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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R.
Pairing: Fàbregas/Casillas/Raúl, Maldini/Kaká, Nesta/Ibrahimović. Implied Nesta/Maldini.
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 record company is completely accidental.
Notes: Titled after the song by U2. “Ode to a Would-Be Lover” is thanks to hermine.
Summary: Cesc takes a day off, Sandro goes back to Rome, and Figo layeth the critical smack-down on Cristiano. Plus, you know, your average Spanish twitchiness.
***
The blackness parted in a thin horizontal line, each half unsteadily moving apart. Beyond it, a pointed black thing with a differently-shaped black thing on top of it slowly came into focus. The smaller black thing had bits of red in it, and somehow those seemed important. Cesc squinted at them, but his eyesight didn’t clear up quick enough, so then he started to crawl towards them.
Or try to, anyway—something heavy was on him. Blinking, he turned his head, but could only see a strip of wrinkled white sheets. So then he pressed down on his arms and knees, trying to arch his back, and the weight on him sluggishly split in two unequal parts, the larger on his entire right side plus both shoulders and the smaller on just his left leg. But even with their different sizes, they both still were ridiculously lead-like and only a moment later Cesc collapsed with a small huff of exhaustion. His face smushed into the bed. It made his nose hurt.
He snuffled in a breath and tried to think and figure out what was going on. So…yesterday he’d flipped out and…crawled under Leo’s desk for a drinking session, and God, did he owe the other man an apology. But he wasn’t hung-over, or feeling that bad aside from being squished, and that was because…because Iker and Raúl had tracked him down and he’d needed to apologize for being an ass, but they’d still actually went after him. And they’d let him babble and cry, and then said they’d all talk in the morning, and—and that made Cesc feel ridiculously warm and fuzzy, but that also made Cesc realize he was being smashed by Iker’s back and Raúl’s belly. And one other thing: “Shit! Work!”
Raúl jerked, then rolled off. His arm flopped into Cesc’s field of vision, then was dragged back as he woke up. Cesc got a glimpse of a sleepy frown as he tried to scramble up and grab for the clock, but then Iker bolted up while still on top of Cesc and yelped “Hold the email!” so Cesc just ended up face-down in the sheets again.
“Fuck,” Cesc mumbled. He slapped at the bed and wriggled his butt. “Ow. Off.”
Eventually Iker figured it out. Or maybe Raúl’s grunts somehow translated Cesc’s dilemma into terms that Iker understood, but either way, the other man got off and Cesc got to flop onto his back just in time to wheeze in enough air to keep him from passing out.
“Whew,” Cesc finally said. He blinked at the bright spots still dancing all over the dark room. Then he swore and whipped himself into a sitting position. “Shit! What time is it? Oh, crap, I promised Thierry that—”
And whomp, Cesc went right back against the bed again. This time it was just a hand on his shoulder, so he immediately twisted around and tried to get out from under it. But then Raúl grabbed him by the waist, and then the other man sighed and climbed over to straddle Cesc’s waist. Cesc batted furiously at him and for a moment Raúl looked irritated and puzzled the way a grown cat did when a kitten blundered up against it.
Then his eyes narrowed. He grabbed Cesc’s hands and pinned them down, then cleared his throat.
“Isn’t it kind of early for kinky?” Cesc continued to squirm, working on getting his knees up so he could kick at—at somebody. God knew what time it was, but he was pretty sure he was already so late that Lehmann would’ve dispatched Philippe to hunt him down. “Raúl, c’mon, I’ve got work--”
“So do I,” Iker muttered. He still sounded as if he were putting together bed and people to get morning-after. “Um, Raúl? Why are you holding him down?”
Raúl looked down at Cesc’s waist as he adjusted his weight to keep Cesc’s legs down. Then he looked back up, blinking a few times. “You’re overloaded,” he said after a moment. Pause. “Oh, right…Cesc, you nearly collapsed yesterday, and maybe you got a good night’s rest, but that’s not going to—”
“I know, I know, but I don’t have the time—”
It looked like Raúl was just going to interrupt Cesc to go on with his lecture, so Cesc didn’t bother watching the other man as he jerked his head up and down, trying to slacken Raúl’s grip, and so he was totally surprised when instead he got kissed.
Shock held him still for about five seconds. Then he started to say something and accidentally bit Raúl’s lip, and then he tried to apologize for that but realized he was probably just going to bite Raúl again. Also, he was still late. So Cesc pushed his lower lip in and out in a way that was totally out of sync with Raúl, and wiggled even harder, and just generally did everything that should’ve gotten Raúl too exasperated to continue. Except Raúl didn’t get exasperated—he did stop doing much of anything, but his mouth just stayed down on Cesc’s and he kept holding Cesc’s hands down, and eventually it became really clear that this wasn’t a really bad way for him to make Cesc shut up.
Iker cleared his throat and moved around on the bed, making it dip. “Raúl? I, ah, don’t think he wants to.”
Raúl lifted his head a little. Just a little. His eyes stared down into Cesc’s, all black and deep. “I know, but he’s not going to work either.” Blink. “Even if you’re actually turning sex down for once. That just makes me think this is even worse than I thought.”
“Uncle, I have to,” Cesc whined. He let his voice crack so Raúl would think about the squeaky kid he’d been at twelve…and Raúl did twitch, but he still didn’t get up. Cesc slumped. “Look, I’m going to lose my job.”
“No, you aren’t.” Their foreheads touched as Raúl leaned forward a bit, which also let Cesc see the red just inside the edge of his lower eyelid, and that was sort of creepy. “I’ll write you a doctor’s note.”
Cesc stared at him.
Iker muttered something about really needing coffee, but then managed to clear his throat loud enough to interrupt Cesc. “Raúl, look, he’s an adult. He likes his job. And anyway, calling in sick for one day just puts off everything and doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know, I know, but…” sighing, Raúl closed his eyes; his forehead pressed harder against Cesc’s “…I was really worried about you, Cesc. I don’t want you to have a breakdown, and before you say it, not just because I don’t want a José repeat. Because I love you and when you love people, you don’t like for them to have breakdowns.”
That…that was kind of soap-operaish, and definitely not up to Raúl’s usual standard of cool, Cesc wanted to say, but he suddenly had a funny hard lump in his throat. He swallowed a couple times, then tried to cough it away, but it stubbornly lingered.
“Thanks,” he finally said, very quietly. “I…thanks. That helps a little.”
Raúl lifted his head and squinted down at Cesc, either because he still wasn’t completely awake or because he just…he really felt bad about this, and it wasn’t anywhere near all his fault that the whole family was having issues at the same time, and when he still had issues himself. But he was just sucking that up and staring down at Cesc—his hands moved off Cesc’s wrists to cup Cesc’s face, and then he bent down again. And this time, Cesc reciprocated.
It got awkward or something for Raúl, because after a moment he shifted his hips and took his left hand away to balance himself on the bed. But he didn’t take his tongue away from Cesc’s mouth, and then he came back with surprising fierceness when Cesc swung an arm around his neck. His fingers stroked Cesc’s jaw, rasping a bit—Cesc realized he could’ve used a shave, but then Raúl craned his head and ran his tongue over the minute stubble and the resulting tingle was so good that Cesc figured that could wait.
“…make coffee,” Iker muttered.
The mattress bumped up and down, and then came the sound of Iker’s foot hitting the floor. Cesc stiffened, then shoved at Raúl’s shoulder, but the other man had already twisted away to grab a handful of Iker’s shirt. He yanked on that, then got hold of Iker’s arm and dragged him to within Cesc’s reach. And once Cesc had him, it took about a second to get Iker back onto the bed, Cesc on top and Raúl glowering at the side. “Where are you going?” Cesc scolded. “If I’m going to play hooky, I’m going to go all the way with it.”
“It didn’t look like—”
“Stay,” Raúl said.
Iker looked at him, then winced and got up onto his elbows. He scrubbed a hand over his head while glancing awkwardly off to the side. “Look, I need the coffee and—and you don’t need to take pity on me. It’s okay, you two really needed the epiphany moment. I don’t mind standing back while you’re…doing that. If you can ‘do’ an epiphany?”
Cesc started to retort to that bit of stupidity, but halfway through he lost track of what he was…and he was still really tired. But he needed to take care of this, and what was wrong with him because normally he could deal with something like this without even thinking and—and he just put his head down on Iker’s chest and groaned. Iker’s shirt tickled his nose so he had to grab at that to keep from sneezing; Raúl apparently got impatient enough to try and talk then, but Cesc jumped in first. “Iker, it’s all of us, okay? I know you get weird when Raúl and I do…like that just now, and I’m really sorry about that because I don’t want it to be like you’re just sitting there on the sidelines, because you’re not and if you didn’t forgive me too for all the stupid stuff last night, I’d still be really upset.”
For a moment, Iker’s expression went all open and surprised and appreciative, so Cesc thought he’d got it. But then Iker’s brows went down and he pursed his lips, and then shook his head. “Thanks. But no, really, I can see that you two have things you’ve got to have out and I’d just get in the way. I’m not offended—I can see you aren’t doing it on purpose.”
“But I want you here!” Cesc said, digging his fingers into Iker’s shoulders.
“Which is the important point, and if you’re saying you really get that,” Raúl said to Iker, “Then I can’t object. No, Cesc, he has a point. You can’t share everything like it’s a cake you can just cut up. But…I just want to know that it’s not making you think you’re any less important yourself. Iker, I went after you last night too.”
Iker definitely was opening his mouth to object, so Cesc followed Raúl’s example and stopped him. But for some reason that worked even less well on Iker than it had on Cesc, as Iker just kept trying to talk around Cesc’s teeth and tongue, so Cesc finally pulled up and smushed his face back into Iker’s chest. “I’m sorry. I don’t want it to be weird for you. Too much weird is just…okay, I can’t do this. I need a break. I’m not even making sense to myself.”
“No, you’re making sense.” When Cesc looked up, Iker was straight-faced, and since Iker was terrible at pretending to act like what he wasn’t, he really was taking it seriously. “No. No, you’re great. I—I’m sorry, it is weird to watch, but I understand why it’s still like that sometimes and I’m getting used to it. And it’s just sometimes, honestly.”
Raúl looked oddly at him. “So the rest of the time, it’s fun to watch?”
“Y—uh.” Iker blinked, then flushed and put his head back against the bed. “Um. What’s the right answer to this one? I haven’t had my coffee.”
“The right answer’s that you’re not alone because Raúl’s way of cracking a joke still makes me uncomfortable,” Cesc said, crawling up him. He rubbed one hand along the side of Iker’s throat. “Just…it’s getting less often that we do that to you, right? I mean, can we do anything that’d help?”
The embarrassed staring at the ceiling gradually segued into a thoughtful expression. “Well. Sometimes I think it’d help if I saw your relatives when they weren’t puking into somebody’s toilet, but then I’m not sure, since it seems like trying to get to know them right now would just complicate their lives—oh, damn. Sorry. I didn’t mean that your cousins are alcoholics, or anything like that, because—”
There was the faintest suggestion of an eye-roll before Raúl bent over and soundly kissed Iker. Cesc waited a little longer, and not just because he had to figure out an angle around Raúl’s head: he was making sure that he’d remember what Iker said, so when he was up to helping with people’s lives again, he could work on that.
Once that was done, he nudged at Raúl’s shoulder, but the other man irritably shrugged him off. By then Raúl and Iker were both groaning, Iker’s hand fisted in Raúl’s hair, and Raúl’s shirt was moving like he was trying to force his shoulders through the hole for the head. Cesc was briefly annoyed, but then he thought the better of it and began nibbling at the bits of Raúl’s back and neck that that shirt-tugging was exposing. At the same time he felt around between the two men till he got his hands on Iker’s bare stomach, and then he worked them lower, into the waistband of the sweats Iker was wearing. After a little encouragement, Iker lifted his hips and Cesc got those down. Then he ducked his head under Raúl.
Iker’s cock was half-risen, a bright flush spreading from the tip back and a bit of a deeper flush around the base. Cesc tickled its underside with his tongue, then pushed up on his elbows and swallowed it down. Then he quickly drew back, listening to Raúl muffle Iker’s moan, and looked to see how much more the flush had spread because of him. He grinned at that and moved forward, tracing his tongue-tip just ahead of the broadening redness till Raúl suddenly pulled him away from the waist.
Before Cesc could protest, he was on his back again and Raúl was roughly mouthing his neck. He hissed as Raúl touched a tender spot, then grabbed onto the other man’s shoulders and looked around for Iker. Then he spotted the other man just as Iker, grinning a little, teased his hands under Cesc’s shirt and leaned down—
“Mother of God! Casillas, close the damn door!” The shout came from the hallway, and after Raúl and Iker had jerked out of the way in surprise, Cesc got himself up enough to see Victor staggering around in the hall, one arm thrown over his eyes. “I already feel like somebody’s installed a meat grinder in my brain without having to see your naked ass—and why was I on your couch?”
Iker slapped a hand to his face. His shoulders went up and down in a sigh, and then he pulled away his hand and reluctantly moved to get off the bed. “Victor, the bathroom’s the other way. And I have a life, thank you, and I was tired from handling it last night so I didn’t feel like driving you all the way to Figo’s place.” Once off the bed, Iker snatched up his sweat-pants and irritably began to drag them off. “I’m sorry, but I have to—” he started, turning towards Raúl and Cesc.
Then he stopped. His blush came back and he accidentally yanked too hard at his pants so he tripped on them and nearly fell over; Raúl reached out to give him a hand. “You should yell like that more often. You look good that way.”
“Yeah,” Cesc agreed, furiously nodding. “And hey, I’ll trade you a messed-up cousin for the dirt on this Victor guy. Wasn’t he hitting on José last night? And I didn’t know you had—um, that you were friends with him.”
“Ah.” Fussing with the sweat-pants. Then Iker straightened up. He shot a quick annoyed look towards the hall before turning to fully answer Cesc. “Sure, I’d—I’d like that. But first…I’m sorry, but I can’t take off work. Today. And I have to get rid of him.”
“Okay,” Cesc grudgingly said after a moment. Because he was annoyed that Iker couldn’t stay, not because of Iker. “Well…take off early? Tell your boss you did overtime, having to babysit Victor.”
Laughing, Iker actually went so far as to mutter that maybe he would. Then he gave Raúl and Cesc both a last kiss before ducking into the bathroom. Cesc wistfully watched him go, suppressing a sigh, and then turned around. He waited one second before rolling Raúl over. “All right, come on. If you’re making me stay home, you’d better be taking the day off, too.”
* * *
Ricardo’s eyes were still fluttering as Paolo pulled back, brushing a bit of hair off the other man’s face as he did. For a moment, Paolo seriously considered just moving in again, and then pushing his breakfast out of the way so the counter was clear—but the buzzing of his PDA at his hip reminded him he still had responsibilities. Unfortunately. “Today I’m hoping to be back early. I just have to show my replacement around.”
“If you call ahead I can cook a really good dinner today. I’m so tired of these already—” Ricardo’s nose wrinkled as he glanced at his textbooks “—and I could use a break.”
“I’ll—” Paolo started.
He put his hand down, then looked up as the echoes of the loud thump slowly died away. Then he started forward, but before he’d even gotten out of the kitchen, Sandro came striding out of the hallway with a triumphant look on his face and his phone held high like it was the Olympic torch. “Paolo, I need to borrow your car. Or call a taxi, or whatever—Lippi’s finally letting me go back to Rome.”
The other man continued into the kitchen, where he snatched up the first piece of food that presented itself—an orange—before abruptly pivoting and walking back out. About a minute later, the sound of a door hitting a wall filtered down the hall.
“Oh, good,” Ricardo said, smiling. Then he looked at Paolo and his smile faded a bit. “Or no, it’s not?”
“No, it is. If it’s really all right for him to go back,” Paolo said. His PDA buzzed again and he finally took it out to see what was the matter, but it wasn’t too important. He shoved the PDA away and began to step into the hall, but then he glimpsed the uncertainty on Ricardo’s face. “It probably is. His boss seems to be sensible enough, so I don’t think he’d give in just because Sandro’s been annoying him.”
Ricardo looked at Paolo for a moment longer. Then he ducked his head and poked his spoon at his grapefruit half. “You’re going to miss him, though.”
Paolo’s first impulse was to gracefully deny that, but instead he waited till that went away. Then he ignored the thuds and cursing now coming from the guest bedroom and put his hands under Ricardo’s chin, tipping it up. “I will, because I can’t help worrying about him. But I think I’ll get over it soon enough. He can take care of himself, when he thinks about it, and I have my own life.” He watched Ricardo tentatively try out a smile. “And to be honest, I am looking forward to being able to distract you from your studying without feeling so…”
The smile vanished. “Guilty?”
“Embarrassed, I was going to say,” Paolo finished dryly. “I think Sandro’s been too polite to mention that he can hear us.”
“Oh.” Ricardo’s brows rose and he briefly looked relieved before the embarrassment took over. He tried to drop his head, but Paolo wouldn’t let him so he put up his hands and covered Paolo’s wrists. Then he tugged at them, but Paolo just let that pull him forward so their mouths met.
The moment they touched, Ricardo sucked in a breath so his lips shivered away. Then his grip tightened on Paolo’s wrists and he suddenly rose in his seat, pushing hungrily back. He dropped Paolo’s left hand and slid his arm over Paolo’s shoulder and neck, then arched up as Paolo surprised himself by responding—immediately—with just as much intensity.
It was difficult for Paolo to ease back then, but—the damn PDA went off again, reminding him. He suppressed a groan and reached down to turn it off, then looked back with a clever comment on his lips. But that died when he saw the way Ricardo was looking at him, without a particle of uncertainty in all that…that stare was saying something, and saying it forcefully and boldly in a way that took Paolo’s breath away.
“I love you,” Ricardo finally said. He leaned forward again to peck at the corner of Paolo’s mouth, and then he scooted back in his chair to pick up his spoon again. All that determination had smoothed away, leaving only a pleasantly questioning expression behind. “Let me know if you are coming home early, all right? I’m going to make a really good dinner and I want to make sure you don’t get it when it’s cold.”
“I’ll do that.” Paolo hesitated a moment longer, then turned away. He gave himself a quick shake as he walked towards the hall.
Though before he got there, Sandro had come out of it, dragging his luggage—the noises had been the other man packing, apparently. Sandro set his bag against the wall, then straightened up to give Paolo a look that made it clear he’d overheard the significant parts of Paolo’s conversation with Ricardo. “My flight’s leaving at two-thirty.”
“I’m probably not coming back that early. Ricardo can give you a ride if you don’t want to pay for a taxi,” Paolo said. He looked at Sandro, and Sandro stared back, daring Paolo to say something ridiculous. “I’m glad things have worked out. You always were happiest when you were working.”
“And you weren’t twisting that into something else.” Sandro stopped, then grimaced and flapped his hand. “Forget I said that, I’m still annoyed because it took so long for Lippi to give the all-clear. Thanks for putting me up.”
Paolo shrugged. “Any time.”
They looked at each other. At different times both of them started to glance away, feeling the awkward tension, but in the end neither of them could. Then somebody’s cell went off and they both jumped; Paolo began to reach for his pocket, but then he realized it wasn’t his ringtone. He straightened back up to see Sandro frozen, his head half-bent to look at the phone in his hand. Then Sandro abruptly took a step forward and—and something brushed Paolo’s arm, but no hand dropped on his shoulder. Sandro stiffly angled himself so only his mouth touched Paolo, and even that was the lightest of grazes against Paolo’s cheek. Though Paolo still bent his head, for that moment.
Then Sandro moved back, and in the next moment he’d already had flipped open the phone and had it up against his ear. He stalked back into the hall, quizzing somebody about developments in some case.
Once he’d vanished into the guest bedroom, Paolo took a step backward. Then another, and then he turned around. He went back into the kitchen and kissed Ricardo bye for a third time, and then he made himself leave immediately afterward. Sometimes the best thing was just cutting it off before it got too uncomfortable.
* * *
“No, no, Thierry wasn’t mad when he heard.” Lionel paused to sip on his soda. “Well, okay, he did look disappointed and sigh a little, but then Lehmann said he could borrow Senderos for the day and he seemed all right then. I’m sure he doesn’t mind, Cesc—I just saw him drag Bobby Pirès into an empty meeting room, so he’s not depressed or anything.”
Cesc snorted, then groaned. *Oh, I’m sure he’s not. He’s got a lot more to worry about than me. It’s just, well, an assistant is supposed to not be a worry at all, you know?*
“Yeah, but c’mon. When you think under my desk is a good drinking spot, you’re a worry too,” Lionel absently said, distracted by the sound of somebody coming down the hall. He thought he recognized one of the voices as Paolo Maldini’s and Maldini hadn’t been down this way since he’d told Lehmann he was quitting, so this could be interesting. “Oh. Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that in a bad way, just that—”
*No, no, I get it. And I really do need the day off.* The laugh that followed wasn’t completely forced. *I guess it’s a better reason than when Freddie used to need time off because he was trying not to get arrested before they cleared up another brawling charge. And sorry about your desk. It just…kind of…okay, you know what? I have no idea what I was thinking when I did that. I was just…really drunk.*
Lionel nicely refrained from agreeing heartily to that last part. “No big deal. You didn’t stain or break anything, so just don’t get so stressed out again. Or at least call me, and then we can go hit the bar together.”
*Ronnie?* Cesc said after a moment. *Wait, weren’t you on a date with him last night? Oh, my God, did I—*
“He stood me up again, so that’s why I was back at work in the first place. And then he hasn’t called back about the voicemail I left him, and he should’ve gotten it by now. Honestly, I swear, if he shows up tonight and pretends like it didn’t happen till I bring it up I’m going to lock him out this time…” Maldini and his visitor were almost to the office, so Lionel put his hand against the desk, then shoved off so his chair rolled across the room to where he could see through the glassed part of the door. He saw Maldini, who looked perfectly healthy so that rumor about him having some terminal disease was total crap, and then the other person was in a suit, so maybe he was this replacement for Maldini everyone was wondering about. “I’m getting really sick of that, honestly. Ronnie seems like he’s really truly sorry and things really did just slip his mind, but so many times now…it’s just not funny anymore, you know? Even the make-up sex isn’t fun.”
Cesc started to reply, but somebody asked him something and he was away making hasty muffled explanations for a few seconds. Then he coughed. *Hey, sorry about that. Was just telling Raúl I’m not doing any work. But yeah, you’re completely right to be upset. That’s total bullshit, even if he is really sorry. He and you have been seeing each other long enough so that—”
Lionel tipped in his chair and squinted through the glass. Maldini’s visitor started to turn and Lionel tipped farther, praying that the man would keep turning—the guy did, and Lionel saw his face.
A couple seconds later, Lionel was still wincing, but he was safely under his desk and the lights were off so anybody looking through the door wouldn’t be able to spot him. His chair falling over had been kind of loud, but he couldn’t do anything about that now except hope Maldini figured it was Schweini and Poldi screwing behind one of the potted palms again.
*Leo? Did something just happen over there?*
“It’s Rafa.” Lionel put his hand to his face and pressed down hard. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t complain so much about Ronaldinho’s casual attitude towards returning phone calls, since he’d done that too. “Oh, my God, Cesc. They’ve hired Rafa as Maldini’s replacement!”
Pause. *…Màrquez? That one non-Brazilian guy you dated? I thought you said he was…what did you say he was? Not a lawyer, anyway.*
“Who cares! If they hired him then he’s a lawyer, and oooooo, shit, I totally never called him back to say I wasn’t interested anymore. And he was nice, Cesc. He didn’t deserve that. I just sort of forgot.” Groaning, Lionel scrunched deeper under his desk. It sounded like Maldini and Màrquez weren’t coming any nearer, but it also sounded like they weren’t leaving any time soon. Crap. And Lionel was hungry, too. Well, maybe, hopefully, one of the Germans would show up and help him sneak out. “You can’t sue people for that, right? I mean, Lehmann wouldn’t allow it anyway. I’m too productive. God, I’d better start getting some records out.”
* * *
“I still don’t see why we had to stop here first,” Victor grumbled. He picked restlessly at his wrinkled, smelly shirt, his expression somewhere between outraged and pinched-in by liberal application of tweezers. “You could’ve taken me to work first and then dropped off the stuff for your puppy boyfriend.”
Iker wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. He took a deep breath, and then…decided he didn’t feel like being polite today. Especially not to Victor, who when he was drunk was a parasite, and when he was sober was competition. “Cesc is not a puppy, and I didn’t have to stop here first. Except I’m in love with him and I was going to have wonderful make-up sex with him when you stomped in like a moron. So you can just suffer.”
Long pause. Then Victor twisted around to stare at Iker. “Okay, first I thought ‘wow, so love does change you.’ But then I realized that this is perfectly explained by frustrated sexual urges so my worldview remains intact. But nice try.”
“Victor, shut up.” Now Iker was seriously regretting his decision to not spend that extra ten minutes last night driving to Figo’s. If he’d gotten rid of Victor then, his day probably would’ve been a thousand times better already. At least.
He was still trying to calculate that as he jerked the gear into ‘reverse’ and then stepped onto the accelerator. To his credit, Victor wasn’t as preoccupied with being an annoying blot on the entertainment journalism industry, and he saw the car trying to shoot past their back end. He yelled and jerked Iker’s arm, Iker almost rammed his car into the truck parked to the right before slamming on the brakes just in time, and then the sound of the squealing brakes slowly died away. Iker clutched at the wheel and breathed hard.
A soft grating noise eventually attracted his attention and he turned to see Victor sticking his head out of the window he’d just rolled down. Outside, a door slammed and angry footsteps came towards them.
“The hell were you doing?” Victor snapped. “This is a parking garage, not a racing track! You zoom around that fast, you’re asking somebody to bash in your side.”
“Oh. Oh, great. So not only does Deco cancel on me to fuck his fucking French nutcase instead of going over the Rolling Stone promo, but now I’ve got…” Cristiano Ronaldo paused. Iker took the opportunity to unfreeze himself and reach for Victor’s arm, but before he could haul in the other man, Ronaldo started up again. “You! You guys! You’ve panned every single album I’ve put out! And not just that—the last time you called it the worst abuse of melody since Elton John and Disney teamed up—”
Somebody else walked up. “Cris, come on. The car’s okay, and we’re—”
“No! No, to hell with that, Gaby. I can just yell at them over the phone, but this might be my only chance to ask this assholes what the hell they know about music,” Ronaldo snarled. He was a lot taller and broader in the shoulders in person than he looked in his mag photoshoots. Probably because he wasn’t wearing anything nearly as blatantly showbiz. Well, besides the huge diamond in one ear and the belt-buckle that could’ve doubled as a dinner plate. “Well?”
Victor snorted, then laughed as he pulled his head back into the car. “Look, if you’re going to criticize a reviewer for doing their job, maybe you should check the byline to see which one you’re going after. My column’s on the same page, but I’m a movie guy. The one who wrote up that last review of your stuff’s my editor, Luís Figo. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
When the silence lasted longer than ten seconds, Iker risked twisting around and looking through the back window for a better view. He found Cristiano chewing on his lower lip and staring with narrowed eyes at Victor, not so much mad as…as…Cristiano nodded sharply, then banged on the backdoor. “Okay, maybe. But then you can take me to see him.”
The guy standing next to Cristiano momentarily looked as if that was a seriously bad idea, but then he straightened his shoulders and wiped the expression off his face the same way…that Cesc did whenever he got an assignment he hated, but that he was going to take care of it with extreme efficiency anyway.
“Wait, no, we can’t,” Iker started.
“Oh, just call him,” Victor snorted.
Cristiano’s expression went icier. “I have, and nothing. Not only does your editor think I’m shit, but he thinks he’s so great he can turn down an exclusive with the biggest pop-star in Europe. Well, nobody’s that great.”
Iker rubbed at his nose. Then he heard Victor start to poke out his head again and he hurriedly dragged the other man back. “Look, I’m sorry you were offended, but you know, that’s responsible journalism. And Figo’s got a huge reputation because he doesn’t care about popularity or shallow things like that, and…and I’m late, so get the hell away before I do dent your car. I’ve been needing to trade mine in for two years now anyway.”
Then he hit the button to make Victor’s window go up and pulled himself back to his side of the car. He jerked the car out of ‘park’ and began to turn around to see what Cristiano was doing, but got a bit stuck on Victor’s strangely appreciative expression.
“You are much more fun when you yell,” Victor said, grinning.
Iker frowned, then made himself ignore that and got ready to take off the brakes. But then Cristiano ducked down and tapped at Victor’s window; Iker and Victor looked at him and he stuck his jaw out at them and grabbed the side-mirror, like he meant to hold on even if he got dragged. So Iker put the car in park again, and Victor rolled his eyes and put the window back down, and Cristiano stuck in his head. “Take me to your editor or else I’ll claim I was in the car when you hit me, and have whiplash and all sorts of injuries so FC will sue you for everything you’ve got.”
“That won’t work. His boyfriend—”
Victor looked wounded when Iker hit his arm, but Iker ignored that. It was all right if Cristiano went after him—FC’s legal department was legendary but it had been beaten before, and Figo was among that select number—but that would make Cesc tear out his hair too, and Iker didn’t want that. “All right, fine. You can follow us. But look, I can show you to Luís’ office but I can’t make him keep you there. When he throws you out, you’re on your own.”
Cristiano thought about it. “Okay, that’s fine. But you lose us in traffic and the deal’s off.”
“Fine.” Iker flopped back into his seat. He glared at the steering wheel. “Shut up, Victor. Or else you can walk back.”
Victor closed his mouth.
That was it, Iker decided. He was going home the moment Figo turned around today. Normally he’d feel guilty, but he’d just had too much happen to him to bother with that emotion.
* * *
“Well, good luck with your investigation,” Kaká said, awkwardly fiddling with his sunglasses. He took a step back, then one forward and then he gave Alessandro a quick hug. “Have a good flight.”
Nice as Kaká was, that hug hadn’t been motivated so much by real goodwill as good manners. But he did mean the well wishes, and his idea of good manners did include some sense of what was meaningful as well as what was proper…even though overall Alessandro found it both oddly touching and off-putting in the same vague way he regarded cosmetic surgery. The result might’ve been drastic and attractive, but it wasn’t really for him.
But Kaká’s efforts, both here and during Alessandro’s stay, deserved some sort of recompense, so Alessandro hugged him back. And Alessandro’s bitter side couldn’t help but mention Kaká was going straight back to his lovely little romantic dinner with Paolo, so Alessandro only put up one arm and didn’t feel terribly bad about how stiff he was. He mumbled something and then escaped with the excuse that he wanted to make sure his official pass was going to get him through customs.
It did, and ten minutes later Alessandro was browsing the duty-free shops and wondering if Lippi would revoke his permission if Alessandro talked his way into the national police office here for a little work. While he was at the airport, and according to the info screens, that’d just been extended by an hour.
“Chocolate?”
Alessandro froze. Then he put his hand completely on the box for which he’d been reaching, only instead of curling his fingers around the edge, he flattened his fingers out against the top. “Why are you here?”
“Because you’re just that irresistible. You know, the mean faces, the messy hair, the constant attempts to convince me I’m nothing but a shit…they’re like a candle-flame and I’m a helpless moth,” Zlatan drawled, sauntering up to Alessandro’s right. He bent around a rack of cognac bottles to peer at the maker’s label on the chocolate box. “Seriously? I figured you for one of those strict health nuts. Trail mix, only with no tasty M&Ms.”
“Well, you were wrong, as usual. I happen to like chocolate a lot,” Alessandro finally said. He still was under order to not get involved in anything, and for the moment he cared more about getting back to Rome and work than…than dealing with Zlatan, and the way he made Kaká’s complications as straightforward as a toddler’s jigsaw puzzle.
Zlatan looked at him. Alessandro looked back as he took two boxes—he couldn’t get this brand in Rome—and stuck them under his arm. Then Zlatan laughed and half-turned, grabbing at the back of his neck. He was still grinning as he looked over the rest of the somewhat disturbingly empty store. “No flowers, but mint truffles are okay. All right, I’ll remember that.”
“Does this have anything to do with why my flight’s delayed?” Even the clerk was gone, though when Alessandro stepped out and squinted, he thought he spied that pink-tipped Mohawk sidling up to the brunette manning the next store over. But really, it was ridiculous: there at least should’ve been some poor confused tourist wandering from update screen to update screen, but Alessandro didn’t see anybody. “Look, why are you—”
“Hey, I’m good but I’m not God,” Zlatan snorted. He slouched back against the wall so an ostentatious display of tacky gourmet-cheese packages managed to hide most of him. “No, your pilot just got a call from his wife saying she was leaving him, so he had a breakdown and they can’t get in a replacement right away. It wasn’t me. Honest. I’ve never met his wife.”
Alessandro shot him a dubious glance, but in all honesty, it sounded just insane enough to probably be the truth. Which was one of the reasons Alessandro hated flying; if it wasn’t for the fact that he sincerely thought staying longer at Paolo’s would result in him bashing a few holes in the wall between the bedrooms, he would’ve booked a train ticket instead.
Zlatan snickered again, and when Alessandro raised his eyebrows, the other man shrugged and slumped lower against the wall. “You’re trying so hard to be pissed off but you’re so happy to be going back to work so the Mafiosos can start bombing your car again,” he said. His smile tightened. “They kept having sex, didn’t they? And you still tell me your ex is a classy guy? Come on.”
“What good would it have been if they’d stopped? It would’ve been more difficult for him and I wouldn’t have felt any less—” Alessandro snapped his mouth shut. He looked away, then at his feet as he spun around, rubbing at the side of his face.
Something poked him in the side. He glanced at it, then irritably hit at it. It poked him again and he jerked up his head on the way to sighing and shoving Zlatan away, only to have himself be drawn into a quick, hard kiss.
Then Zlatan was pushing by Alessandro. His shoulder knocked off one of those cheese packages and he stooped to intercept its fall, then pivoted around the display as he set it back in place. His nose and eyes looked out from between two other boxes, suddenly somber. “I would’ve invited you to where I was, but that’s been hell in a handbasket for the past few days. This was the first chance I could get away, and come before you went back to Italy.”
The boxes slipped a bit beneath Alessandro’s arm, but he didn’t look at them right away. And when he did, he spent about ten seconds longer than he needed to adjusting them. “You’re a fool,” he said under his breath. Then he looked up, and walked around the display. “Where’s that idiot cashier? I’ve got better ways to wait than standing around here.”
“He’s not even that far—look, see, he heard you and now he’s all upset,” Zlatan said, grinning again. He jerked his chin in the direction of the glowering Mohawk, then stuck the box he was holding at Alessandro again. “While you’re at it, take some caramels. These are good.”
Alessandro looked at the box.
“Especially when you’re sitting on your ass behind some dumpster in a drippy alley, waiting for somebody to show up.” Zlatan nodded for emphasis, then looked away to smile broadly at some kitschy mugs as Alessandro reluctantly took it—just to see the label, Alessandro told himself. “Go pay already. I want to see which of us can get into the better VIP lounge.”
* * *
Figo had a magnifying scope pinched to his right eye and was looking through it at a set of glossy photos, and apparently whatever he was seeing wasn’t making him happy. “Valdés,” he said. He didn’t look up. “Why didn’t I wake up to you trying to find my aspirin again?”
As annoying as Victor could be, he wasn’t one of those idiots who didn’t know when they were overmatched. He hunched next to the left side of the door. “I got a ride from Iker and he had a personal emergency, so I crashed at his place since he couldn’t drive me.”
“Funnily enough, I’m not that relieved to not have had your hung-over body taking up space on my couch. You stormed right out at the end of your interview and didn’t say a word to anybody about where you were going, so for all we knew—including your lousy taste in bars—you’d gotten mugged and I should’ve been looking at police bulletins. In fact, that was exactly what I was doing all night.” One photo was disgustedly discarded and another was picked up. The first one slid away from Figo so Iker could see the other man was examining the graphics department’s proposals for next month’s cover. “Casillas?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I didn’t know you didn’t know where Victor was. And I did have a private problem that I needed to take care of,” Iker said. He had to force himself not to mumble. “Sorry. I’ll call next time.”
Figo finally looked up. He half-closed his blood-shot eyes in weary resignation as he took the scope from his eye. “Iker, if Victor tries to scam a ride from you again, you tell him no and you dump his drunken snooty ass in a taxi for my place. At the very least, you make him call me.”
“But I think…if he’s drunk, you’d have a hard time understanding him.” Iker crowded closer to the right side of the doorway and rubbed nervously at the back of his head.
The other man blinked. Then he groaned and slowly put up a hand to pinch his nose. “You don’t get it. You’re a nice man and write brilliantly incisive reviews, but I wish you’d get it more…who else is there? You, with the overgelled hair.”
After a look at each other, Iker and Victor gratefully slid out of the way. The moment they did, Cristiano marched through the doorway and took up a righteous hands-on-hips pose before Figo. “You’re the one who wrote that piece of trash about my latest album?”
“There’s a pouting waste of Portuguese blood and passion in my doorway,” Figo said after a moment. He put down the photo in his hands and moved his head around like he was looking for somebody behind Cristiano. “Why is there a pouting—”
“You said that in your article.” Cristiano leaned forward. “Which was shit.”
Figo raised his brows. “Ah, so you’ve read it. Well, you know my opinion, so why are you here?”
“Because your opinion was shit.”
“And now I know that you disagree with it. Well.” And then Figo put the scope back to his eye and picked up the photo again. His lips twitched in a decidedly unimpressed way. “Isn’t that something.”
Victor leaned against the wall and craned his head around to see, rubbing his hand back and forth over his mouth. For a moment, Iker really considered hitting him, and then just sneaking away and back to Cesc and Raúl…but then Cristiano marched forward to slam his hands down on Figo’s desk, hard enough to send quite a few of the cover mock-ups flying. And well, Iker couldn’t help his love for melodrama—and Victor really needed to stop going on about sappy plots, if he was going to gawk like that.
“Stop ignoring me! You—you call yourself a reviewer, but you’re just a pretentious asshole like everyone else in this business,” Cristiano yelled. It was hard to tell but he might’ve been shaking a finger in Figo’s face. “You went and trashed my album in one thousand six hundred and thirty-three words—I counted--and not one damn one of those words actually meant anything. You talked about my promos, my old albums, my cover art, my collaborators, but you didn’t say what the hell it was that made my music so crappy. You just said ‘It’s typical pop manufactured from the shallow end of the lyric pool’ and that’s such a copout.”
Figo sat up straight and blinked a few times; Iker realized he was hunching down in preparation for the storm and promptly got more of himself behind the wall. And then Figo put down the magnifying scope and laid his hands on his desk. “You did read my piece.”
Cristiano sniffed indignantly. “The stuff you did say was useful. I fired most of my old touring staff because of that. But it was really disappointing to not get a damn thing about the actual music. I mean, you even gave that whiny-voiced moron Lampard a decent critique.”
“Your sense of melody’s all right but nothing special, and you’ve been riding on the coattails of one damn good beat producer in Philipp Lahm for a couple years now to get your hits,” Figo said after a moment, tone surprisingly measured. He moved his arms so they were resting more naturally on the desk. “Most of your lyrics sound like they were scribbled by heartbroken teenagers on the walls in club toilets. The only song even remotely interesting was “Ode to a Would-Be Lover”—the title’s awkward as hell and it’s still full of clichés, but you actually sound like you cared about something besides your record sales in that one.”
“I had to fight like crazy to get that one in there. FC thought it was too far from my ‘style,’ but I had something to say and I was going to say it,” Cristiano replied. He shifted himself, his pose changing so it was less about barely-restrained anger and more about exasperation. “But look, what’s wrong with my melodies? I come up with a lot of the backbone for those myself now, and—”
“Then you must have one lousy imagination, because you keep using the same three-chord modulation. Even Lampard varies it up once in a—well, I think that’s actually Joe Cole in there, overloading on snow or whatever it is that keeps him so bouncy, but still…”
Victor coughed, then glanced inside to see if those two had noticed. They hadn’t, so he sagged in relief before shooting a questioning look at Iker. “Are we…off the hook? And thanks to some jumped-up lounge singer—Iker, where are you going?”
“Make-up sex,” Iker said. He paused, then looked at Victor’s startled face. “You know, you might hate happy endings, but in real life they’re just as fun as they look on the screen.”
* * *
“I just want one time for you to show up when you say you’re going to, Ronnie.” Lionel threw himself back in his chair, then sank down so the phone almost slid away from his ear. He desultorily poked at his knee with his pen. “Yeah, sure. You were on-time twice out of the last six times. Look, you’ve got a phone. Why can’t you call when you’re going to--I call, and you know, I’ve dated DJs before and they manage to call, so it’s not the job—Ronnie?”
A couple minutes later, Lionel thumbed off the phone and dropped it onto the floor. He stared moodily at the far wall before leaning over to look at his cell—it was still in one piece. Which actually didn’t make him happy, or even less mad, so he threw his pen at the wall.
The tip drove into the wall, then stuck there so the pen vibrated madly. Wide-eyed, Bastian and Philipp slowly scooted their chairs away from it—though they were a good ten feet away—before Philipp cautiously got up and moved over to Lionel. “Leo?”
“He said he had to go, they were calling for him, and he’d call back later. But he’s not going to call back. He never calls back about this sort of thing,” Lionel muttered. He scratched at the chair-arm. “You know, there’s being laidback and then there’s just being a jerk who doesn’t want to deal with the non-fun parts of life.”
“Playstation tournament?” Bastian suggested. When Philipp and Lionel looked at him, he gestured towards the door. “Micha’s gotten hold of some cool-looking demos, and you know, I think I saw one where one of the characters looks just like your boyfriend.”
Lionel thought about it. “Can I beat on that character?”
“I think so,” Bastian said.
“Okay, then I’m in. Lemme just finish up these and then we can go,” Lionel said. He paused, then leaned down and got his phone. Then he pulled himself back up, only to find Lahmi still looking worriedly at him.
“That’s not going to fix it for good.” Philipp edged a little closer to pat Lionel on the shoulder. “If you—”
Lionel batted him away, then felt bad about that and made himself sit still. He fiddled with his phone. “Yeah, I know. But I’m just really mad right now and I don’t want to do anything till I’m calmer, and—it’d help if I could beat on some ponytailed jerk. While I was talking about it. You know?”
“Well, I can do that,” Philipp said, looking brighter. “Give me a moment and I’ll call up Timo to bring over food—oh, are you going to call any of your friends? We were, um, messing around last night—” Philipp blushed “—and we’ve got all these candied apples in the fridge now.”
“Javier’s going to love those,” Lionel replied, already dialing. His fingers slowed and he began to think…but no, he wanted to feel better. He could enjoy himself without Ronnie around, and he was going to.
* * *
Cesc stared at the ceiling. “I feel even more tired now than last night. I don’t think today was very restful, actually.”
After a moment, Raúl lifted his head. He blinked his sweaty bangs out of his eyes and shifted his legs, drawing an inadvertent squeak from Cesc, and then propped himself up on one arm. “It’s a better exhaustion, though. This kind purges your system of impurities.”
He looked serious. He didn’t move, but just kept looking serious while the sweat trickled down the side of his face to bead under his chin. When Cesc raised a finger, Raúl glanced at it, but his expression didn’t change as Cesc swiped away the droplets.
“You’re making that up,” Iker said, voice muffled in Cesc’s side. Then he moved, his hand brushing Cesc’s hip so Cesc twitched, and then that made Raúl’s softened prick shift inside of Cesc, and…and after a moment of bemusement, Iker bent down to nuzzle Cesc’s shivering shoulder. “I can tell now. I think. Sometimes you really just are hoping everyone thinks ‘oh, white coat, doctor, must take him seriously.’ Aren’t you?”
Raúl slowly turned his head to stare at the man, and Iker promptly tried to hide his nose under Cesc’s shoulder. Which tickled so Cesc snorted and wriggled some more, and then he groaned and Raúl finally began to look a little distracted.
“Maybe,” Raúl said. Then…then he suddenly smiled, his whole face relaxing as his eyes sparkled. He darted at Iker, then hauled himself up so he could crane around Cesc and catch the other man’s mouth.
Iker fell back and Raúl pressed forward, pulling up Cesc with him as he went. His cock began to swell again and Cesc moaned because he was really sore but God, it was a good soreness. A good, fun, wonderful way of being completely exhausted, and he’d really missed this with everything that’d gone on, and so even though he wasn’t sure he could take another round, he was willing to find out.
* * *
Cristiano stretched his feet out so he could prop them up on the end of the couch, then dropped back his head so he could pour the rest of his glass of Madeira into his mouth. He spilled a bit and wiped at his mouth, then absently licked his hand clean. “I know, it’s really sad. There were some amazing old-timers in my hometown and they never even got looked at, ‘cause their stuff was so ‘old-fashioned.’ But—it’s like that’s Portugal there. You’re never going to get closer to the Portuguese heart than that.”
Knock on the door. As Cristiano turned to look at it, he glimpsed two Figos. Which was weird, but he squinted and only saw one. And that was weirder…but whatever, he thought, and laid back.
“Cris? I managed to get everything rescheduled, but if you’re going to make your first meeting tomorrow, we’ve got to go,” Gaby called through the door. His shadow moved across the glass, then went back. “Cris. Come on. If you really want to talk, you’ve got a free slot at two—”
“You know, I used to be able to just walk around studios, pop my head in, catch up with the biggest rock stars as friends. But now everything’s scheduled down to the wire and kept wrapped up in plastic till the labels think they’re ready to pop it in the microwave,” Figo snorted. He snuffed into his hand, then wiped his palm over one thigh as he arched, cracking the bones in his back. Then he sighed contentedly and flopped back into his chair. “It’s ridiculous. Last week I was talking to this English jazzbird at an awards show, and her voice was going scratchy so I asked if she wanted a water, and she actually looked at her agent to see if it was all right first.”
Cristiano snickered, resettling his feet. Then Gaby knocked again and Cristiano jerked up before dismissively waving his hand. A moment later, he realized Gaby couldn’t see that and twisted his head around. “Gaby, take the rest of the night off! I’m good here!”
“Oh, beautiful.” Figo sipped at his wine, then put his head back on his chair and chuckled at the ceiling. “No, don’t leave! I’m pumping your big star for the dirt on FC and I’m going to get you all in trouble! Oh, no! Everyone will find out the truth about that last shoe scandal—oh, like I really care what you songsters do when you’re not making music. If I want drama, I’ve got a large family I can visit.”
“Hey, it’s not like we wanna talk about the scandals either,” Cristiano muttered. He paused, then put his hand to his head. Something felt funny in there, kind of like he maybe shouldn’t…well, he wasn’t actually drunk. Just sort of tipsy, and rather amused to find that Figo the legendary hardass was, in fact, a genuine hardass. And funny, and knowledgeable, and deserving of his big rep. There weren’t a whole hell of a lot of people Cristiano could say that about. “It’s you mags and papers and columnists that always ask about it.”
A shadow hand went up against the door-glass, all dark and somehow lonely-looking, and for a moment Cristiano felt bad. But then Gaby made an impatient noise, and Cristiano went back to just being stubborn. “Thanks, Cris, but my job’s to make sure you’re okay.”
“I know, but I’m having fun! And it doesn’t involve—oops, not supposed to talk about that.” Cristiano paused. “See, I’m not going to tell him anything! Even if he is interested!”
“Doubtful.” Figo considered Cristiano, stance lazily presumptuous, like he didn’t even need to question if Cristiano might…and then he snorted and drank more wine. “Even with those highlights, you’re not blond enough.”
“Oh, God, you’re one of those. I have highlights to bring out the dark in my hair—what’s wrong with brunettes? Huh? Why does everybody have to be blond and—and—” And there was one man in the world who definitely wasn’t a blond-hair lover, but Cristiano grimaced away that thought. To hell with Ruud—he wanted to stick with that Spanish asshole, he could. Cristiano had a career to build—a proper career, the way he wanted it. “—and all the same?”
Low raspy laugh from Figo. “Like your music?” And then he sat there, all sprawled out with that faint grin on his face, as Cristiano indignantly rolled over. “Look, Ronaldo. You piss me off because you’ve got more than talent. You’ve got potential genius. But you waste it on those commercial tricks, those guaranteed sells, when you could actually be the one in a million that takes a Portuguese fisherman’s song and makes it a modern hit. That sort of potential, wasted.”
“I’m just getting started. It’s a little early to say anything about wasting,” Cristiano snapped. He jerked up his chin at Figo’s dubious look. “You just wait and see. You don’t know what I’m up to now, but you’re gonna. And you’re gonna like it.”
***