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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Silva/Villa, Mutu/Figo, Nesta/Zlatan
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: This is absolutely fiction and not real and I don’t know these people at all. Any resemblance to any real-life magazine is completely accidental.
Notes: Titled after the song by Michael Jackson.
Summary: Nesta spreads chaos in the office again, and then gets a little chaotic himself.
***
“…no, that’s not good enough. We need the electronic copies too, otherwise how are we supposed to search them?” Pause. “Your tech’s not in. What kind of office are you running where you only have one person servicing all your IT? Get somebody in who does know the system, or else why did we bother to come out?”
Zlatan pulled his head out of the pillow and looked at the clock. Four in the morning. An hour and a half after they’d arrived, two hours till they had to get up. Who the hell was working at this hour to take Sandro’s neurotic phone calls?
“Oh, I know, you think it’s useless so we’ll just turn around and go home. Well, think again. If I get there later this morning and it’s still a mess, I’m going to stay and fix it, and then how’s that going to look? Good for you? I doubt it.” Plastic slammed loudly into plastic, and then the mattress heaved roughly as Sandro threw himself down on it.
Some bony joint of Sandro’s hit Zlatan near the spine and Zlatan grunted and put his face back in his pillow. He should’ve stayed silent, because then Sandro remembered he was there and started relating the whole phone call to him, like he was even awake enough to remember he didn’t really want to break the man’s neck, let alone listen.
“And why are you so tired?” Sandro snapped. “You were late this morning, and anyway, shouldn’t you be used to odd hours? It’s not like they pulled you out of a nine-to-five job—”
“Don’t fucking start on—” my goddamn old job that I gave up for you, you ungrateful shit, Zlatan mentally completed in his head. He didn’t do it out loud mostly because he’d reached back and that had shifted his head so now he had a mouthful of pillow.
His hand scraped something that moved away. He turned over and grabbed at it, and Sandro shook his shoulder and Zlatan just rolled over. Landed on a lot of poky things that hurt. Kind of. Kind of squirmy too, and cursing a lot. If Zlatan thought about it. He didn’t. He was fucking tired and so he just laid there on top of it till it stopped moving. It kept mouthing off, but not as much, and finally it even stopped that. Started moving again, but so the poky things stopped being poky and started being calves sliding out from under his legs, hands wrapping around his arms.
“I think I liked it better when you dragged me off at gunpoint. This is…pathetic,” Sandro muttered. “Not sexually attractive at all.”
Zlatan gradually realized he had a noseful of Sandro’s hair again and moved his head. More hair. He tried the other direction and got Sandro’s ear, which was…better, he decided. Weirdly warm. He nudged it with his nose-tip just to make sure he had the right body part, then shrugged. “Who said I was trying to fuck you? I was always just trying to get you to shut up.”
Sandro snorted. His breath was soft, at least, and tickled Zlatan’s shoulder on its way out. “You could’ve just gagged me.”
“I still can. Don’t tempt me,” Zlatan said irritably, jerking up his head. He leaned on one arm and looked at the man under him. Furrowed brow, pursed little mouth, like it was really that puzzling why Zlatan was annoyed. “Listen, I’m fucking tired and I’d like to get the two hours of sleep that I can, because it’ll help me be good and not kill all the bureaucrats. You mind?”
For some reason that made Sandro flinch. Then he got all defensive about it and threw back his shoulders, lifted his chin, and shoved limply at Zlatan’s shoulder without making eye contact. “Well, fine.”
Zlatan stayed put. Their room had two beds but by now he knew better to even consider moving to the other one. “What?”
“Nothing.” The other man glanced at him, then shook his head. He pushed at Zlatan again before finally letting his head fall back, looking exasperated. “What?”
Seriously, it was too early for this. It was also too early for Zlatan to figure out what was going on in Sandro’s fucked-up, too-thinky brain, so he just laid there and stared back.
It only took about ten seconds before Sandro started wriggling, turning his head this way and that. He muttered something and gave up on it halfway through, then suddenly grabbed Zlatan’s shoulders like he was going to put some effort into tossing Zlatan off the bed. He even got his upper body off the mattress.
But he never carried through on the threat. Instead he just froze a few centimeters from Zlatan, his lower lip nearly touching the bridge of Zlatan’s nose. His fingers flexed on Zlatan’s shoulders, then went still and stiff. His grip was still pretty hard and finally Zlatan rolled one shoulder; Sandro let out a low groan, kind of annoyed and kind of bitter.
Then Sandro started to lie down again, but Zlatan moved forward at the same time. Their mouths slid past each other, settling on upper lip and chin, and then shifted back and Sandro opened his mouth, pressing aggressively forward. His hands suddenly came back to life, dragging at Zlatan’s back till Zlatan had to get his other elbow up to support himself. One scratched under the blankets, caught on the waistband of Zlatan’s boxers. It retreated, then came back and plunged into the boxers so fast that Zlatan jumped. Something down there snagged and Zlatan hissed, cut his teeth over Sandro’s lip. Unsympathetic, Sandro bit Zlatan’s tongue and wrapped his hand around Zlatan’s prick.
“Fuck. Wait, there’s—” Zlatan twisted, now cursing the rough edges of the calluses on Sandro’s hand “—fuck, give me a fucking—”
Sandro kissed him again, more like a smack to the mouth than anything else, and then dropped his head to lave at Zlatan’s neck. He grunted and lifted one knee, pushing his own erection against Zlatan’s thigh as Zlatan leaned over him, fumbled at the nightstand. Cheap hotel lotion, felt weirdly gritty against his fingers, but it was slightly better than dry skin on dry skin. Fucking air-con kept the room too cold for sweating, even though now Sandro was sucking on Zlatan’s nipple, dragging his thumb over and over the head of Zlatan’s cock. He wouldn’t get his hand off even when Zlatan put his lotion-smeared one down there, so they ended up mutually jerking Zlatan off.
Not exactly earth-shaking, but the room still jittered a little as Zlatan dropped down the other man. He paused a moment, chin on Sandro’s breastbone, and caught up with one breath; Sandro called him a bastard and some other shit, and clawed one hand through Zlatan’s hair, like the caress of a lion’s paw. Zlatan winced and shook it off, and then slid the rest of the way down, taking sheets with him. He petted the ridge in Sandro’s briefs, then grinned into the man’s thigh when Sandro outright yanked his hair. Then he flipped the cotton out of the way and got down to sucking off the other man.
Sandro still stiffened up right at the beginning. It was too dark to see but Zlatan knew Sandro’s hands were twitching, and the one closest to the nightstand was curling like it already had the gun lying on the stand. That wasn’t so funny now—but Zlatan shrugged it off, made Sandro relax. Listened to the man gasp and hiss, and finally let out a moan through clenched teeth—probably a hand pressed against his mouth, too. Like anybody was bugging their room; Zlatan had checked that, never mind being law-abiding. He had privacy rights too.
While Sandro was getting his breathing under control, Zlatan went into the bathroom and rinsed out his mouth. He came back into the bedroom and tossed Sandro a hand-towel, which Sandro took and used without saying anything. Then he got up and returned it to the bathroom while Zlatan got back into bed.
When Sandro came back, he didn’t get in, but instead sat on the edge of the mattress. “You could’ve just asked,” Zlatan muttered, turning towards him. “Oh, wait, it’s you…”
“Just shut up once in a while,” Sandro said. He sounded tired.
Zlatan lifted his head and Sandro swung his legs onto the bed, leaning over Zlatan. He swayed on his hands a moment, then dipped and kissed Zlatan on the mouth. Then he moved over about two centimeters and dropped so he landed squarely on Zlatan’s arm. He made himself comfortable, and a couple seconds later, a raspy little snore was coming from him.
“Oh, honestly,” Zlatan said. He left his mouth open a moment longer, then snorted and closed his eyes.
* * *
David shook his head, then reluctantly twisted over and rubbed open one eye. There was light on the ceiling, but…not in the right direction for the window. Kitchen light was on. He frowned and put down his arm, and then frowned harder as he felt something wrong on that side.
Or rather, he didn’t feel anything at all. Not even heat, just cool sheets. For a moment David was annoyed; his world wasn’t supposed to rearrange itself when he wasn’t looking. Then his brain caught up with why the other side of the bed would be empty, and the annoyance quickly faded. He pushed himself up, spent a second scruffing his hair, and then got off the bed and went into the kitchen.
There at the table, David Silva was sitting with his laptop and working on something. He looked over when David came in, but no expression came over his face and then he went right back to what he was doing. Maybe with his shoulders even more hunched.
“What are you doing?” David asked. His voice echoed harshly in the quiet kitchen. He came around the end of the table and went to the fridge, then stopped just short of opening the door. Then he shifted over half a meter and instead got a glass from the cabinet. He filled that up with water from the sink.
David Silva mumbled something.
After drinking some water, David tried again. “Why are you up so late? Deadline?”
“’m working on the spa article. We’re going to another one tomorrow and I want to write this as I go,” David Silva said a little louder. “These trips take up so much time that I can’t just leave it to the end.”
“Oh.” The tap water tasted a little off. When David dumped out the glass and refilled it, the same thing happened. He exhaled irritably and dumped out the glass again, then got himself a bottle of water from the fridge.
The other man was still at the table, typing away.
David hesitated, then shook his head and grabbed the nearest chair to David Silva. He pulled it out and sat down in it, putting his unopened bottle on the table. “I’m sorry.”
After a moment, David Silva turned and blinked at him. “Huh?”
“I’m sorry. I said sorry to Iker today, and he let me walk out of his office so I think he took it. And I just…what else? I don’t know, all right? I’m sorry but I don’t,” David said.
“Guaj—David. Um.” Then David Silva turned away. He put his elbows up on the table and rubbed at his eyes, mumbling to himself again. It occurred to David that it was really late and David Silva didn’t have any coffee out by him. “It’s okay.”
“Then why are you out here?”
David Silva lowered his hands. He looked at his laptop screen, then sighed and reached out for the keys. After tapping a couple, he put down the screen and folded his arms on top of the laptop. He leveled a tired but affectionate—well, maybe it was an affectionate look. Maybe it was just fed up. “Because I want to get my work done? I really would like to go to bed, but I just…want to do a good job. This is only my second article.”
“Oh. I know, yeah, but…” David grabbed his bottle back and convulsively twisted off the top, then made himself not drink from it till he’d finished talking “…look, can I…do something?”
A smile cracked David Silva’s face as he swept a few strands of hair from his face. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I just finished up, actually, so…”
“You didn’t look done,” David pointed out. “You looked like you were still working on it.”
The smile froze, then slid off David Silva’s face. He pushed at his hair again, a lot more annoyed, and looked at David through narrowed eyes. “Look, I’m not—well, to be honest I’m still annoyed, but it’s just…I can’t figure out why on earth you’d think it would be a good idea to bug Iker about Morientes during a movie. But whatever, you’re not doing it anymore, I can move on.”
“I just think it’s weird. Everything about Morientes rubs me the wrong way,” David tried to explain. He saw the other man stiffen and hurried up the rest so David Silva wouldn’t think it was just personal opinion. “No, I don’t like him, but his history is weird too. He just walked away from FC, and now he’s back, and not a word from them. They’re fine with him moving in on their territory? That doesn’t sound like them at all.”
David Silva sat there and looked at David, very quiet and still, with one arm down across the laptop and the other propped up so that hand could cup his jaw. His expression was pretty blank, but in a way that gave David the creeping feeling he’d fucked up somewhere.
Then David Silva shook his head, hard. “Oh, my God,” he muttered, turning away. He got up and yanked the power cord out of his laptop, then stomped over to the outlet and yanked out that end of the cord as well. When he wrapped up the cord around the charger, he did it so roughly that the ends slapped at his hands. “David, can you just—can you just give it up? You’re so goddamn obsessed with him! It’s almost like you want to fuck him.”
“What? I—what? I don’t want to fuck him! I don’t even want to look at him! I want him to leave! That’s why I want to know about hi—fuck!” Apparently the chairs in David’s kitchen wouldn’t support his frantic clarifications, because as he got up to try and catch David Silva, the damn chair kneecapped him. Or did something that ended with him dangling from the edge of the table, still yelling. “It’s just that! I still want to fuck you, all right?”
“Oh, that’s romantic.” For a moment there David Silva had stopped and looked worried. But then he shook himself again, grabbed his laptop and stalked towards the door. “Then why can’t you stop talking about some other guy when I ask you to?”
Finally back on his feet, David hurdled the overturned chair and scrambled through the doorway in time to snag David Silva’s elbow. “I don’t want to talk about him, but he keeps coming up and it’s not my fault. Look, this time you brought him up.”
Wrong thing to say. That was written all over David Silva’s blank stare and open mouth. And of course, during the couple of seconds that David Silva spent gaping, David tried to figure out why it was the wrong thing instead of saying something else.
David Silva’s mouth shut into a thin, hard line. He looked down at his arm, then purposefully jerked it free of David’s grip. Then he went off again, and this time he got to the guest room before David could catch up to him again. He slammed the door in David’s face, and as David knocked furiously on the wood, shouted at David to leave him alone. “I have work to do! Go back to bed!”
“But you’re mad at me!” David yelled back.
“I know! But you know what, you’re just making me madder and—I’m going to work, and we’ll talk tomorrow! I just can’t talk to you right now!”
After that, David Silva didn’t answer David. He ignored the knocks and the frustrated kick David aimed at the door, and then David’s parting shot that they’d better talk in the morning or he’d take the door off the hinges. In hindsight, also not the right thing to say.
But David was right: he hadn’t started it this time. And he should get some credit for saying sorry to Iker, and anyway, didn’t he at least get to explain himself? Fine, David Silva didn’t think the same way about Morientes, but he could make an effort to see where David was coming from. It wasn’t like David liked feeling suspicious and paranoid, wondering all the time whether Morientes didn’t have some ulterior motives. He didn’t sit around thinking that kind of thought for the sake of his health.
He got into bed, alone, and felt like shit. Christ. They had better talk all right.
With that thought in mind, David eventually fell into a restless sleep. Half the time he still seemed to be aware, but stuck in that phase right before actual waking, and he couldn’t make his body move. He was paralyzed and bizarre shadows swooped back and forth above him, some coming so near that they were going for his face—
--David shot up, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, then opened them and shook his head roughly. Then he looked at the clock: morning.
A couple minutes later he’d looked around the apartment: alone. David Silva wasn’t there.
* * *
Luís put his hand against his forehead, then over his open mouth so he could smell his own breath. No stale alcohol, his head didn’t hurt, his back and knees felt like he’d slept on a proper mattress last night…
“You don’t have a hang-over and there wasn’t an emergency at the office that you had to work through,” Adrian said, mildly exasperated. He stood there in Luís’ kitchen, dressed only in his collar and a pair of grey sweat-pants just clinging above the swells of his ass, and waved vaguely towards the living room with a spatula. “But somebody came to see you fifteen minutes ago and they said they were police, but they gave me an Italian badge. So I know it’s not about me, but they wouldn’t go when I said you were asleep, so I thought I’d make breakfast while I was up.”
“What about getting me up?” Luís asked, more curious than annoyed. From where he was he could see most of the living room, and that included a bored-looking man in a suit lounging over the majority of the sofa. The man had his arms stretched out over the sofa’s back and he could damn near cup his hands over both ends.
“You were going to get up in ten minutes anyway, and they said they weren’t in a hurry.” Adrian paused, thought about that, and rephrased as he turned back to the stove. He flipped a crępe onto a plate, then switched spatula for a bowl of batter and a spoon. “I mean, the tall one said they weren’t in a hurry, and I think he wanted to go, but his partner said they could wait for ten minutes. They started arguing and I saw the woman down the hall spying on us again, so I thought it might be better if I just got them inside.”
After some craning, Luís spotted the other man in front of the bookshelf. Ramrod posture, excellent suit and unruly longish hair. That one was the Italian. “Is that for them?”
“No, they didn’t say they were hungry. I offered some water, but they didn’t take that so…” With a shrug, Adrian dolloped batter onto the pan. Then he set aside bowl and spoon, and took up the pan-handle to expertly tilt the pan so the crepe was even and perfectly circular. “You want me to cook for them?”
“Not really. I generally only feed people I know,” Luís said, coming into the kitchen. He went up behind Adrian and kissed the back of the other man’s neck; Adrian shivered a moment, then leaned back into it. So he really was as calm as he seemed. “Can you keep my share warm for a few minutes?”
Adrian just chuckled under his breath, and twisted his head around to rub his mouth along the line of Luís’ jaw. After their talk last night he’d been nearly silent, and in bed he’d immediately curled into Luís but hadn’t wanted to do anything else, but this morning he was apparently back to his normal self. “It’s funny that I can’t do a party, but I’m so used to random people coming to bother you.”
Right down to the brave attempt to just live past a rough spot, and the slight shake in the voice. Luís kissed him again, lingering on Adrian’s lower lip, and then went out into the living room.
The one on the couch reacted first, eyes flicking over and stance subtly changing—Luís marked that and nodded to the other one, who was just turning to face him. Luís looked on over for a few seconds, taking in the changes the years had wrought in Nesta. Surprisingly little, including the intensity of the man’s stare; back when Nesta had been prosecuting here, Luís had avoided any encounters mainly because he’d wanted to write about music, not about scandal. But these days he could see that that had been a wise decision for other reasons, even though he suspected Pep would win out in a head-to-head. He doubted it’d be amusing to test that guess, for one. “Good morning. The Zidane tapes, right? I thought you weren’t coming till Thursday.”
Couch winced; Nesta looked annoyed. But Nesta kept hold of himself and merely shook his head. “I apologize for coming so early, and not contacting you before, but Mar—my superior only gave me your address. I’m Alessandro Nesta, this is Zlatan I—”
Zlatan rolled his eyes with enough shoulder movement to catch Nesta’s attention. The two of them exchanged a look, and then Zlatan flipped his hands in a derisive go-ahead gesture.
Nesta, with a badly-suppressed sigh, finished his speech. “I wanted to stop by and identify myself, and leave my contact information. We’re also here on business, so I’m not certain right now when we can come again for the tapes…unless you have them already?”
“No, unfortunately. Lippi wants good copies, so I understand, so I asked Zizou to burn new ones instead of just ripping off my own. He has the masters. I’ll have them by this afternoon at earliest.” Luís held out his hand for the business cards Nesta handed him, glanced at them and then tossed them onto the nearest desk. He looked up and watched Nesta twitch, like the man was going to go after them. “Well, I’ll call when they’re ready, and we’ll figure out something. Anything else?”
“Nope,” Zlatan said, rising from the couch. He seemed amused, anyway.
For that he earned his partner’s glowering ire, but the two of them restrained their bickering till after Luís had shown them out. Luís considered standing at the door and listening, but then he smelled fresh coffee. No, breakfast and Adrian were definitely more appealing.
* * *
“Like I said, this had better be good. Guaje and I had an argument last night, and we were supposed to talk it over this morning but I had to leave a note,” David said.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I really honestly couldn’t get anybody else to pick up a fucking phone. I’m sorry. Really. I’ll call the Villa later and tell him it was my fault, but thanks so much for coming,” Juan replied, pulling them both towards a storage room. “I could handle one, but I can’t deal with both. I only have one car.”
David started to ask what Juan was talking about, but then the other man opened the door and Juan didn’t have to explain. All the explanation David needed was Albiol on the left side of the room with a black eye and a busted lip, Albelda on the other side with a swollen jaw and blood smeared all over his temple, and on the floor between them, a half-torn bit of paper. When David picked it up, he realized that it was a copy of Morientes’ column.
“Careful with that, it’s got my corrections on it,” Albiol slurred.
Albelda made a convulsive movement and Juan hastily jumped in front of him, but Albelda just ran his hand through his hair and glared at Albiol. “Fucking turncoat asshole. Go on, never mind that Iker’s ten times the—”
“Hey, look, it’s none of your business. Iker’s talked to Figo and it’s up to him what he wants to do now, not you,” Juan said sharply.
Albiol opened his mouth and David shoved the paper at him, then shook his head when the other man started to smile at him. “Mata’s right,” David said. “Christ. Last I talked to Iker, he wanted as little fuss as possible, so this is completely going the wrong way about it.”
“Fuck off,” Albelda muttered, but half-heartedly. And he let Juan drag him off the chair, so maybe he was cooling down.
It still looked like Albiol wouldn’t mind a swing or two, but David chivvied him out of the room well ahead of Albelda and Juan. He’d have to fight David to get his fight, and at this point David was ready to kneecap people, frankly. One column, for God’s sake. It wasn’t like Morientes was passing a law or anything; next week there’d be a new column with new stuff. It really would be better if they just stopped talking about him, and got on with their lives.
* * *
Zlatan pushed away his stack of papers, then dragged his arm back and rubbed hard at his eyes. He lowered his hand and gazed at the room. The world was still all bleary, so he rubbed his eyes again. When that didn’t work, he got up from the table.
“Where are you going?” Sandro didn’t even look up. His highlighter kept on moving without a hitch. “You’ve got another box of files.”
“Yeah, and also a cup of coffee calling my name.” And it wasn’t even like Zlatan had to leave the building for that, so there was no reason for Sandro to be giving him a dirty look.
Especially not when Zlatan was bringing back a cup for him too, and once Sandro took it, he only needed three seconds to slurp it down. Then Sandro buried his nose in the papers again.
Zlatan sat back down and took a sip of his coffee. His shoulders made him aware of how sore they were and he rolled them a few times, then stretched his back and elbows for good measure; Sandro twitched at the sound of the joints popping. Then he drank some more coffee. He sp—okay, kind of slobbered some over the rim and cursed, jerking away before it got on his trousers. Then he leaned over the table to grab a napkin to wipe off his face.
With a sigh, Alessandro raised his head. His arms stayed in place, one pressed lengthwise into the table while the other supported his chin on the heel of its hand. That hand’s fingers curled up around his face, the tips of their nails just touching his cheek.
“I’m here to work, not here to die of exhaustion,” Zlatan said, rolling his eyes. “Five minutes to make sure I still have feeling in all my limbs is not going to kill the fucking case, Nesta.”
Alessandro just kept looking at Zlatan, like he hadn’t expected any better. Then he shouldn’t be so disappointed, Zlatan thought savagely. Besides, he’d been the one keeping them up last night, and then acting like it hadn’t happ—Zlatan abruptly got up again. He started around the table, then went back and grabbed his coffee. Only on the second time around did the other man make a grab for him.
It was easy for Zlatan to evade it. “I’m hitting the bathroom,” he said.
And he did go to the bathroom. He even finished his coffee while walking there, multitasking so he could spend a couple seconds checking his phone. Henke had sent a text to call him after dinner; since they were both legit now it was fine to grab a coffee so long as they didn’t run home to post about it on their blog, or so Henrik had told Zlatan earlier. Zlatan had told Henke his job was turning him weird and Henke had just chuckled. Yeah, and now Zlatan could see why.
Zlatan stood in the hall for a little longer, staring absently at the far wall. Then he took a deep breath, reminded himself he’d gone in eyes wide open, and turned towards the door.
Then he turned away. He cocked his head, listened, and then trotted down the hall and the staircase at the end of it, following the faint crashes and shouts. At the end of the stairs, he emerged into a floor of interrogation rooms, one of which had a small crowd gathered around it. Whatever it’d been, it seemed to be over, since one woman was telling the others to get moving.
A couple of the local cops came back Zlatan’s way and he buttonholed one to ask what’d happened. “Tough guy,” the cop said, jerking his chin over his shoulder. Then he snorted derisively. “Nah, just a crackhead. He’s so high he broke a fucking car window already, but the holding cells are all full so they’re sticking him up here for now.”
“Got it,” Zlatan said, losing interest.
He reached back for the door to the staircase, to hold it for the others, and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Zlatan turned around just as one of the doors in the hall burst open. He instinctively dropped, slamming down his arm so he took one of the cops with him.
The idiot didn’t know how to fall and completely blocked Zlatan’s sight for a second. By the time Zlatan got his head free, the prisoner had gotten out and gotten hold of somebody’s gun. Two cops had already thrown themselves at him, but he was so wild that they couldn’t get his gun-arm down; Zlatan glanced around, but it was a bare hallway, no cover. He twisted around and saw his foot had blocked the door to the stairs from shutting all the way, and kicked that open. Then he wrenched himself around and grabbed the jamb.
Just then he heard a vicious crackling, followed closely by two zaps. Zlatan turned back and saw the prisoner falling, the glow of a taser. The ping above his head barely registered.
Till the door slammed on his fingers and he felt something break. Because that fucking crackhead had managed to get off a shot on his way down and it’d hit the door and made it swing faster than Zlatan had expected and ow. Ow.
“You all right?” somebody said, leaning over Zlatan. They helpfully pulled open the door.
Zlatan hissed and yanked out his hand, then cradled it against his chest. He blinked fiercely against his blurring vision; it fucking hurt but this shouldn’t be enough to put him into shock. “Think I’m gonna need some first-aid. Somebody want to tell my partner?”
* * *
David didn’t wait around at home, but went straight to work. Initially he had thought David Silva had walked out on him, but even he could see that was pretty out of character for the other man. More likely was that Figo had called him off on something—it still bothered David that he hadn’t gotten told first, but anyway, he could bring that up once he’d found David Silva.
But when he got to work, Figo said no, he hadn’t given David Silva any new assignments and no, he didn’t know where he was. He hadn’t gotten any messages, did he need to worry?
“No,” David said shortly. He turned on his heel and walked out.
A quick survey of the others revealed that nobody else knew where David Silva was either. Irritated and worried, David went back to his office and picked up his phone to try David Silva’s mobile, only to notice he had a message. He opened it up and the text was from David Silva. It said sorry but he wasn’t going to be in till the afternoon. Didn’t give a reason.
This was beginning to look fucking weird, and David knew it wasn’t all in his head. He saved the text and then dropped back in his chair, staring at the far wall. His back had a crick in it about two-thirds of the way down his spine because he hadn’t slept well. His head hurt from that and from trying very, very hard to make sense of things without going off the handle.
David looked at the phone in his hand again. He thumbed buttons till it was dialing, then abruptly ended the call. Exhaling harshly, he told himself that he was not running out and finding Morientes. He was not going there. Maybe David Silva was mad at him, and maybe that was part of the explanation for why the man was missing, but that didn’t mean David Silva had turned into somebody David couldn’t trust. David did trust him, more than most other people, and he was not going to betray that. He wasn’t going to be that guy.
He opened a drawer and dropped his mobile into it, and then he pointedly turned on his computer. There were a couple reviews he could look over, and one edit he had to reread. He could keep himself busy. He could wait. It was worth it to him to do that.
* * *
“Well, at least we got lunch out,” Zlatan said.
Alessandro sat in the chair opposite the examining table, arms tightly folded across his chest, and stared at Zlatan as if Zlatan was speaking ancient Latin. He understood what Zlatan was saying, but still couldn’t believe Zlatan was saying it. “The doctor says it’s a compound fracture and you need surgery, and you’re happy about lunch?”
Then again, Zlatan couldn’t believe what Sandro was saying either. He’d had his money on it being something about how Zlatan was slowing up the review and Sandro would have to do all the work himself, like usual, and blah blah blah Zlatan was totally responsible for everything that’d screwed with Sandro’s life since age nine. “Hey, compared to my previous surgery experiences, this one doesn’t look too bad. I don’t have to shell out all the money myself, the doctor’s got nice legs, and I get sick pay since it was in the line of duty.”
“Oh, Christ,” Sandro muttered, abruptly turning his head away.
“Of course, you’ve got better legs, but you never show them off,” Zlatan said. “I don’t think you even own a pair of shorts. Those swimming trunks don’t count—they’re so goddamn bright that I go blind whenever I look at you in them.”
Sandro kept looking away, as if he hadn’t heard Zlatan. Or was pretending, but Zlatan had to rule that one out when Sandro twisted the rest of his body to face the same way his head was. The other man slumped in the chair, rubbing his brow and nose, brooding so hard that Zlatan was surprised air could still get through the thick waves of melancholy Sandro was emitting. When Sandro was like that, he didn’t have the spare energy to wind up Zlatan, or to do anything else. His monofocus could be such a pain in the ass some—most of the time.
“I learned my lesson, okay? Don’t go for coffee. Just work.” Zlatan shifted around on the table and idly wondered where the hell the doctor had gone. If this had been Buffon, right about now would be when he’d walk in and make things really awkward.
“What?” Frowning, Sandro glanced at Zlatan. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Great, this was a really deep funk. “What…I did?”
“Protecting colleagues and getting your hand broken?” Sandro said after a moment. He still was disbelieving, but now surprise was mixed into it too.
After another moment’s thought, Zlatan just gave up and shook his head. He slapped his good hand against the table, then grimaced as the cheap imitation leather stuck to his palm. “Okay, what the fuck is it? Why are you so moody? You’ve been like this for days now and I’m so sick of it I’m ready to break something just to get you to come out of it.”
“Well, you broke your hand,” Sandro snapped. He jerked his arms apart and grabbed the sides of the chair, then pushed himself to his feet. Then he made a slight movement towards Zlatan, but at the last moment swerved so he went to the door. “I’m not in a mood. You just don’t listen to me, damn it—”
“I’m doing that right now! You’re just not telling me anything!”
“Because you keep wandering off! It’s like you’re trying to get—” And Sandro was through the door, but he couldn’t help himself and kicked it shut.
Zlatan had been on his way up, but at that he sat back down. Partly because the force of the door hitting its frame was enough to jar the whole room, and Zlatan did have broken bones in his hand. But also partly because it was just better to let Sandro go at this point. It went against a lot of Zlatan’s instincts—because God, but if they were going to talk about wandering off and fucking up, Sandro had his share of stories—but he knew enough to know it was the right call. Sometimes Sandro just had to go and have his temper tantrum.
“I still don’t get it,” Zlatan muttered, lying back against the table.
* * *
David cleaned out his inbox just before lunch, which he unwillingly spent with Victor. Even though Valdés was paying, David would’ve rather just ordered in, but Valdés had dragged him out and insisted on getting David’s opinion on the authenticity of some music-star biopic Victor had just watched.
When David got back, he had just enough time for Bojan to tell him that David Silva was also in before Figo hauled him into his office. They had a short, frank discussion about how Raúl Albiol was now Morientes’ copy editor and how David was fine with that, and how the whole Morientes thing was not coming into the workplace anymore because work was not about individual people, but about the magazine as a whole. Of course David wasn’t really fine with it, but Figo explained things so David had to see the point. And also he didn’t want Morientes in his fucking work either. The man had already screwed with enough parts of David’s life.
And of course Morientes was coming in when David went to leave Figo’s office. For a moment they just looked at each other, blinking in surprise.
David pressed his lips tightly together. Morientes snorted and jerked up his chin, like it was so below him to even bother being annoyed, and went around David. “Luís? We have to talk. I just got back to my hotel room and got Albiol’s corrections, and—”
“Then why do we have to talk? He’s the one who made the corrections,” Figo said, sighing. “There’s a reason why they call it a creative process.”
As much as David would’ve liked to stick around and hear Figo continue to dress down Morientes, he had other conversations on his to-do list. Ones he was even looking forward to having.
He walked out and over to David Silva’s office, but it was empty. David Silva’s bag was thrown down on the floor by the desk, so he was in, but not…here. After about a minute’s wait, David went back out into the main floor. He looked around, spotted Gutí with a gaggle of other fashion writers and reluctantly started towards them to ask if they knew what was going on. Nuria saw him coming and pointed…and then pointed at something else, while using her other hand to pretend to hide a smile.
David turned around and a tall man with a sour expression was surveying the room. His eyes fell on David and he stepped forward. He asked something in English, but he sounded Italian. Whatever he wanted, it had to do with Figo.
“What’s going on? Who’s he?” Victor came up and talked in English to the Italian guy, who didn’t look any less annoyed for having found somebody to understand him. Then Victor grabbed David, who was trying to edge out of the scene. “Hey, you just saw Figo. Is he busy? This guy’s here to see him.”
“He’s in with Morientes,” David muttered. Then he frowned: the Italian had definitely just straightened up upon hearing Morientes’ name.
The Italian said something to Victor, who blinked and shrugged and then yanked on David’s arm, like David could leave when Victor had his death-grip on David’s arm. “He’s saying he didn’t know Morientes was back in town—uh, no, it’s more like, he can’t believe Morientes is back.”
“What? He knows him? Who the hell is this guy anyway?” David replied.
“He said his name’s Nesta, he’s some cop from Italy—wait a sec.” Victor paused to listen to whatever the Italian guy was muttering now; the Italian wasn’t looking at them but was gazing distractedly around the room as he spoke. “Oh, he’s saying…I think he must have been here when Morientes was or something. He’s talking like he knows him and FC. Says when he heard Morientes had left, he’d thought the man had finally wised up, but apparently not. He—”
Right about then the Italian seemed to realize he was rambling on and snapped his eyes back on Victor and David. He spoke sharply and Victor jerked back, then retorted harshly, waving his hand towards Figo’s door. The Italian said “thank you” in about the most sarcastic tone possible and turned away just as Figo stepped out of his office.
At the same time, David Silva ducked out of a room two doors to Figo’s left. David left Victor to go bitch to somebody else about how rude the Italian guy was and made a beeline for David Silva, who first smiled at him and then looked faintly concerned.
“Listen, I’m really sorry about this morning,” David Silva started. “I—David!”
“In the room first,” David said, yanking them back through the door. Morientes was still in Figo’s office, after all. “Okay.”
“Ow.” David Silva’s expression was hardening over its hurt as he pulled himself free. He rubbed at his wrist as he watched David shut the door. “What’s going on? Is there a problem? Who’s that man—”
And locked the door, for good measure. Maybe David could trust David Silva, but he couldn’t trust Morientes. “He’s an Italian cop who knows Morientes.”
“What? But why is he here?” David Silva stammered.
“Because Morientes is here! He was in there bitching to Figo about corrections to his column, and then this guy comes and he wants to see Figo too,” David said.
“But I thought you said he’s here for Fernando—” David Silva looked at something behind David and shut his mouth rather abruptly. Then he grabbed David’s shoulder and tried to pull them towards the door. “Look, Guaje, I don’t know—”
All right, David loved him but right now David was too frustrated. “It’s in front of your face! I just told you, there really is something off about Morientes. This cop, he comes out of nowhere and he knows—”
“What? Knows what? What’d he say? What’s—” For some reason David Silva kept trying to get at the door. He pushed David away when David tried to stop him, then threw up his hands. “Look, what the hell is happening out there?”
“Tell me about it, man.” Mata, of all people, bounced in out of thin air and right between David and David Silva. He got hold of the knob before David could smack him and yanked open the door. “First my officemate’s a moron and gets in a fight with Albiol again, and now you’re popping into our office and talking about—gah!”
Figo was right outside the door. He stood there with his eyebrows quirking till they all settled down, then leaned against the jamb. “What was that about a fight, Mata?” he asked casually. “Does this have to do with why Morientes can’t get hold of Albiol?”
“Why is there a cop here?” David Silva blurted out.
Mata coughed back his reply and looked questioningly at Figo, who blinked, cocked his head and then managed to make dawning comprehension seem like the most painful migraine possible. “Oh. Alessandro Nesta’s not a cop, strictly speaking. He does work for the Italian government, but anyway, he’s just picking up some CDs as a favor to a mutual acquaintance. Nothing to do with his job.”
“Then why was he talking about Morientes?” David Silva persisted, with a look to David that was…hostile?
“He was?” Figo leaned out and spoke in Italian.
A moment later, Nesta walked into the frame of the door. He had a small package under his arm and seemed even more irritated than before, jerking at his cuff while answering Figo. Then he stalked off.
“Well,” Figo muttered thoughtfully. Then he noticed they were all watching him and snorted. “Oh, I think he’s just having a bad day. Which does not, at any point, have him arresting Morientes so stop hoping, Villa. He just explained to me that he only knows of Morientes generally—he was a former prosecutor here, but he left just as Morientes arrived. They didn’t overlap very much, and do you honestly think I’d hire somebody who’d bring Nesta down on my head? The man makes Jens Lehmann nervous.”
“It’s not like I know who Nes—”
David Silva jerked at David, shaking him hard enough so that he couldn’t finish his sentence. Then David Silva hastily apologized to Figo and dragged himself and David into the hall; for some reason Figo let them pass without comment.
“See?” David Silva said.
“See what? What was that for?” Annoyed and confused, David pulled himself free and then moved clear of David Silva’s reach. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Figo had gone into the room to talk to Mata, whose eyes were darting around like those of a trapped animal’s. “Where were you this morning?”
For a moment David Silva was silent. Then he put his hand up to his temple like he was tired. “Listen, I’m sorry about that, but did you get my—”
“And I’m not making this up. Maybe Nesta wasn’t here about Morientes, but he’s heard of him,” David added.
The hand dropped. David Silva stared at David with a mixture of frustration, incredulity and something else, something dark and hurting that made David abandon the rest of his plea.
Then David Silva turned away. He closed his eyes and dropped his head, pulling at his nose. “I’m really starting to think that you’re never going to get it, you know.”
“Get wh—”
“That I love you, that I chose you over Morientes, that I want to be with you. But no, you just—keep making it all about Morientes, always talking about him and goddamn it, David, if I wanted him around that much, I’d be dating him!” A strange, guttural sigh came from David as he threw back his head. Then he opened his eyes and saw David trying to reach for him, and warded that off with a sharp gesture of his hand. “Look, maybe you’re right. Maybe Morientes has some horrible secrets in his past. He ate babies or something. But why do you need to know?”
“Why? Why?” David said disbelievingly. “Because—because if that’s true, then you should—”
“Stay away from him? I’m already doing that! I already told him no, so what the hell is knowing he’s a bad guy going to do?” David Silva snapped. “What are you trying to do, make me feel fucking guilty about even thinking about saying yes to him? Because I don’t feel guilty about that, and I don’t think I should. This isn’t a contest, and even if it was, you already won.”
The sheer fury in David Silva’s voice took David aback. At first he just worked his mouth with nothing coming out of it. Then he inhaled deeply and tried to get his argument back together. It’d been a good one—he remembered it being a good one. “If you really don’t care about him, then how come we get in a fight every time he comes up? Last night! Last night you walked off on me, and then this morning—”
“You didn’t see my note,” David Silva suddenly said. “Oh, honestly—David, this morning Juan called me because Albiol and Albelda got in a fight and he needed help getting them to the doctor. I left a note for you. I didn’t walk out on purpose.”
“Last night—”
“Okay, last night I did walk off but it was for the same reason I was just telling you. I don’t want to talk about Morientes, you do, and every time I tell you—you just don’t listen. You just don’t listen.” David Silva’s voice unexpectedly went soft and wondering. His eyes turned distant. “I love you so much and you, you bastard, you still don’t care. It’s not enough for you.”
Then, before David could say anything, David Silva spun on his heel and started off. At that David swore and lunged at him, but David Silva twisted back and actually shoved David off. He shoved David, and then he slashed at the air between them with his hand, looking so angry that David flinched.
“Don’t you come near me. We’re not talking, Villa,” David Silva snarled. “It’s no good when you don’t listen, so I’m not even—God, I love you, I believe in you but I’m not falling for that one again. I’ve seen you be better than this—I love that man, and I’m not talking to anybody but him. Got it?”
“I’m listening! I’m—” At that point David realized the other man was getting further and further from him. He charged after David Silva, but he was barely into his first step when somebody grabbed him around the waist.
They swung him back and then held him against a desk. When he kicked, they pinned his legs, and when he tried to bite them, they dodged and swore in Catalan. And then held on till he was finally too tired, and unwillingly slumped against the desk.
“He said to leave him alone,” Victor said. “You looked like you were going to hurt him.”
“What? I would—I would fucking never—” David wheezed “—bastard.”
After a moment, Victor let go. He stood back and shrugged, then glanced to the side. Figo came up by him and looked narrowly, coldly at David, and as much as David wanted to push off the desk and drag himself, if necessary, after David Silva, he stayed put.
“First Albiol and Albelda this morning, and now this,” Figo said. He jerked his head to the left. “In my office, Villa. Now. We’re discussing how you and David Silva are going to be professionals about this if I have to kill you both.”
“About what?” David gasped.
Victor looked surprised. “Breaking up, what else?”
David sank back against the desk. He stared at Victor till Figo gave him a hard shake on the shoulder, and then he got up. He looked around, but David Silva was gone.
“Come on,” Figo said, more gently. “Come sit down.”
Not that that was going to make any difference, since David’s legs were numb—his whole body was numb. But he followed the other man.
* * *
Zlatan pulled his hand out from under the pillow, empty, and Sandro looked at him, then looked at the nightstand where Zlatan’s gun was. For a moment Zlatan was pissed off, but then he lost his grips on that and just leaned back against the headboard. He watched Sandro come into the room and get rid of coat, bag, phone before he finally managed to get some thoughts together. “Hey, so I’m right about health.”
“What?” Sandro said. He fiddled with his phone charger before leaving that on the table and coming over to inspect the stuff on the nightstand.
“Needing to take a break and all that.” It slowly entered Zlatan’s brain that Sandro still didn’t understand him. “You’re back early.”
The other man’s face finally cleared up. “Oh. Zlatan, they shut down the whole office. They’re trying to move what we need to somewhere else, but that won’t be done till tomorrow. How many of these did you take?”
Sandro held up one of the little brown pill vials and Zlatan squinted to read the label. Then he grinned and patted Sandro’s shoulder. Tried to pat: his hand actually ended up more around Sandro’s elbow. “Just what the receptionist gave me. I hate those things, you know? Child-proof my ass. Kids can do ‘em, no problem, but I have a fucked-up hand and need that shit, and I’ve gotta ask for help. ”
“Oh,” Sandro said under his breath. His mouth was pursed funny. He put down the vial and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Zlatan’s thigh.
“Since you went off to do no fucking work. Then again, if you’d stayed, you’d probably have sat there and watched me fuck around with it, and laughed.” Zlatan’s nose itched. He scratched it, then winced; he kept forgetting which hand not to use.
“I would not have—that’s a terrible thing to say, even for an asshole like you,” Sandro snapped. Then he stopped and looked all upset with himself. He shoved some hair behind his ear. “I was coordinating with the new place, and then Figo called and said the CDs were ready, so I went to get that done. You seemed all right. You can take care of yourself.”
True. But still wrong, somehow. It was hard to pin things down when the room always felt like it was spinning a little. “Yeah, so? That doesn’t have anything to do with wondering where my partner goes when I’m in fucking surgery. I go to the hospital with you every time. Listen to you and Buffon bitch to each other, even put up with Buffon bugging me about Gila. He keeps asking me to get you distracted while he gets a date, you know.”
“He what—” Then Sandro stopped and stared off into space. His head slowly dipped, and a small, wry smile came over his face. He snorted and shrugged, and turned back to Zlatan. That smile went away. Instead he stared hard at Zlatan with that look of his, the one he gave when he was being kicked in the stomach and didn’t realize it, because he got kicked there so damn often. “Sorry. I didn’t think you wanted me there.”
“Why the hell not?” Zlatan asked irritably. Then he blinked. “Wait. I’m drugged up to my nose, and you just apologized. I’m too fucking stoned to gloat.”
Sandro briefly grinned. “Yeah.”
“You bastard.” After a moment, Zlatan had to laugh. Good one, score for Sandro. “You’re still my partner. Suck it up.”
“Really?” Sandro said. When Zlatan blinked, Sandro shifted uncomfortably and looked down at the floor. “You keep saying that, but…you talk to that friend of yours yet? He’s here, isn’t he?”
“Leave Henke out of this. He’s legal now too. And he’s got his own shit to deal with, so he doesn’t need yours or mine,” Zlatan muttered. “Why are you bringing him up anyway? Why are you acting so weird? If you think—you think I’m gonna fuck this up, you’re gonna be waiting a long time, Nesta. Zlatan doesn’t miss his chances.”
Sandro jerked up his head. “I hate it when you talk in the third person, and don’t say it’s the drugs. I know you.”
“Yeah?” Zlatan tilted his head.
A strange uncertainty crept into the other man’s face. He opened his mouth, then scooted a few centimeters up the bed instead of talking. His hand brushed over Zlatan’s good one, then rose and touched Zlatan’s bad one, which was resting across Zlatan’s belly.
“But you’re doing it out of pride. You don’t actually like it. You’re just here because you didn’t have a choice,” Sandro said quietly.
Zlatan frowned and tried to figure that one out. He could feel a low throbbing starting behind his eyes—it would figure, doped up and Sandro could still give him a headache. “What, being your partner? Oh, yeah, I didn’t…choose when I gave myself up, and took the deal they offered, and agreed to run around saving your ass as a full-time job instead of a fucking hobby. I totally held a gun to my own head. Look, did you take some of my meds?”
And Sandro just ignored that and kept mumbling to Zlatan’s hand. “You’re always acting like…you keep running off and getting into things like today. It’s like you’re trying to get out.”
“Or my partner is fucking nuts and gets into shit-storms where I have to get creative to make sure you don’t get hurt. Okay, that wasn’t today, today was just dumb fucking bad luck. I just wanted a fucking break. My eyes hurt.” Another funny thing was how the drugs completely didn’t numb Zlatan’s irritation with the other man. He wanted Sandro to look at him, but Sandro wouldn’t, just kept mooning on and finally Zlatan grabbed him. Then snatched his hand back, hissing, the pain briefly clarifying his mind. “Sandro, I ignore you a lot. Because you say a lot of stupid shit. Like right now. Or because something needs to get done and you don’t get it. Or because I’m wrong but I’m like that—Henke could tell you but we’re not talking about him. But I come back. I’m not your fucking ex, I’m not walking out on you, I’m here till you hit me enough times that I do listen to you. Okay?”
“You keep calling me your partner,” Sandro finally said.
“Yeah, and you don’t call me yours, but whatever.” Zlatan carefully laid his arm back on his stomach, breathing slow till the pain subsided.
So did his clear thinking. He saw Sandro move without really comprehending it, and the other man got over him and then up against Zlatan’s side, his head on Zlatan’s shoulder and his feet leaning against Zlatan’s shins, before Zlatan could even finish thinking what’s he doing. Then they stayed like that for a while.
Sandro put his arm over Zlatan, cradling Zlatan’s bandaged hand. “I think about it once in a while,” Zlatan said. “You get me so annoyed. But even in my head I’m always coming back. I did that before I went legit, you realize? So why changing jobs is going to change that…”
“I want you to goddamn listen because I want to know what you’re thinking about, and what you’re going to do. I’m not any more used to working with someone than you. I don’t know how a partner thinks,” Sandro said, sharp but low. He shifted his head on Zlatan’s shoulder. “I thought you knew what you were. Are. Didn’t think I’d have to tell you that, too.”
“Prick,” Zlatan said after a moment.
Sandro snorted and moved his head till his face was near Zlatan’s neck. “My partner is a perpetual ass.”
“Love you too.” Zlatan craned his head around and kissed Sandro’s brow, then temple. Then he let his head fall back against the wall. “I am so high.”
Sigh from Sandro. He slowly got up, pushing at his hair. “I’m going to order dinner.”
“Okay. I’m going to stay here and go to sleep.” Zlatan wriggled his shoulders till he slumped sideways, then shifted his legs till he was comfortable. He felt a tap on his shoulder and shrugged, and it turned into a short stroke down his arm. Then he closed his eyes, and Sandro got off the bed. But it was fine; Zlatan knew the other man would be there when he woke up.
* * *
It didn’t take a lot of searching. The note was on the fridge; David hadn’t seen it earlier because he’d left without eating breakfast.
He took it out from under the magnet, then looked at it for a long time.
***