Not a Boy from Bury
Title: Not a Boy from Bury
Author: junas_stories
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo/Wayne Rooney aka the Cristyne
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Sadly nobody in this fic belongs to me. It's all the product of my imagination and a bronchitis. Yep.
Author's notes: So yes, it happened again. I wrote fic. And it's Cristyne. Well yes, after I forced everyone else into it, I guess, it's fitting somehow. I warn you though - I was ill with a bronchitis myself when I wrote this so I may have chaneled a bit of my then maudline self into this. *nervously bites her fingernails*
Title inspired by this quote from Sir Alex here.
Not a boy from Bury
The shrill ring of the doorbell startled Cristiano out of his nap on the sofa in the living room. Fuck. And he had just dozed off, too. He had hardly gotten any sleep the night before because his nose had been running non-stop and his head, no his whole body had ached as if Wes Brown had practised tackles on him for a few hours. And then this morning he had been to the doctor. The flu, he had said. You won’t be able to play on Sunday, he had said. Well, fuck. Cristiano thought he deserved a bit of a nap. So he decided not to answer the door. Zé would get it anway. Yes.
“Riiiiiiiing!!!”
Cristiano startled again.
“Zé, will you get the fucking door!” he hollered. Or rather he tried to holler but after the ‘Zé’ he had another coughing fit which sent his whole body into spasms. Painful spasms. Really painful spasms. He wondered if this would hurt less if he had less muscles to spasm. Maybe he shouldn't have worked out quite so much?
He got no answer other than the fucking doorball ringing again. And suddenly Cristiano remembered that Zé wasn’t here. He had gone home for a couple of weeks for his girlfriend to meet the family. In other words he had abandoned Cristiano who was now alone in the house and sick, really sick.
Oh well, Cristiano had to admit - at least to himself - that Zé couldn't have known when he left a week ago. To go to Madeira. Where it was warm. And where there were flowers instead of grey pavement with grey houses and a grey sky. Cristiano was sure if he was in Madeira right now he wouldn't have gotten that damn flu in the first place. Not that that had even been an option since he was needed here in Manchester. It being the middle of the season and all which was why it sucked even more that he was now down with the flu...He just wished he had begged Zé to stay instead of getting all defensive and disgruntled and telling him that of course, he should go. That he did know how to take care of himself, thank you very much.
And he had been just fine the first few days because it was not that he couldn't take care of himself, he just didn’t like to do it. And he hated being alone. He hated it. And now he was ill and Zé - well, he should have known that Cristiano needed him and he should have come back. Or one of his sisters or cousins or - best of all - his mom should have come. Weren’t moms supposed to feel it if one of their kids needed them?
“Riiiiiiiing!!! Riiiiiiiiiinnnng!!!”
Cristiano pressed one of the sofa cushions over his head and cuddled deeper into his blanket. He only wanted to see someone from his family and they would have a key. Anyone else wasn’t supposed to see him like this with a stuffy nose and mussed up hair and probably a bit rank since he was sweating so much. Thanks to the fever. He looked a mess. And really, other than his family who would stop by? The only possible answer was a teammate. A teammate who would wind him up and be annoying and tell everybody at Man Utd how sick poor, ickle Ronaldo was. So no, he was not getting up. It was so warm here…
“Riiiiiiiing!!! Riiiiiiiiiinnnng!!!”
He would get the doorbell modified, Cristiano decided. So it wouldn’t ring anymore but…maybe play a nice little song. Maybe one of his sister’s… Yes, that would be nice.
“Oi, Ronnie! Open the fucking door! I know you’re in there!” Loud banging accompanied the hollering.
Cristiano groaned. Couldn’t it have been Gary? Or Rio? No, okay, maybe not Rio. But certainly not Wayne either. Wayne who would likely tell him to get over it, stop being such a cry baby and get back on the pitch. Wayne who probably would play if he had a high fever and was aching all over because Wayne would never let the team down. And not at such an important match as the one against Liverpool. Cristiano felt guilty enough without Wayne laying into him. And just now when things between them finally really got back to normal…
“Ronnie? … Ronaldo!? … Cristiano!!? If you don’t answer the fucking door right now, I’ll break it down. I swear I will!”
With a very dramatic sigh Cristiano untangled himself from the slightly sweat soaked blanket and heaved himself upright. Woah! Hello vertigo. Fucking flu. Carefully and moving like an old man and not at all like a professional footballer at the tender age of 21 he dragged himself towards the front door. God, but had his house always been so big? Note to self: forget the doorbell, get a new house, a smaller one.
“Ronnie?! I’m counting to three! One…two…-“
“What do you want?” Cristiano asked as he threw open the door (or tried to at least) facing a bewildered looking Wayne who just stared at him, obviously taking in his mussed, sweaty hair, his blotchy face, his long-sleaved shirt and long pants.
“You look like death warmed over, mate,” he remarked.
“Well, I’m ill,” Cristiano answered defensively. “What do you want?”
“You should be lying down,” Wayne said instead of answering his question.
“I was until you threatened to break down my door.” For a second there, Wayne had the grace to look slightly sheepish but then sheepish turned into determined.
“Well, get back to bed then,” Wayne ordered and simply pushed past Cristiano into the house shutting the door behind himself.
“I don’t remember inviting you in,” Cristiano grumbled. He was so not in the mood for Wayne. Not just because of the upcoming guilt-tripping and ‘stop being such a sissy’-talk but also because having energetic, bouncy Wayne around made him feel so much more tired himself.
He didn’t even realize that he’d started swaying on his feet until a strong, cool hand gripped his arm and another hand was put on the small of his back. Steadying him. “Careful there,” Wayne said. “Let’s get you laying down again before you faint, hit your head somewhere and I have to explain to Fergie why you now also have a concussion.”
“I’m not some girl. I won’t faint,” Cristiano protested angrily but let himself be lead back into the living room. He was not feeling too steady to be honest and Wayne was right - not that he would ever tell him - it wouldn’t do to…fall down and hit his head or something. Also Wayne’s hand felt so wonderfully cool on his arm. It felt so nice that he even forgave Wayne for his chuckle.
“Here. Come on, just lie down,” Wayne instructed when they finally - the house really was too big - reached the sofa. Cristiano more like plopped down, no trace of his usual grace in sight. Damn, he didn’t want anybody to see him like this. Clumsy and weak and after the little stroll to the door finally completely sweat-soaked… As if on cue -
“You’re soaked,” Wayne said lifting the wet shirt off of Cristiano’s shoulder. “It’s not healthy -“
“I’m ill,” Cristiano all but shouted in frustration. Of course, he wasn’t healthy. The flu? Remember?
“Really? I hadn’t noticed what with you burning up and barely keeping upright?” Wayne chuckled again. Ignoring Cristiano’s eyes which were glaring daggers at him he headed towards the stairs. “I’ll get you a fresh, dry shirt and pants.”
And with those words and a cheeky grin Wayne ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, the bastard. Leaving Cristiano to worry about the state of his bedroom - were there any used handkerchiefs laying around or anything equally emberassing. Like used condoms. Cristiano giggled which, of course, led to another round of coughing. Had he mentioned how much he hated being sick and achy and sick and -
“Here.” Wonderfully dry and soft and cool cloths landed on his lap startling him out of his musings. He looked up at Wayne who stood before him and watched him expectantly.
“What?”
“Well, change,” Wayne said and gestured towards the cloth when suddenly his mouth pulled into a smirk. “Or are you too weak to do it yourself? Need my help?”
“I don’t need help. I’m a grown man -“
“Could have fooled me,” Wayne chuckled. And really, why wasn’t he even the least bit intimidated by Cristiano’s glaring?
“I am a grown man,” Cristiano repeated icily. “I can dress myself.” And with that he started to pull off his shirt. He stopped a second later when he noticed that Wayne not only hadn't moved an inch but was also watching him pretty closely.
"Will you stop staring at me!" he demanded angrily and a bit emberassed. Sure they had seen each other in various states of undress before in the locker room and even completely naked in the showers but somehow it was different here. In his own house. And with Wayne staring like... that.
"What?! I'm not staring!" Wayne said defensively looking away and - was that a blush? Why would he be blushing?
"You were!" Cristiano insisted.
"I was just making sure that you don't hurt yourself," Wayne explained. Cristiano just lifted his eyebrow. "When did you turn into a fucking prude, mate?"
"Im not a prude!" Cristiano said because he was not. Hello! That was really insulting. He liked his body. He had a great body. He was proud to show it off. But not to one of his mates. Now really!
"Whatever. I'll be in the kitchen then and start heating up the soup,” Wayne said and started to turn away when his eyes fell on the towel still clasped in his left hand. “Oh, I also brought you a damp wash cloth and a towel. Thought you might want to freshen up a bit.” Laying the towel and the wash cloth down on the table, he picked up his bag and headed towards the kitchen.
Freshen up a bit! Cristiano was fuming. So he was a bit rank. He was ill, he had a fever. He was entitled to - well, smell a bit less fresh than normal. Briefly he considered ignoring the towel and just changing into the dry clothes but it would be nice to wash up a bit… With a put upon sigh he started to wiggle out of his shirt…
A few minutes later he felt much better. The new clothes felt wonderfully dry and cool on his feverish skin and he’d used the wash cloth on his hair to get rid of the sweat there and then toweled it dry as best as possible. He almost felt human again. Still achy and hot but better. And there was this heavenly smell drifting in from the kitchen - His stuffy nose made identifying it a bit difficult but it almost smelled like chicken soup. But how could it smell like chicken soup in his house when -
“Soup? What soup? What are you doing in my kitchen, Wazza?” Cristiano called in the direction of the heavenly odour.
“Heating up chicken soup. My mum always made me chicken soup when I had a cold or the flu. So I bought some on my way here,” Wayne called back from the kitchen. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”
Cristiano just lay there. Flabbergasted. Waiting for the world to end because here was Wayne Rooney bringing him fresh clothes and a wash cloth and making him soup. Well, really only heating it but still. And he hadn’t done any guilt tripping or told him to stop being such a sissy. Yet.
“Wazza, are you alright?” he called just when Wayne appeared in the door carrying a bowl with which obviously contained the before mentioned soup.
“Sure, I am,” Wayne told him while keeping his eyes on the bowl and moving very carefully so as to not spill any. Well, he better not. The carpet had been really expensive…
“You’re bringing me soup,” Cristiano said as way of explanation.
“So, what about it? You have the flu, chicken soup is good for you,” Wayne answered nonchalantly and finally put down the bowl on the table before the sofa with a relieved sigh.
“I know that chicken soup is good for you when you have the flu,” Cristiano said feeling a bit defensive. Again. “But why are you making me soup?.”
“We’re friends and I know that Zé’s not here right now so when I heard that you’re ill I decided to head over and check up on you,” Wayne explained clearly getting a bit uncomfortable himself now. “That’s what friends are for, right. And now eat your soup because I won’t carry it back into the kitchen to heat it up again.”
“Yes, mum,” Cristiano answered and obediently started to eat the soup. It tasted divine. Rich and salty. Salty was good. He guessed it had something to do with all the minerals and trace elements he had lost sweating… Yes, Wayne and him were friends. Good friends again after they’ve finally gotten over that whole red card thing at the World Cup.
“So, Fergie said that you won’t be able to play on Sunday. That sucks,” Wayne said conversationally from his place on the other sofa.
“I wanted to play. Didn’t want to let you down, but the doc - he forbid it. He said it could be dangerous if I played. Something with the heart…” Cristiano said hurriedly to make it clear that it was not a case of him not being hard and manly enough. Because he knew what people said about him and sometimes he wondered if his teammates, if Wayne didn't think the same. Sissy boy falling down if you so much as breathe on him...
“Of course, the doc forbid it. It’s really dangerous. So just listen to the doc and get well before you even think about playing again,” Wayne said decisively. "It just sucks that you have caught it right now. But there's no helping it. If you catch the flu, you catch it. It doesn't matter if you prance around in shorts in October or not." And he winked. A friendly wink with a friendly smile showing that he meant no harm, was just winding up his teammate. And Cristiano sat there and stared. Where was the guilt trip?
"I hate how pants got tangled around the legs," he explained with a shrug.
"Rubbish. You just like to show of your legs," Wayne laughed. Cristiano mumbled a "Do not!" but had to grin himself because he kind of did.
They fell into a comfortable silence. Cristiano eating his soup, sighing happily from time to time and Wayne just sprawling on the other sofa, watching him again. But for whatever reason Cristiano wasn't bothered by it now.
“Want more?” Wayne asked when Cristiano put the now empty bowl on the table again.
“No, I’m full,” Cristiano answered and let himself sink back into the cushions. He was feeling tired. Awfully tired, he realized.
“Go on, lay down and take a nap if you want,” Wayne told him. Cristiano just nodded, closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall slowly to his left until he was laying down. As soon as the side of his face hit the pillow, he pulled a face.
“Erh, it’s wet,” he complained scrunching up his nose in distaste. He tried to raise himself up again to flung it away when he suddenly felt those cool hands on him again. Lifting him carefully and pulling the offending pillow away before stuffing a dry one from the other sofa under his head and then carefully laying his head down again.
Cristiano’s eyes flew open and he stared at Wayne as if seeing him for the first time. And he might as well be because this was not the Wayne he knew. The Wayne of this evening was openly caring and gentle and so nice to him and smelled very lightly of chicken soup and had wonderful, blessedly cool hands … He liked this Wayne. But a part of him still waited for the other shoe to drop, for Rio to jump out behind the door and yell 'Gotcha!'
“Wazza?”
Wayne just smiled, pulled the blanket over him and tucked it gently around Cristiano making sure it covered him from his toes to his nose before he ran a hand through Cristiano’s curly hair - Cristiano didn’t mind that much because it wasn’t styled anyway - and then leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Take a nap, Ronnie. I’ll be here when you wake up again.” And with that he got up, took the empty bowl of soup and vanished into the kitchen leaving a completely befuddled Cristiano Ronaldo behind.
Had Wayne just kissed him? Slowly he lifted his fingers to his lips which still tingled. And then he smiled - broadly and happily - and snuggled down into the blankets drifting off with that goofy grin still gracing his lips.
******* A week later
It was Cristiano’s first day back at training. Well, he had been on the bench on Sunday. Officially as a substitute but everybody knew he was nowhere fit to play. Now he was finally better again, though, and he ached to play. He even looked forward to getting tackled by Wes. He really did.
“Where’s Wazza today?” Rio asked when training started and there was still no Wayne Rooney in sight.
“He called this morning. He’s sick. The flu. Obviously it’s something in the air. First Ronaldo, now Rooney…,” the trainer said. And Cristiano smiled that broad, happy smile again.
The End
(first beta post here at junalele", then normally posted here at junalele)
Author: junas_stories
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo/Wayne Rooney aka the Cristyne
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Sadly nobody in this fic belongs to me. It's all the product of my imagination and a bronchitis. Yep.
Author's notes: So yes, it happened again. I wrote fic. And it's Cristyne. Well yes, after I forced everyone else into it, I guess, it's fitting somehow. I warn you though - I was ill with a bronchitis myself when I wrote this so I may have chaneled a bit of my then maudline self into this. *nervously bites her fingernails*
Title inspired by this quote from Sir Alex here.
Not a boy from Bury
The shrill ring of the doorbell startled Cristiano out of his nap on the sofa in the living room. Fuck. And he had just dozed off, too. He had hardly gotten any sleep the night before because his nose had been running non-stop and his head, no his whole body had ached as if Wes Brown had practised tackles on him for a few hours. And then this morning he had been to the doctor. The flu, he had said. You won’t be able to play on Sunday, he had said. Well, fuck. Cristiano thought he deserved a bit of a nap. So he decided not to answer the door. Zé would get it anway. Yes.
“Riiiiiiiing!!!”
Cristiano startled again.
“Zé, will you get the fucking door!” he hollered. Or rather he tried to holler but after the ‘Zé’ he had another coughing fit which sent his whole body into spasms. Painful spasms. Really painful spasms. He wondered if this would hurt less if he had less muscles to spasm. Maybe he shouldn't have worked out quite so much?
He got no answer other than the fucking doorball ringing again. And suddenly Cristiano remembered that Zé wasn’t here. He had gone home for a couple of weeks for his girlfriend to meet the family. In other words he had abandoned Cristiano who was now alone in the house and sick, really sick.
Oh well, Cristiano had to admit - at least to himself - that Zé couldn't have known when he left a week ago. To go to Madeira. Where it was warm. And where there were flowers instead of grey pavement with grey houses and a grey sky. Cristiano was sure if he was in Madeira right now he wouldn't have gotten that damn flu in the first place. Not that that had even been an option since he was needed here in Manchester. It being the middle of the season and all which was why it sucked even more that he was now down with the flu...He just wished he had begged Zé to stay instead of getting all defensive and disgruntled and telling him that of course, he should go. That he did know how to take care of himself, thank you very much.
And he had been just fine the first few days because it was not that he couldn't take care of himself, he just didn’t like to do it. And he hated being alone. He hated it. And now he was ill and Zé - well, he should have known that Cristiano needed him and he should have come back. Or one of his sisters or cousins or - best of all - his mom should have come. Weren’t moms supposed to feel it if one of their kids needed them?
“Riiiiiiiing!!! Riiiiiiiiiinnnng!!!”
Cristiano pressed one of the sofa cushions over his head and cuddled deeper into his blanket. He only wanted to see someone from his family and they would have a key. Anyone else wasn’t supposed to see him like this with a stuffy nose and mussed up hair and probably a bit rank since he was sweating so much. Thanks to the fever. He looked a mess. And really, other than his family who would stop by? The only possible answer was a teammate. A teammate who would wind him up and be annoying and tell everybody at Man Utd how sick poor, ickle Ronaldo was. So no, he was not getting up. It was so warm here…
“Riiiiiiiing!!! Riiiiiiiiiinnnng!!!”
He would get the doorbell modified, Cristiano decided. So it wouldn’t ring anymore but…maybe play a nice little song. Maybe one of his sister’s… Yes, that would be nice.
“Oi, Ronnie! Open the fucking door! I know you’re in there!” Loud banging accompanied the hollering.
Cristiano groaned. Couldn’t it have been Gary? Or Rio? No, okay, maybe not Rio. But certainly not Wayne either. Wayne who would likely tell him to get over it, stop being such a cry baby and get back on the pitch. Wayne who probably would play if he had a high fever and was aching all over because Wayne would never let the team down. And not at such an important match as the one against Liverpool. Cristiano felt guilty enough without Wayne laying into him. And just now when things between them finally really got back to normal…
“Ronnie? … Ronaldo!? … Cristiano!!? If you don’t answer the fucking door right now, I’ll break it down. I swear I will!”
With a very dramatic sigh Cristiano untangled himself from the slightly sweat soaked blanket and heaved himself upright. Woah! Hello vertigo. Fucking flu. Carefully and moving like an old man and not at all like a professional footballer at the tender age of 21 he dragged himself towards the front door. God, but had his house always been so big? Note to self: forget the doorbell, get a new house, a smaller one.
“Ronnie?! I’m counting to three! One…two…-“
“What do you want?” Cristiano asked as he threw open the door (or tried to at least) facing a bewildered looking Wayne who just stared at him, obviously taking in his mussed, sweaty hair, his blotchy face, his long-sleaved shirt and long pants.
“You look like death warmed over, mate,” he remarked.
“Well, I’m ill,” Cristiano answered defensively. “What do you want?”
“You should be lying down,” Wayne said instead of answering his question.
“I was until you threatened to break down my door.” For a second there, Wayne had the grace to look slightly sheepish but then sheepish turned into determined.
“Well, get back to bed then,” Wayne ordered and simply pushed past Cristiano into the house shutting the door behind himself.
“I don’t remember inviting you in,” Cristiano grumbled. He was so not in the mood for Wayne. Not just because of the upcoming guilt-tripping and ‘stop being such a sissy’-talk but also because having energetic, bouncy Wayne around made him feel so much more tired himself.
He didn’t even realize that he’d started swaying on his feet until a strong, cool hand gripped his arm and another hand was put on the small of his back. Steadying him. “Careful there,” Wayne said. “Let’s get you laying down again before you faint, hit your head somewhere and I have to explain to Fergie why you now also have a concussion.”
“I’m not some girl. I won’t faint,” Cristiano protested angrily but let himself be lead back into the living room. He was not feeling too steady to be honest and Wayne was right - not that he would ever tell him - it wouldn’t do to…fall down and hit his head or something. Also Wayne’s hand felt so wonderfully cool on his arm. It felt so nice that he even forgave Wayne for his chuckle.
“Here. Come on, just lie down,” Wayne instructed when they finally - the house really was too big - reached the sofa. Cristiano more like plopped down, no trace of his usual grace in sight. Damn, he didn’t want anybody to see him like this. Clumsy and weak and after the little stroll to the door finally completely sweat-soaked… As if on cue -
“You’re soaked,” Wayne said lifting the wet shirt off of Cristiano’s shoulder. “It’s not healthy -“
“I’m ill,” Cristiano all but shouted in frustration. Of course, he wasn’t healthy. The flu? Remember?
“Really? I hadn’t noticed what with you burning up and barely keeping upright?” Wayne chuckled again. Ignoring Cristiano’s eyes which were glaring daggers at him he headed towards the stairs. “I’ll get you a fresh, dry shirt and pants.”
And with those words and a cheeky grin Wayne ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, the bastard. Leaving Cristiano to worry about the state of his bedroom - were there any used handkerchiefs laying around or anything equally emberassing. Like used condoms. Cristiano giggled which, of course, led to another round of coughing. Had he mentioned how much he hated being sick and achy and sick and -
“Here.” Wonderfully dry and soft and cool cloths landed on his lap startling him out of his musings. He looked up at Wayne who stood before him and watched him expectantly.
“What?”
“Well, change,” Wayne said and gestured towards the cloth when suddenly his mouth pulled into a smirk. “Or are you too weak to do it yourself? Need my help?”
“I don’t need help. I’m a grown man -“
“Could have fooled me,” Wayne chuckled. And really, why wasn’t he even the least bit intimidated by Cristiano’s glaring?
“I am a grown man,” Cristiano repeated icily. “I can dress myself.” And with that he started to pull off his shirt. He stopped a second later when he noticed that Wayne not only hadn't moved an inch but was also watching him pretty closely.
"Will you stop staring at me!" he demanded angrily and a bit emberassed. Sure they had seen each other in various states of undress before in the locker room and even completely naked in the showers but somehow it was different here. In his own house. And with Wayne staring like... that.
"What?! I'm not staring!" Wayne said defensively looking away and - was that a blush? Why would he be blushing?
"You were!" Cristiano insisted.
"I was just making sure that you don't hurt yourself," Wayne explained. Cristiano just lifted his eyebrow. "When did you turn into a fucking prude, mate?"
"Im not a prude!" Cristiano said because he was not. Hello! That was really insulting. He liked his body. He had a great body. He was proud to show it off. But not to one of his mates. Now really!
"Whatever. I'll be in the kitchen then and start heating up the soup,” Wayne said and started to turn away when his eyes fell on the towel still clasped in his left hand. “Oh, I also brought you a damp wash cloth and a towel. Thought you might want to freshen up a bit.” Laying the towel and the wash cloth down on the table, he picked up his bag and headed towards the kitchen.
Freshen up a bit! Cristiano was fuming. So he was a bit rank. He was ill, he had a fever. He was entitled to - well, smell a bit less fresh than normal. Briefly he considered ignoring the towel and just changing into the dry clothes but it would be nice to wash up a bit… With a put upon sigh he started to wiggle out of his shirt…
A few minutes later he felt much better. The new clothes felt wonderfully dry and cool on his feverish skin and he’d used the wash cloth on his hair to get rid of the sweat there and then toweled it dry as best as possible. He almost felt human again. Still achy and hot but better. And there was this heavenly smell drifting in from the kitchen - His stuffy nose made identifying it a bit difficult but it almost smelled like chicken soup. But how could it smell like chicken soup in his house when -
“Soup? What soup? What are you doing in my kitchen, Wazza?” Cristiano called in the direction of the heavenly odour.
“Heating up chicken soup. My mum always made me chicken soup when I had a cold or the flu. So I bought some on my way here,” Wayne called back from the kitchen. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”
Cristiano just lay there. Flabbergasted. Waiting for the world to end because here was Wayne Rooney bringing him fresh clothes and a wash cloth and making him soup. Well, really only heating it but still. And he hadn’t done any guilt tripping or told him to stop being such a sissy. Yet.
“Wazza, are you alright?” he called just when Wayne appeared in the door carrying a bowl with which obviously contained the before mentioned soup.
“Sure, I am,” Wayne told him while keeping his eyes on the bowl and moving very carefully so as to not spill any. Well, he better not. The carpet had been really expensive…
“You’re bringing me soup,” Cristiano said as way of explanation.
“So, what about it? You have the flu, chicken soup is good for you,” Wayne answered nonchalantly and finally put down the bowl on the table before the sofa with a relieved sigh.
“I know that chicken soup is good for you when you have the flu,” Cristiano said feeling a bit defensive. Again. “But why are you making me soup?.”
“We’re friends and I know that Zé’s not here right now so when I heard that you’re ill I decided to head over and check up on you,” Wayne explained clearly getting a bit uncomfortable himself now. “That’s what friends are for, right. And now eat your soup because I won’t carry it back into the kitchen to heat it up again.”
“Yes, mum,” Cristiano answered and obediently started to eat the soup. It tasted divine. Rich and salty. Salty was good. He guessed it had something to do with all the minerals and trace elements he had lost sweating… Yes, Wayne and him were friends. Good friends again after they’ve finally gotten over that whole red card thing at the World Cup.
“So, Fergie said that you won’t be able to play on Sunday. That sucks,” Wayne said conversationally from his place on the other sofa.
“I wanted to play. Didn’t want to let you down, but the doc - he forbid it. He said it could be dangerous if I played. Something with the heart…” Cristiano said hurriedly to make it clear that it was not a case of him not being hard and manly enough. Because he knew what people said about him and sometimes he wondered if his teammates, if Wayne didn't think the same. Sissy boy falling down if you so much as breathe on him...
“Of course, the doc forbid it. It’s really dangerous. So just listen to the doc and get well before you even think about playing again,” Wayne said decisively. "It just sucks that you have caught it right now. But there's no helping it. If you catch the flu, you catch it. It doesn't matter if you prance around in shorts in October or not." And he winked. A friendly wink with a friendly smile showing that he meant no harm, was just winding up his teammate. And Cristiano sat there and stared. Where was the guilt trip?
"I hate how pants got tangled around the legs," he explained with a shrug.
"Rubbish. You just like to show of your legs," Wayne laughed. Cristiano mumbled a "Do not!" but had to grin himself because he kind of did.
They fell into a comfortable silence. Cristiano eating his soup, sighing happily from time to time and Wayne just sprawling on the other sofa, watching him again. But for whatever reason Cristiano wasn't bothered by it now.
“Want more?” Wayne asked when Cristiano put the now empty bowl on the table again.
“No, I’m full,” Cristiano answered and let himself sink back into the cushions. He was feeling tired. Awfully tired, he realized.
“Go on, lay down and take a nap if you want,” Wayne told him. Cristiano just nodded, closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall slowly to his left until he was laying down. As soon as the side of his face hit the pillow, he pulled a face.
“Erh, it’s wet,” he complained scrunching up his nose in distaste. He tried to raise himself up again to flung it away when he suddenly felt those cool hands on him again. Lifting him carefully and pulling the offending pillow away before stuffing a dry one from the other sofa under his head and then carefully laying his head down again.
Cristiano’s eyes flew open and he stared at Wayne as if seeing him for the first time. And he might as well be because this was not the Wayne he knew. The Wayne of this evening was openly caring and gentle and so nice to him and smelled very lightly of chicken soup and had wonderful, blessedly cool hands … He liked this Wayne. But a part of him still waited for the other shoe to drop, for Rio to jump out behind the door and yell 'Gotcha!'
“Wazza?”
Wayne just smiled, pulled the blanket over him and tucked it gently around Cristiano making sure it covered him from his toes to his nose before he ran a hand through Cristiano’s curly hair - Cristiano didn’t mind that much because it wasn’t styled anyway - and then leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Take a nap, Ronnie. I’ll be here when you wake up again.” And with that he got up, took the empty bowl of soup and vanished into the kitchen leaving a completely befuddled Cristiano Ronaldo behind.
Had Wayne just kissed him? Slowly he lifted his fingers to his lips which still tingled. And then he smiled - broadly and happily - and snuggled down into the blankets drifting off with that goofy grin still gracing his lips.
******* A week later
It was Cristiano’s first day back at training. Well, he had been on the bench on Sunday. Officially as a substitute but everybody knew he was nowhere fit to play. Now he was finally better again, though, and he ached to play. He even looked forward to getting tackled by Wes. He really did.
“Where’s Wazza today?” Rio asked when training started and there was still no Wayne Rooney in sight.
“He called this morning. He’s sick. The flu. Obviously it’s something in the air. First Ronaldo, now Rooney…,” the trainer said. And Cristiano smiled that broad, happy smile again.
The End
(first beta post here at junalele", then normally posted here at junalele)