Chapter Text
Leo swears it was an accident.
He didn't do it out of malice. He didn't have any intention of doing it.
It just… happened. And ‘it’ is a secret he will be taking to his grave.
He’s in bed. His legs are under the sheets and the blue glow of his phone screen illuminates his face in the dark. It’s past midnight and he should be asleep.
Instead, he’s scrolling.
The algorithm knows him too well. Perhaps it knows it’s him behind the screen. No matter how many times he clicks ‘not interested’, all his Instagram feed shows is his own face.
A video pops up. In it, he’s about to take a corner. Inter Miami fans are screaming (and from what he can gather, also crying) in the background.
Leo watches it, then scrolls to the next video.
Another one. This one is from his Barcelona days. He's scoring goals against Real Madrid, like how the young kids are doing now.
He scrolls to the next video. He's laughing with Neymar and Luis.
Next, there's a clip of him with Argentina, confetti in his hair, arms around Rodri.
They’re all very nice. His fans have a lot of time on their hands. For whatever reason, they like editing pictures and videos of him.
He doesn't know how many of those little videos he's watched before his eyelids grow heavy, his phone screen blurring in front of him.
Leo rubs his eyes with his vacant hand. Being glued to his phone with all the lights off can't possibly be good for his vision. He may be thirty-eight, but he’s too young to wear glasses.
He checks the time on his phone. Frowns when he sees that it's two in the morning. He really should be asleep.
He's about to put the phone down and call it a night when he sees that video. The one that starts everything.
It starts off like the others: the last World Cup, Qatar heat shimmering off the pitch, Leo wearing his Argentina kit. Dramatic music plays as he dribbles, passes, scores. Shirts and tifos with his face on it. His teammates pile on him. Fireworks explode.
And then Cristiano’s face appears.
Leo blinks. He wasn’t expecting Cristiano of all people to show up in the video.
But then again, Leo can never rid himself of Cristiano. Believe him, he’s tried.
Leo watches to see what will happen next.
Whoever made the video edited the clips to appear black and white. There’s a quick cut. The Portugal team is in disarray. Leo recognizes the moment. The match against Morocco. The end.
On his screen, Cristiano walks down the long hallway.
He stops, hand covering his eyes. The camera catches it just before he disappears into the concrete shadow. The blink of wet lashes. The press of his fingers against his eyes. The unmistakable tremble of someone trying to stay composed, but failing.
Leo stares.
He’s seen Cristiano cry before. Everybody has. The internet never lets those moments die. Last year, Kün sent him a video of Cristiano crying after the Euro.
“Bro,” Kün had said, “He’s always crying.”
Leo didn’t reply.
He remembers the Clásicos. The anger, the yelling, the impossible goals. The way Cristiano would shout at the ref, at his teammates, at the sky.
Leo can’t remember if there were tears back then. Maybe. Maybe not. If there were, Leo doesn’t know if they were because of him.
The video cuts from Cristiano’s crying face to Leo kissing the World Cup trophy.
Leo rewinds it. Watches it again. He doesn’t blink this time. Just watches. Studying.
He tries to picture Cristiano’s face in those early days, back when they were both younger, hungrier. What did his face look like when he lost? Did he cry? Did Leo ever see it?
Brows furrowed, Leo swipes out of Instagram.
He opens Google.
He hesitates.
Then he types slowly, deliberately: ronaldo crying
The results are instant.
A news headline: Cristiano Ronaldo breaks down in tears missing crucial penalty
A YouTube thumbnail: CR7 Sad Moments
It has an impressive 3.2M views. Cristiano in a red Portugal jersey, tears in his eyes.
Another: From Sporting Lisbon to Al-Nassr: The many times Ronaldo got emotional on the pitch
A Getty Images link shows photo after photo. Cristiano crouched on the pitch. Cristiano wiping his face with the collar of his shirt. Cristiano crouched down on the pitch with his face in his hands.
Despite himself, Leo clicks one of the videos. This one is helpfully titled: Sad Heartbreaking Cristiano Ronaldo Moments
It’s a compilation. Sad piano music plays. The first clip is grainy and blurry. Cristiano is a teenager, younger than Leo’s earliest memories of him.
Leo turns up the volume on his phone. He wordlessly watches that old Portugal side lose the Euro. Did he watch it as it was airing? He can't remember. It was over two decades ago.
Leo thinks he would've remembered watching a young Cristiano cry on the pitch. His eyes are glassy with tears, head bowed down as he blows air out of his lungs. His teammates try to console him, giving him hugs and patting his back.
The next clip is from the latest Euro, where the scene repeats itself.
Cristiano, twenty years older, is in tears after missing a penalty. This set of teammates huddles around him, holding his face in their hands and giving him kisses on the head to comfort him.
Leo frowns. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this.
Watching his… former colleague… cry isn't funny (though Kün may claim it's fucking hilarious). It isn't sad, exactly. It's just strange— oddly addicting. Like pressing fingers down on a bruise.
Morbidly curious, Leo clicks on another video.
😢 CRISTIANO RONALDO IN TEARS AFTER JUVE LOSS TO PORTO 😢
This one is longer. It shows Cristiano from every angle, dressed in black and white stripes. He's sitting in the dressing room with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking while he strips out of his kit.
Men Leo assumes are assistant coaches line up to caress his head and tell him he did well. People are always ready to comfort an upset Cristiano. They must already know what to expect.
Leo watches the video all the way through.
He hopes God will forgive him for clicking on another video.
Ronaldo Gets Emotional At FIFA Confederations Cup 2017
The video plays.
Cristiano stands near the sideline with his hands planted on his hips. His chest rises and falls, and even through the screen, Leo can see the tight coil of disappointment wrapped around him. Has felt that same coil around himself after his worst heartbreaks with Argentina.
Leo can only stare as a teammate pulls Cristiano into a hug. Cristiano folds into it, barely.
He grips the back of the man’s shirt, fists curling, face hidden in the fabric. His shoulders tense. Then shake.
The camera angle shifts. Someone closer now. Cristiano’s head lifts and for a second— just one split second— Leo catches the look on his face.
Tears gloss over his eyes, thick and unmoving. His mouth is set hard, but it twitches at the corners, like he’s trying not to break down.
He wipes his face once, fast and rough. Then again. It doesn’t help. The tears fall anyway, cheeks turning as red as his kit as he cries.
The video isn’t long.
Forty seconds, maybe less.
But Leo watches it twice.
Then a third time.
The field lights glare down like spotlights, making Cristiano look smaller somehow. Nothing like the confident larger-than-life figure on the other side of the pitch, or the chatty charmer who sat next to Leo at ceremonies.
Leo keeps his eyes trained on the screen. He doesn’t move. He lies there, phone dimming in his hands, the room around him dead silent.
He should feel guilty about doing this. Regardless of what Cristiano has said about him in the past (or present), watching videos of his lowest moments feels downright cruel. Leo isn’t that petty of a person.
Or at least, he thinks he isn’t.
Why else would he be staring at Cristiano’s clenched jaw? Why else would he be zeroing in on his balled fists? Why else would he be counting down the seconds until the tears in Cristiano’s eyes start falling?
The video ends sooner than Leo would like.
Leo presses replay again. It’s the fourth time now.
He settles his left hand on his stomach, the weight of it heavy on his torso as Cristiano turns away from his teammate, jaw set and eyes wet. Still trying to pull himself back together in front of everyone.
The camera catches him mid-turn. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt, swallowing down his disappointment.
With an Adam’s apple that big, Cristiano should be good at swallowing.
Leo can count the tears that track down his face. One on the left, one on the right, another one on the left, then two on the right.
Christ, what is Leo doing? Why is he binge-watching videos of Cristiano crying like a Netflix (sorry, Apple TV) series? Has he finally lost his mind?
Sighing, Leo shuts his phone off. He lets it drop beside him on the bed with a soft thud.
He closes his eyes. He wills himself to forget about what he just watched and go to sleep.
But the images are still there. He can still see Qatar, the tunnel, Cristiano’s bowed head, his hand coming up slowly, like he didn’t want to believe what was happening. The press of his fingers against his eyes.
Leo takes a deep breath. Holds it.
Then he turns his phone back on again.
Light spills across his face. His fingers hesitate, hovering over the keyboard like he’s debating something with himself. Then, finally, he types:
ronaldo world cup 2022
Search.
Instantly, he's spoiled with results. There are countless headlines, photos, and clips of what he's looking for.
He uses his left thumb to scroll. He clicks on the video with the most views.
Cristiano is standing near the center circle, just a few feet from where Morocco’s players are collapsing into each other, screaming with joy. Portugal’s bench is frozen. The crowd is roaring, but around Cristiano, it’s like there’s no sound at all.
He’s still in full kit. White shirt clinging to his body, and socks sagging around his ankles. His hands hang at his sides like they don’t know what to do. His chest heaves up and down.
Leo leans closer. The light from his phone begins to strain his eyes.
Cristiano tips his head back, blinking hard. His face twists and then he brings his hand up to swipe at his eyes. He wipes once, then again, but the tears don’t stop.
As pretty as Cristiano is, he isn’t a pretty crier. He doesn’t cry the way actors do in movies, all artful and restrained, with one perfect tear sliding down a makeup-covered cheek. When Cristiano cries, he bawls. His face scrunches up and folds in on itself, soaked with salty tears. His skin turns blotchy and red and his mouth twists into an ugly scowl.
It’s not graceful, it’s not beautiful, it’s not powerful.
But Leo can’t get enough of it.
There’s something almost magnetic about the way Cristiano falls apart. It’s all there on the surface, nothing hidden, nothing polished. No shields, no walls, no mask, just emotion that bursts out of him too fast for him to catch.
Leo lowers his hand to the front of his boxers, slowly massaging the growing bulge.
The video cuts to a closer angle. Cristiano is walking off the pitch with his head bowed.
He passes by teammates and cameras, but he doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t hold his chin up high.
Leo can’t blame him. He would also be having a mental breakdown if he didn’t win the World Cup on what is looking like their last attempt.
He palms at his clothed cock. The flesh goes firmer underneath the fabric of his underwear.
Leo has never claimed to be a perfect person, but he tries his best to be a good one. ‘Trying’ doesn’t mean ‘succeeding’ though. Whipping his cock out while watching Cristiano cry isn’t very Catholic of him.
He wraps his hand around the base of his dick, roughly jerking it while tears openly stream down Cristiano’s face.
Not held back, not rehearsed, not controlled. Just there. Raw for the entire world to see.
Leo picks up the pace of his hand. When he finds it too dry, he brings his palm up to his mouth and spits on it, using his own saliva for an easier slide.
On the screen, Cristiano is making a slow walk toward the tunnel, the camera watching his every move. The light around him turns harsher and colder. Cristiano’s figure seems to shrink with every step.
There are people in the background, blurred figures Leo pays no attention to. His eyes are focused on Cristiano, even as a man wearing a suit and a lanyard escorts him down the hallway.
For one delusional moment, Leo wishes he was that man just so he can see Cristiano’s crying face from that close.
The thought makes his cheeks burn.
When did he turn so vindictive? It’s been almost three years since the World Cup. Cristiano’s dream ended. Leo’s dream was fulfilled. There is no need to wave his dick in the air about it.
There is a need to pump his dick in his hand though. The thing is as hard as a rock, aroused and excited by the rivulets running down Cristiano’s cheeks.
Leo thinks back to the other videos. Of the younger Cristianos crying just like this. That face— the most famous face in the world— streaked with miserable tears.
Leo grips the phone tighter. The screen shakes a little in his hands.
He wants a closer shot. He wants a 16K quality camera to exist so it can capture every detail of that face. He wants said camera to move closer and Cristiano to move his hand away from his eyes so he can see those girly eyelashes. Which look even longer when they’re soaking wet.
Speaking of wet…
Leo toys with the slit of his cock, teasing out the pre-cum. “Fuck,” he curses into the empty bedroom. “Fuck, Cris.”
It doesn't take much to make Cristiano cry, but doesn't diminish the beauty of it. His facial expressions are downright pornographic. Eyes lidded and lips red from being chewed on.
Leo wants to bite down on those lips too. Wants to see if it will wobble even when Leo’s teeth lodged inside them.
“Shit,” Leo swears. He parts his thighs wider, the soles of his feet planted on the mattress as he jerks his cock.
It's a struggle to stay focused on the phone screen, but he persists. Watches Cristiano, perhaps for the first time in his life, try to hide away from the world. But the world still finds him anyway.
The camera doesn’t flinch. It keeps rolling, and Leo keeps watching. Keeps pumping his aching cock.
He arches his hips into his fist, fucking it like he's fucking that sobbing mouth.
Cristiano would cry during sex, there’s no doubt about that. He wouldn’t cry from sadness though. He would cry because Leo would make it so good for him.
Leo can imagine it already. Those big fat tears caused by Leo’s big fat cock. Leo would shove it down his spasming throat, would drag his balls against his reddened face so he can dry his tears with them.
Cristiano crumbles for a moment, his body folding inward, small and human in a way that feels too close, too real. Then he straightens up, wipes his face again, and forces himself to keep walking.
The video ends.
Leo lets out a frustrated groan. His thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly. He should exit the app, delete YouTube off his phone, and throw his phone into the closest river.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he taps replay.
Leo has the scene memorized by now— the exact tilt of Cristiano’s head, the hard set of his jaw, his chest stuttering with every breath like it physically hurts to keep standing. He knows the moment Cristiano’s trembling lips part, just a little, like he might say something, then clamp shut again.
Leo watches like he’s trapped inside the scene. Like the phone has his hands, his breath, his chest in a chokehold and won’t let go.
His eyes trace every twitch of Cristiano’s body. The shake of his shoulders, the violent swipe of his wrist across his face when it’s already too late to hide anything, and finally, deliciously, the guttural sound of his sobs.
“Cristiano.” Leo cums into his fist, imagining he’s spilling his load onto Cristiano’s crying face instead. The mental image of Leo’s semen mixing with those tears has him curling his toes into his sheets.
His phone is still playing the video. Leo lets it play until the battery warning flashes on his screen.
Deliriously, he raises his cum-covered hand to the screen, smearing a generous dollop of semen onto the close-up of Cristiano’s face.
It’s a nice view, but Leo wants to see the real thing. A crying Cristiano Ronaldo is one thing, but a crying, fucked out, and dick-dazed Cristiano Ronaldo is another.
Grunting, he sets the phone down beside him, the images of Cristiano’s multiple crying faces seared into his brain.
Leo lies back down on the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
He’s too hot. His shirt sticks to his back, damp with sweat. The sheets feel twisted, suffocating, like they’re trapping him here, making it impossible to breathe properly. His pulse pounds behind his eyes. Every time he closes his eyes, Cristiano’s face is there— the crumpled expression, the slick shine of tears, how his whole body seemed to buckle under the weight of it.
Leo turns his head, restless, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded too deep, stitched into the inside of his skull.
He needs to delete his search history.