The Seven Sins

i. envy

Cristiano Ronaldo was a successful man and a successful footballer. He had everything he'd ever wanted to have. He loved his job and he loved his son Junior.

It was not that long ago, maybe at the last gala, when he started noticing that one certain Argentine, by the name of Lionel Messi has started to become a bigger name in the same industry Cristiano was working in. That, let's not lie, made his curious about the man.

He was short, yes, but incredibly witty and focused on the pitch. His gravity center was low, making it almost impossible to topple him over when he stood his ground, dribbling past the players towards the goal. Cristiano only now noticed how dangerous of a player he was, not letting himself be distracted by anything or anybody while playing a match.

Lionel Messi was taking the world by storm. There was no more tabloids talking about Cristiano, they rather talked about the Argentine and his inexplicable talent for handling a ball with his feet.

Cristiano was furious when the interviews started asking about his thoughts on Messi. Some even started talking about their relationship, when the two actually didn't really meet until one fatal gala, which Lionel had indeed won.

Cristiano excused himself from the table where he was having a nice dinner, just to go to the bathroom and refresh himself. Sighing in relief when he was alone at the door, he wanted to scream in fury when he saw the one and only, best player in the world, Lionel Messi, standing at the faucets, leaning on his hands and looking at himself in the mirror depreciatingly. Cristiano has suddenly remembered he did not congratulate him on the win tonight.

Without words, he went over to the other sink and opened the tap, letting the cold water gather in his hands before splashing it at his overheated face. The lights on the stage were a bitch, he admitted.

"Hey."

The voice startled him in the middle of tearing a paper towel.

"So, it speaks."

Cristiano frowned at his own words; where did that come from? For the love of God, he didn't want to sound so rude.

Lionel, who glanced at him a moment before, averted his gaze completely out of Cristiano's reach, but the Portuguese could still see the high cheekbones, stained with a dark shade of pink.

"Congrats, Messi. I was just joking."

Cristiano tried to force a smile, but it wouldn't give in. What did it matter anyway, Lionel was not looking at him.

"Thanks. I got to go."

With those last words, Lionel left the fancy bathroom in the fancy restaurant. Cristiano stormed out, looking for a short man who just got out, but saw nobody. Scanning the tables from the distance, he couldn't see anybody who was resembling the Argentine.

Cristiano felt bad. The poor boy looked so scared and vulnerable. Why did he have to be an ass? He promised himself to fix the situation next time he saw him.

When Cristiano came to the hotel, he turned on the TV but didn't watch it. Junior, who accompanied him to the gala, was fast asleep in his pyjamas in the bed next to Cristiano. The Portuguese didn't really know what to do, he couldn't really sleep, so he opened up his phone and Googled Lionel's name. It was only out of curiosity, he told himself. The youngster intrigued him to no end; how could somebody so energetic and open on the pitch be so closed off and unsocial at the events like that?

Cristiano found himself falling inside a wormhole of Lionel's pictures and videos, several articles describing his life or how truly an amazing talent he had. And, after the videos that Cristiano has seen, what the la pulga could do, he had a strong feeling of envy running through his veins. Some people had it easy, it seemed. Without real effort. Lionel just simply felt everything he did. Maybe somebody taught him how to control his immense talent.

He was with him on the pitch already. He hasn't shown any of that. Yet.

Maybe he's waiting for the moment, Cristiano tells himself. Maybe it's something else.

It was three am when Cristiano decided to put his phone on the nightstand. He didn't even notice how long he was looking at the information; it was all so consuming.

His head was full of the certain Argentine, dribbling past his teammates, making them trip over their own feet, and then the small, shy smile he only gave for the cameras. Something seemed to bloom strangely deep inside his chest at the memory of Lionel being embarassed and on the brink of breaking at the time of their encounter in the restroom.

Something woke him up early in the morning. It wasn't Junior, since he usually sleeps until ten. Cristiano got up and went to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. His throat felt scratchy; maybe he got a cold from leaving the window open all night, not bothering to close it. He didn't pay much attention to it when he started doing his morning routine. While brushing his teeth, his breathing got laboured, as if he just ran for ninety minutes straight without a break. He rinsed his mouth and the feeling got worse, when he, just like that, started coughing painfully. There were small droplets of blood on his palm which he held in front of his mouth. Alert, he wanted to go back to the room and call for an ambulance, but the coughing got even worse and eventually, there were one, two, three, four petals of a certain yellowish flower, sitting in his hand, bloodied and looking fresh. Cristiano wheezed and let out a choked sob, thanking God that the door was still closed and Junior couldn't hear him.

This was bad, very bad. His sobs got worse by the minute and the blood from his hand drooled to the cold tiles of the floor, staining the white with red.

The flower, he recognized, was a yellow hyacinth.