The Seven Sins

v. pride

It was a game of El Clásico that day when Cristiano decided that he wanted to watch the game at Santiago Bernabeu. He strongly wanted for his team to win.

He decided that he didn't need Junior beside him, and he was not playing, so what was the point of him watching the game? The little boy would probably just unnerve him, since he was rooting for Barcelona anyway. He left him sleeping in the house and called over his neighbour, a nice old woman, who took care of Junior when nobody else was available. He was thankful for having such good people around him.

Cristiano watched he game, focused. He was close to the pitch, and even waved at his coach when he saw him. The coach only gave him a sympathetic smile and turned back over to his team.

They played well. In both halves. The possesion was mostly on Madrid's side, and the result was two-zero for Cristiano's team. He felt an overwhelming sense of pride as his teammates hugged each other and smiled. He could hear his heart thump, even with the wild roars of the crowd echoing around the stadium.

Cristiano could hear the faint Hala Madrid chants in the rows above and smiled to himself.

The second half was a bit boring for Cristiano's taste, but he knew it was hard to keep the result they had from the first half. Barça was attacking like crazy, a certain small man finding way, all alone, through the swarms of Los Blancos. Nobody could topple him over; all until Marcelo, who was not as fast as him, jumped up in the air to catch the ball, flailing his arms around like the uncoordinated man he was and in a blur, and the Argentine fell down onto his knees, clutching what seemed his mouth and nose.

Cristiano was mad. He yelled Marcelo's name for so long that the man finally looked at him and Cristiano's voice was cracking up. The Brazilian held a look of confusion, screaming in rapid portuguese, saying that Lionel was standing in his way. Cristiano got even more mad and his eyes were fiery.

"Don't move your arms around like noodles, you idiot! You're going to kill somebody!"

That was Cristiano's response to Marcelo's bullshit he was talking about. Cristiano was graphic, showing Marcelo to plaster his hands to his torso when unnecessarily jumping up. The Brazilian muttered something in their mutual language Cristiano didn't hear and waved his hand in disbelief.

The Argentine still didn't get up and Cristiano panicked internally. Did he get a concussion? He couldn't even see what happened because of the mess that were Marcelo's arms. He slowly watched the situation unveil, and two paramedics lifted Lionel up onto his legs, but it seemed like he couldn't really stand. He kept falling forward, uncoordinated and confused, and Cristiano was so, so worried, that he was starting to get scared of it. He was going to be fine, even more so than himself. That thought reminded him of the five and a half months left for him to live.

Every time he saw Lionel, something in his chest expanded and churned, making it a bit harder to breathe. Even more so it hurt when he saw him in real life and not just pictures, just like now.

Lionel finally stayed upwards but propped on the shoulders of the medics, his long sleeved blue undershirt bunched in his fists, which oddly looked like paws of a scared little dog. Cristiano didn't know what hit him to think about Lionel that way. It was kind of surprising that he didn't start coughing right away when he saw Lionel.

Seeing Lionel's bleary eyes even from this distance, he noticed a stream of blood go from his lips and nose to the ground when he bowed his head to keep the blood from flowing in his throat and esophagus. He was soon pampered with towels and gauze, his hands on his hips as one of the medics stood in front of him, seemingly looking at his nose from every angle, and then suddenly, with the white towel wrapped around both his hands, started pushing at Lionel's face. The other medic held Lionel's head from the back so it wouldn't move.