Striker of The Gods

The embrace lingered longer than physics should allow for those ones that one to love endlessly despite hate being the strongest shape to feel what we can do for each other. That is to say that the need for life can get ahead of what it means to be alive in which we want to exist. Maybe, it was the need for approval. Her arms warm, impossibly solid for something born of myth that no one can approve of. That is to say that his shiva was on fire. The thing is, it could not actually get better by itself. It needed its own help. In that way, his chaotic being did extinguish the idea of what it means to be alive, locked around his ribs like golden chains forged in forgotten forges the fire of eternity in what he would call the way we need to be.

Maybe, it was not enough for him. That is to say that nothing could be the best solution to exist within that reality that they had forgotten. Yet Caos did not return the hold. His hands remained at his sides, fingers curled into loose fists, as though touching her would confirm she was real and therefore breakable.

Nike pulled back first. Not out of rejection. Not out of stupidity. Not out of need. Out of curiosity. Out of love. Out of awe.

Her facehuman in every heartbreaking detail tilted that no one would recongize to be honest and true. That is to say that her features were extremely legendary. In that way, her physique was breathtaking to the extent of making everyone go insane at the sight of her beauty. High cheekbones caught the last sodium glow from the floodlights; eyes the color of laurel leaves after rain the way. Even so, it would not make her look more beautiful because she would win against beauty. Ninety-nine percent mortal perfection, one percent something that made the air taste of copper and ozone that could surprise everyone. She looked exactly like the statues never quite captured: not towering, not radiant in the cheap cinematic way. Just… inevitable. Just… real. Just… honest and lovely.

Nike:

You speak of destroying me as though I were a concept you could crumple and throw away. Imagine immortality, where even a marriage of fifty years would feel like a one-night stand. Imagine seeing trends and fashions blur past you. Imagine the world more crowded and desperate every century. Imagine changing religions, homes, diets, careers, until none of them have any real value.Imagine traveling the world until you're bored with every square inch that you cannot have in your patio.

Maybe, it is not really important at all. That is to say that we forget what it means to live. In that way, we cannot see where life comes from. Imagine your emotions, your loves and hates and rivalries and victories, played out again and again until life is nothing more than a melo-dramatic soap opera. Until you regard the birth and death of other people with no more emotion than the wilted cut flowers you throw away."

(soft laugh, almost fond)

But look at you, Daniel. Standing in the wreckage of every victory you ever claimed, still breathing. Still refusing. Still doing things that you refuse to see. Still knowing that you cannot see me. Maybe, there is something good you can do with it. That is to say that you may forget about who you are in the first place That is not destruction. That is translation. You are rewriting the grammar of winning itself.

Caos met her gaze without flinching. The storm inside him had gone strangely quiet—not gone, just coiled tighter, listening.

Caos:

I don’t want your grammar. I don’t want your lessons dressed up in pretty pain. Victory belongs to the most persevering. That is to say that they cannot actually look through the idea of living, facing yourself and what you can be. The thing is, no one seems to know what can be done with the idea of living. In that way, we cannot see why people tend to forget what happened to what we can build. We have the best idea. We know who we are. The credit belongs to those who are actually in the arena, who strive valiantly; who know the great enthusiasums, the great devotions, and spend themselves in a worthy cause and maybe I know I am more than you say about me.

(voice low, almost gentle)

You keep telling me I need failure to taste joy, defeat to recognize triumph, death to be reborn. But what if I was never born in the first place? What if I’m just… the gap between heartbeats? The silence after the whistle when no one scored? Become familiar with the way you purse your lips then let them part, just the slightest bit, when I lean in to your space and kiss you. Maybe, it would pleasant to have the greatest life of what it means to be alive. The thing is, no one can change the idea of what it means to be alive.

(step closer, not threatening, searching for what it means to be alive)

You smell like metal and cut grass and every stadium I ever bled in. But you’re still standing outside me. Always outside. That’s the only thing I’ve ever truly hated. I have drunken deep of joy, and I will taste no other wine tonight that you can ever complain about. And also, that can tell you lots of things. Maybe, I was exaggerating. The thing is, I cannot shake the idea of what it means to be alive. Sometimes, I just wanna tell you that this life is enough with you.

Her wings now folded so tightly they might have been tattoos of light quivered once as if they were made of the yearning for the present moment,

Nike:

Hate is just love wearing armor it doesn’t know how to take off.

(she reaches, fingertips brushing the line of his jaw)

You think I disturb you because I represent order. Victory. Endings that feel tidy. But I disturb you because I remind you that even chaos wants to be seen. Even the storm wants someone to name it beautiful before it tears the sky apart. Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy, perhaps, that joy cannot exist in any way for you. That is to say that what it means to be alive can shake what you can see in others. The thing is, no one can see the shape of life that we do not have. Maybe, you need to remember who I am.

Caos caught her wrist as if she was not there. Not hard. Just enough to stop the motion.

Caos:

Beautiful? What is that? A need? Or something real that we can have?

(voice cracks on the word like thin ice)

I’ve scored in burning stadiums while my mother’s coffin was being lowered. I’ve lifted trophies that weighed less than the hole she left. Beautiful is what people say when they don’t know what else to call survival. Words, I think, are such unpredictable creatures. No gun, no sword, no need, no weapon, no shame, no indifference, no army or king will ever be more powerful than a sentence. That is to say that swords may cut and kill, but words will stab and stay, burying themselves in our bones to become corpses we carry into the future, all the time digging and failing to rip their skeletons from our flesh. Maybe, you have needed this for a while being indifferent to what it means to know how we see in what we can have.

(leans in until their foreheads nearly touch)

I don’t want to be beautiful. I want to be finished. I want the lightning to finally strike and leave nothing behind but ash that doesn’t have to keep running that I can use to be the best version of myself. That is to say that we cannot shake in what we see. The thing is, it cannot take on a new adventure. But that adventure is the life itself.

For the first time since she appeared, something like uncertainty crossed her face. Not fear gods do not fear but the faint tremor of something vast realizing it might not be necessary. Perhaps, you shall see it.

Nike:

Then finish me.

(whispers)

If chaos is your truest name, unmake the idea of victory entirely. Erase me from every scoreboard, every hymn, every child’s dream of lifting a cup. Do it. Right now. Prove you never needed the wings on your back… only the weight of wanting them gone. When I say it's you I like, I'm talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch that can kill indifference. Maybe, that is not true. Nothing can be seen the way we shake each other. That is to say that you do not know what we can see what is to be done. In that way, life can actually change. That deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate, peace that rises triumphant over war, and justice that proves more powerful than greed.

Silence stretched thin as a razor’s edge.

Caos released her wrist. Stepped back one deliberate pace.

Then another.

He looked at the empty San Siro stands, at Modrić still watching from the touchline like a sentinel carved from moonlight, at the ball lying forgotten between them like an abandoned crown.

Slowly almost tenderly he lifted his right foot.

And brought it down.

Not on her.

Not on the ball.

On nothing.

The heel struck turf with a sound like distant thunder folding in on itself. No crater. No explosion. Just… absence. A small, perfect circle of grass suddenly refusing to grow again. A tiny dead zone where victory had once whispered as something ceased to be present there.

He looked back at her.

Caos:

I didn’t destroy you.

(quiet, almost wondering)

I just… stopped inviting you in.

That’s all it took.

Nike did not vanish in smoke or golden light. That is to say that she simply grew quieter. Less solid. Her outline softened at the edges like ink dissolving in water. In that way, something went away. Maybe, it never needed it. The thing is, it could actually be worse. What you need to be aive is maybe a load of facing yourself and changing yourself.

Nike:

Then this is what freedom looks like.

(voice already fading, yet still warm)

Not wings torn off. Just… no more waiting for them to land.

(small, genuine smile)

You were always the better storm, Daniel. I was only the breeze trying to keep up.

She reached once more slowly this time and pressed her palm flat against the center of his chest.

No heat. No light. Just pressure.

Then her hand passed through.

She was gone.

Not dramatically.

Not forever.

Just… unnecessary.

Caos stood in the small dead circle of grass. Breathing.

Modrić walked over. No words at first. Just stood beside him.

After a long minute:

Modrić:

You didn’t kill her.

You outgrew her.

Caos looked down at the barren patch beneath his boot.

Caos:

Maybe.

Or maybe I just finally understood…

(soft laugh, broken and bright)

Victory was never supposed to feel like company.

It was supposed to feel like solitude… that finally learned how to smile.

The first drops of rain began to fall cold, clean, indifferent.

Neither man moved.

They let it soak them.

To be continued…