyes are open as well, watching, waiting for what will happen next, letting the Argentinian decide. And then Leo’s brain catches up with him and he melts against Cristiano’s lips, slowly and then all at once. His heart pounds in his chest, blood rushing through his veins double-time, thoughts rooting their way into his minds invasively. He allows Cristiano’s tongue access, cheeks burning red hot as the Portuguese threads his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Leo’s neck. And when Cristiano bites playfully at Leo’s bottom lip, the younger boy can’t hold back the moan that escapes him.
After that, Leo breaks the kiss, breathing hard, blush running underneath his skin, standing abruptly, glaring at Cristiano with dark eyes filled with lust and hunger and passion. Cristiano looks calm, relaxed, as if he expected Leo would do this.
“I-I,” Leo begins, searching for an explanation, “I have to go.”
But the shorter boy pauses for a moment, watching Cristiano whose lips are shiny with spit, eyes content, face poised, leaning back nonchalantly on his stool as he watches Leo, chest rising and falling evenly.
For a moment, it appears that Leo might actually stay until he turns on his heel, grabbing his backpack by the door and sprinting down the hall and out of the building. He doesn’t stop running until he gets into his dorm room, their dorm room which they share, even though it’s raining and he’s soaking wet and the dorms are all the way on the other side of campus and he almost slips on the polished main hall floor, fumbling with his keys in his wet hands even though the door is already open, hesitating only a moment when he catches Sergio eying him from Iker’s and his room across the hall, the Spaniard staring at him confused and then a smile spreading across his face almost knowingly, before the Argentinian finally turns the handle and pushes door open way too forcefully, shutting it loudly, and pressing his back against the door once it’s shut again. His head is swimming, chest pounding, uniform dripping rhythmically, and he shrinks to the floor. His eyes flick over to Cristiano’s side of the room and even though the other boy isn’t here, it’s like he is.
The only thing that seems real is the sensation of Cristiano’s lips against his, the heat that released from his chest, the feeling of weightlessness and bliss that overcame him in an instant. And for a moment, Leo almost regrets that he left.