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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R.
Pairing: Figo/Mutu, Deco/Giuly, Lehmann/Van Persie.
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: Dedicated to tall_tree. Thanks to all my flist for the Eurovision info! Titled after the song by The Wallflowers (thanks, hermine).
Summary: One breakdown makes things complicated for a lot of people.
***
Thierry shrugged helplessly, then looked aghast as his piece of sushi slipped off his chopsticks. He got it back after a brief flurry of fingerwork and redipped it in sauce. “Well, at least the tour gives us a little leeway? All of that was worked out ahead of time, and—”
“As long as nothing happens, and the likelihood of that being true for all three weeks seems a little…unlikely,” Jens muttered. He stabbed down at his tray while looking at his computer, then lifted his chopsticks and put nothing in his mouth. After a puzzled moment, he looked down, saw he’d run out of sushi and briefly contemplated stabbing the tray again, just for being difficult. Of course, in the end he did the rational thing and just shoved away the chopsticks and tray. “Even so, that still ties up Freddie and Henrik. Unless Legal gets back to me with something more positive, I’m sending them to watch over Cristiano for now.”
“What? What’s the matter with Legal?”
Well, for one this whole disaster was happening right when they’d just changed lawyers, so Jens didn’t yet know Màrquez’s style. Even if he had, he still wouldn’t have been able to rely on the man the way he’d relied on Maldini just due to that man’s sheer experience. And Màrquez would have to handle it on his own since while Pirès was still the primary for their group, he was up to his ears in work and Jens knew that without needing to see Thierry sit straight up in the beginning throes of a panic. “Nothing’s the matter with them. It’s just we all thought the problem would be Deco being power-hungry, not Deco walking out. He’s not contesting the reduced compensation clause, we don’t have a strong case for suing on breach of contract, and basically I think we’ll have to watch him go.”
“Oh.” Thierry silently blew out a sigh of relief, thinking that Jens had his eyes fully on the monitor. Then he paused, frowning. “Oh. Oh…dear.”
“It’s three weeks. Cristiano already drives Freddie up the wall, and Larsson seems to take everything short of Armageddon in stride. I think they can cover for now without it being too much of a risk,” Jens added. He knew he was sounding a little uncertain, which was why he and Thierry were having this talk over lunch before the full executive meeting with the others. “Anyway, Larsson needs to get out of town for a little bit. Giuly is escalating this damn war with Domenech and I don’t need Kahn accidentally stumbling over evidence that Larsson’s helped a few times with that.”
Something pinged and Jens glanced at the lower right corner of the screen to see a new email alert. He checked, but they weren’t important and so he minimized the window before pushing back and looking at Thierry. The other man had shifted to rest his elbows on the table, hands folded under his chin as he thought. “I think so, too. But it has to be temporary, no? I like Freddie—you like Freddie. Though I don’t know who we can get now to represent Cristiano…he’s gotten a bit of a reputation with agents, you know?”
Jens stared at Thierry.
“Aside from that,” Thierry said, clearly resisting an eye-roll or two. “Ruud was having his own problems, and I know, I know, Deco was too, but nobody knew about Deco’s and he had a pretty good record before. Now they’re saying Cristiano—I know how this sounds, but this is what they say—is a ‘jinx.’ Like a black cat or something like that.”
“Well, they can go ahead, since they don’t know the truth. We still have to find Cristiano an agent, and this time we’ll thoroughly vet him. Cristiano’s not fighting me on this, at least not now.” They had three weeks. Which was not nearly long enough, but that was what they had to work with and they’d work with it. And Jens contemplated that upcoming job search for just long enough to decide that he was going home early, fucking Robin senseless and then he’d work from home to make up for that. “But we can talk about that when we know who’s available. Right now, the problem’s Eurovision.”
“And that is why you’re upset Freddie is going to Portugal.” After a long moment, Thierry’s mouth twitched, then slipped into a quick grin. Then he waved his hand in front of his face, trying to apologize through his chuckling. “Oh, I’m sorry, but—he’s going to be so upset.”
A slight smile tugged at Jens’ lips, even though he suddenly was wondering whether he could just cancel a meeting and get home even earlier. “Exactly. The man likes going to that damn circus, and now he can’t go and I have to send someone else. Even if we were somehow so short of work that I’d be happy to lose somebody…never mind. So who is there?”
* * *
Luís wandered into his living room, checked the sofa for errant staff members, then headed on into the kitchen. Then he stopped about a meter inside, thinking very hard.
He went back out and Adrian, who’d been standing off the side with a bemused expression on his face, waved at the piles of baskets heaped up against the wall. “Good morning. I didn’t know what to do with these, except for putting the perishables in the fridge.”
“Oh, God,” Luís mumbled. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, and then rubbed his eyes a second time. “What day is it?”
“Two days after the rewrite.” Adrian unfolded his arms and produced a mug of coffee from somewhere, then dusted his hands on his legs as he looked around. He had on another of Luís’ buttondowns, and the sweats barely hanging onto his hips looked like Luís’ too. They suited him, just loose enough to fold against his body and show off the leanness, but he really needed his own wardrobe. “I woke you up to eat about eight hours ago…do you remember?”
No, but Luís’ stomach wasn’t trying to cave in like it should’ve been if he hadn’t eaten anything in one and a half days. God, he hated the aftermath of deadline day: getting out an issue should be a cause for celebration, or at least for kicking back and feeling grateful he still had his sanity, but instead he invariably ended up going home, flopping face-first into some horizontal surface and then waking up a couple days later with screaming back-cramp. Of course, that was why he always took those two days off, but still. Not the best use of his sick-days, in his opinion.
“Take it that you don’t,” Adrian muttered. He stepped back, apparently not trying to be sarcastic, and picked up a few sheets of paper that were covered in writing. “You’ve got…do you want to know about the messages yet?”
“No.” Luís wavered a bit longer, then realized the reason things felt so off was because he’d made it to a bed this time, so his back was only sore and not on fire. That settled, he headed for the kitchen. “I already know what they’re about, anyway. I got mad and normally they’d all just shrug it off except I still haven’t decided who’s going to cover Eurovision this year.”
A ridiculous amount of delicious, still-warm food was sitting on the counter-top, and some of it clearly had been recently cooked, so that explained what Adrian had been doing. Well, that and the painfully bright gleam of a clean kitchen, and Luís would have to think seriously about that later, but right now, he was hungry. He downed some coffee as he rustled up a fork and a knife, then moved over as Adrian returned to the small plate he had in one corner.
“Is that what it’s all about?” Adrian asked. He poked up a tiny piece of food and popped it into his mouth. “None of them said, but they…oh, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to return any of this or anything…”
“Return food? Are you kidding?” Luís drank some more coffee while Adrian winced and dropped his head in embarrassment. He tried something out of the nearest box, then nodded approvingly and pulled the box closer. “Oh. Well, that’s a nice thought, but when it comes to Eurovision, I do actually take bribes. So help yourself.”
Then he counted to thirty, and when Adrian hadn’t made a move towards any of the offerings, Luís started grabbing bits and putting them on Adrian’s plate. The other man opened his mouth, looked at Luís’ face, and then shrugged and started eating. The corner of his lips was twitching, and though his head was still down, he was definitely holding it more towards Luís. “People are really that eager to go?”
“What? Oh, no, no. These are to convince me to not pick them.” Much better than last year’s showing, Luís decided after a moment. He really must have put the fear into them over Adrian. “Not that it isn’t an important enough event, even to Germany—” Adrian rolled his eyes, obviously remembering that country’s last few joke entries, and Luís grinned “—but from a journalist’s point of view, going there isn’t that exciting. It’s too organized, no spontaneity like with a proper music festival, and nobody ever sends anybody really controversial these days. And the actual music part you could cover from watching at home. I have to send somebody because it’s so big, but it’s a lousy assignment.”
“I can see that,” Adrian mumbled after a moment. He flushed at Luís’ look and hastily got himself a glass of juice, then sipped some to clear his throat. “So, Villa sent a nice basket. There’s one of those battery-powered back massagers, and reservations to a really good Middle Eastern restaurant—”
“Which is probably my favorite…” Luís mentioned its name, then wasn’t surprised at all to get a confirming nod “…because David Silva is hopelessly dedicated to that moody bastard and put that thing together and brought it over. And he charmed the hell out of you, didn’t he?”
Adrian blinked a few times, then reluctantly nodded. “He brought a written apology for last—for two nights ago, too. It was signed.”
“So he managed to talk some sense into Villa. Was it to me or to you?”
“Oh, actually there were two. I got a separate one,” Adrian said. Then he turned rather sharply back to his plate, his shoulders hunching over. He was embarrassed again, only now it was because of his problem of thinking he hadn’t deserved that, Luís would bet. “He did seem worried about how you’d take it.”
Luís sighed. “I know Silva’s utterly adorable, but Adi, that’s exactly why Villa still has a damn job, despite raking up higher legal bills than anybody else except me.”
Adrian nodded and ate his food, still looking uncomfortable.
“And as far as I can tell, Villa just doesn’t notice that Silva does all that for him, and all right, damn it. I won’t send him. It’s hard enough taking Silva when he’s depressed—I don’t need to come home to this too,” Luís muttered. He watched for Adrian’s flinch, and it did come, though it was after the slight relaxation of the man’s stance. After finishing his current mouthful, Luís put his empty mug in the sink, then stuck out an arm to catch Adrian by the waist when Adrian tried to come over to rinse it out. “You need clothes.”
“Really?” Adrian said, arching his brows again. He held that for about two seconds before his nerves got the better of him and he started to fidget, his head dropping. When Luís kissed him, he went perfectly still, then sagged into it, putting his arms up around Luís’ neck. He rubbed their noses together as Luís withdrew after about a minute of that fun, looking and feeling a good deal more relaxed. “I’m fine. I—”
“—need clothes so I can tell you’re stealing mine because you like them better, not because you need them. I’ll call some of Helen’s fashion friends so you can do that without getting snapped by the paparazzi. That fight’s probably not quite dead yet.” Luís ruffled Adrian’s hair, just because it was there and messily spiked anyway, and then did it again because Adrian looked a lot better peeved than depressed. “You’ve cleaned this place what, five times over now? Do you have any idea what even a half-decent maid service costs these days?”
Adrian looked torn between annoyance and protest. He tucked in his chin a few times, absently fingering Luís’ shirt, before he finally sighed. “But thirty days of clinic costs—”
“Okay, fine. Keep an accounting or whatever, and when you get a job, you can take me out to dinner for the rest of your life. But you’re getting clothes now,” Luís told him. Then he put up his hand and touched Adrian’s cheekbone, stopping the man from hiding his face again. He watched Adrian’s eyes go dark and soft and disbelieving, then stroked his fingers lightly down Adrian’s cheek so those eyes slowly closed. “If it makes it better, it’ll be one less thing for Helen to scold me about when she visits, and that’s a headache I don’t need. Especially if I can’t just send Villa to Eurovision.”
The side of Adrian’s mouth turned up, and then he opened his eyes. He tipped forward and just lipped Luís’ nose, then nuzzled down the side of Luís’ cheek till he was mouthing at Luís’ jaw, his hands moving slowly down Luís’ back. “Is he really that bad? I mean, even with me…that other one was crueler.”
Oh, Guti. Right. Luís made a note to check that basket, then call Guti in for a one-on-one anyway. “Well, part of the job is having people come up to you in public and throw fits because you wrote something about them they didn’t like. And no matter how used to it you get, it’s never pleasant. But generally, the way to deal with it is not to tell them that if they really mean it, they should just shut up and get to punching you already.”
“What? Villa—”
“No, he just manages to look like he’s saying that. Which is fine. What’s not is that then he ducks and punches back, and he’s usually better at that than they are,” Luís muttered. He slung one arm over Adrian’s shoulder, then half-twisted so he could reach his plate. The lips on his neck paused, then resumed their caresses as he speared up a mouthful. “Nobody else came by in person, did they?”
“Hmm? No,” Adrian mumbled, face half-buried under Luís’ shirt-collar. His hands started to pull up the shirt-tails.
Luís finished chewing his current mouthful, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Adi, I haven’t showered and I smell like cat shit. Unless you dragged me out of bed for that—”
“Oh, no, I’d never.” Adrian leaned back, eyes wide and shocked. Then he ruined the whole innocent act by sticking his fingers beneath Luís’ waistband. “But if you want to do that now, I’m okay with it.”
“You really don’t need clothes,” Luís said after a long moment. “At least not right now, and why am I still talking?”
Being a smart man, Adrian had already started nudging Luís out the door. Luís slowed them down long enough to grab some fruit preserve thing, then stopped resisting. After all, he deserved a little reward before he went back to work.
* * *
“Er, hi…sorry, you busy?”
“What? Oh…” David exchanged glances with Senderos, who shrugged, before shaking his head and waving in Philipp with a broad smile “…nah, we’re having an in-between moment. What’s up?”
As Philipp eased himself into David’s cluttered chaos of an office, Senderos gave him a nod and began to carefully pick his way out. Philipp glanced at him, then at David; even though Senderos had been regularly eating lunch with them for several months now, he was so quiet that Philipp still didn’t feel like he really knew the man. “Weird late-night phone calls from Cristiano?”
The expression that crossed David’s face then could have been best described as “clusterfuck shock,” to quote Cesc. Slightly behind Philipp, Senderos paused, then turned right around and edged back to where he could see Philipp’s face. Then something else thudded dully and Philipp looked over his shoulder to see the door closing.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” David hastily said. “But um—okay, look, some shit’s gone down recently and we need a lid on it. Like, seriously. No gossip.”
“No, it’s okay. I understand, and anyway, I don’t really…well, I don’t know what to think, except that I’m already kind of uncomfortable about it and I don’t want to make it any worse than it is. However that is. Because I don’t—okay. Give me a moment.” Philipp pressed his hands against his face and took a few deep breaths. He rubbed at his eyes, then pulled down his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”
David looked a cross between sympathetic and freaked out. “No kidding. How come? Does it involve punching, or any kind of violence?”
“I said it was a phone call…” Philipp eyed them again “…is there something I should know about the shit that went down first?”
Wincing, David glanced at Senderos again. The other assistant had had his hands in his pockets, but he took them out now to pull at his nose. The grooves in his forehead were a little deeper than usual. “You haven’t turned on the TV lately? Or the radio?”
“No. I was on the phone—okay, look, Cristiano called around twelve-thirty and he sounded really rushed, and he said to…he kind of begged me not to junk the album we’ve been working on, no matter what happened. And he wouldn’t say what had happened, except that the album was really important.” Philipp choked a little squeezing out the last word, then rocked back on his heels. He took a deep breath before looking back up. “So?”
“So those are some killer puppy eyes, man. Lahmi, I thought we agreed you only saved those for—okay, okay!” David raised his hands and backed off a little. “Cristiano’s in Portugal. At least—”
“He landed in Lisbon about four hours ago,” Senderos confirmed.
After a long moment, Philipp checked the date on his watch. Then rechecked it, that nasty feeling in his stomach getting just that much stronger. “He wasn’t supposed to go till Wednesday.”
“If you caught the midnight news, you would’ve heard that he got in a fight with Ruud. That’s not quite true—it was Heinze and Ruud’s…” Senderos flushed slightly and looked to David, who gestured ‘boyfriend’ “…yeah. But it was in the middle of Premier and also Figo apparently was there, and that’s about all that the press knows.”
Oh, great, was Philipp’s first thought. Which wasn’t very nice of him, but honestly, only dead people would be surprised at this point that Cristiano and Ruud’s fucked-up relationship had reared its head again. Sometimes he wondered if they could just lock those two in a room and then see if anybody came out the next day…except he’d grown to like Cesc, and Ruud was dating Cesc’s cousin. “So how bad was—wait, did you say Luís Figo?”
“Yeah, I know. I really wish Jens had just let us cut off Cristiano’s phone service,” David muttered, rolling his eyes. He rubbed his hand over his head, scratching a little at a spot behind his left ear. “But no, Figo’s too important and smart, the moment he realized we were trying to keep Cristiano away from him, he’d get really interested…never mind. We’re trying to keep the Figo thing a rumor, by the way. He wasn’t there for the fight, so it might be coincidence. We hope.”
“But still…that…that…wow. I just…well, you know, I thought that was going to end weird, because why would Figo be chatting all the time with Cristiano? But I never thought that it’d end like…but where was Deco with all of this? Isn’t he supposed to keep this kind of crap from happening? I mean, I told you guys about Cristiano and Figo a while ago—”
“Deco’s been in the hospital for a few days now,” Senderos interrupted, blinking. Then he shook his head. “No, right, you said you hadn’t been watching the news…”
Nope, and it really was days like this where Philipp wished TVs just didn’t exist. He was a lot happier when it seemed like he had his work and that was it. No gossip, no weird disappearances, no Micha being extra-twitchy at lunch. “He’s in the hospital? Is he okay? For what?”
“I don’t know,” David said, wincing. Then his eyes widened and he started shaking his hands like maracas, trying to look innocent and totally failing, given the sudden air of paranoia that surrounded him. “I mean, he’s okay. He’s not dead, and he’s definitely mobile—pretty fucking mobile for a guy with a gunshot wound, but—shit, don’t freak on me, Lahmi. Deco’s okay. More than okay. In fact, he’s so damn okay that…okay. I need more coffee.”
Philipp stared at him for another moment, then switched to Senderos, who shrugged. Then Senderos rubbed at his head again, looking pained. “Deco got shot in the shoulder. Not seriously, but he was supposed to stay in the hospital till tomorrow, and he checked himself out this morning. Now we don’t know anything till his lawyer signs off on the non-disclosure form in his termination papers.”
Something got under Philipp’s heel and he stumbled, then caught himself against the door knob. Which rattled, and all three of them jumped a little at it. After snatching his hand away, Philipp stared at the knob. “Jens…fired Deco?”
“No, he…can we talk about—oh, fuck it, Philippe. It’s Lahmi, and he deserves to be in on the loop for this. No, Deco resigned. And it’s just really confusing right now and I don’t think even Jens has it straight,” David finally said. He shook his head, apologetic. “Everything Cristiano is up in the air till the lawyers get their end settled. At the very least.”
“I don’t think Jens wants to talk about it either. He’s being very Zen about everything and hasn’t broken anything yet.” Senderos looked even sorrier about the whole thing, fidgeting with his shirt-cuffs and scuffing a foot against the floor. “So I don’t know about the album. Sorry. I know you’ve been doing a lot of work on it, and really feel good about it.”
That last bit surprised Philipp enough so that the sting of realizing all his work might be about to get flushed down the toilet wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, but only because it was spread out over a longer period. And it still was pretty bad, and for the love of God, if Cristiano could remember to think about that sort of thing afterward, couldn’t he think about it before he fucked up? If he really loved his work as much as he said he did, and Philipp had actually been beginning to believe him on that, God help him—
--that was it. Normally Philipp didn’t like getting involved in backroom messes like this, but it wasn’t just Cristiano on the line here. It was Philipp too, and God, he’d had it up to here with the shallow pop he’d been doing with Cristiano up till recently and he did not want to be stuck doing that for the rest of his life. But he probably was stuck with Cristiano for a good while yet, and that alone was slightly more than a huge hassle, but he never complained and—and David was shaking him. Kind of hard. “Ow.”
“Sorry, sorry.” David jerked off his hands, then put them back on. He patted down Philipp’s upper arms a few times before gingerly stooping to look Philipp closely in the eye. “It’s just you looked like you were going to…um…”
“Explode,” Senderos suggested. He nervously twitched his tie. “Look, Philipp…Jens is in a really weird mood today…well, Freddie can’t go to Eurovision, and somehow this is a big problem. Which I don’t get, to be honest.”
“Oh…well, it’s just that Freddie—”
A wonderful, terrible idea sprang into Philipp’s head. He whipped around and nearly slammed himself into the door, which he’d forgotten was shut. When he backed up, both David and Senderos went for him, which was kind of irritating but okay, snapping at them probably wouldn’t make things better. So Philipp tried to calm down and convince them he wasn’t going off to blab to the tabloids or anything, and the moment they looked a little convinced, he bolted. Straight for Lehmann’s office.
* * *
Freshly showered, shaved and dressed, Luís was still nowhere near close to going back to work. At least as far as his inclinations went, and so far he’d only gotten about one new text or voicemail or email per quarter-hour, so he figured he could stay home for a late-ish lunch. After all, he did happen to have a lot of very good food that needed to be eaten before it spoiled. And his phone was ringing. “Oh, thanks.”
“Mm-hm,” Adrian nodded, easing the rest of the way past Luís. The other man ambled on in the kitchen, scruffing water from his hair, and began poking about in the fridge. He had to bend down in a kind of three-stage procedure involving a little hip-hitch, a hiss and then a very slow continuation of his lean. It was all made even more eye-catching by the fact that Adrian only had a damp towel slung about his waist and that collar around his neck.
*Figo?* Jens Lehmann said in Luís’ ear.
Thank God for the distracting visuals, because even the very recent memory of Adrian’s mouth trying to compete with the heat of the shower spray wasn’t enough to keep Luís from making a face at the phone. “This about last night?”
*Last night? Why would I care about that angry little reviewer of yours calling Ribéry a—*
For fuck’s sake, Villa. Already? Sighing, Luís wandered away from the kitchen till he’d found that list of messages Adrian had been waving about earlier. He started reading it as he came back to the kitchen. “No, two nights ago. Sorry, I’m still a little confused, what with having to stick your press release in my magazine to get it out on time because of Cristiano and his catfight at your label’s nightclub.”
Long pause. *Oh. Good. You’re at least semi-conscious.*
“Always a pleasure, Jens,” Luís snorted. He didn’t see any message from Villa or Silva that stood out, but there was a curt one from the legal department telling him to call back. And that one couldn’t be about Cristiano, because he’d left that up to his private lawyer for the time being. “So what’s up? Is that check for doing your PR office’s dirty work in the mail yet?”
Shorter pause. It didn’t sound like Lehmann was doing anything else, or that anyone else was there with him. *Kun’s first interview since crossing the Atlantic, exclusive to Duende.*
And no banter either. Not that Lehmann was necessarily the joking type, but his pride usually pricked him into a longer opening skirmish. Luís found the nearest wall, braced his shoulder against it, and filed Villa for later. “Well, you’re worried.”
*Your name’s still coming up in the tabloids. Eventful night, considering Adrian Mutu also made his first public appearance after a sensational falling-out with his band, and—*
“I can read, Jens,” Luís said, making his tone as dry as possible. Of course he wasn’t actually reading now, but damn it, now he’d have to, and in the tabloids too. Lehmann had obviously been quoting from something. “I was there to look at Kun, like anybody interested in music. Though if anybody wants to talk about anything else, I’d be happy to make an appointment with my lawyer.”
A soft thud made Luís look up: the fridge door shutting. Bottle of milk in hand, Adrian crossed the kitchen and opened a cabinet that Luís didn’t remember being capable of being opened without raining down a ton of crap Luís didn’t remember acquiring. Not to mention that he didn’t remember the cup Adrian took out either—Adrian looked over, like he’d sensed the staring, and immediately hunched up.
*You’re a very patient man, then. I also wasn’t doing anything interesting that evening, but I would not be very happy to make appointments with my lawyers with people who say differently.*
Waving for Adrian to relax, Luís rolled back on his shoulder and moved the phone so it wasn’t crushing his ear. He pulled his nose a few times, tempted to do the same—metaphorically speaking—to Lehmann, but…if Villa was out making trouble and not on Luís’ doormat trying to glower the door into unlocking, then nothing significant had happened with Cristiano. And that meant no story, so the only value would be in pissing off Lehmann. Which could be fun, but not when Luís had antisocial staff and shaky rehabbed Romanians waiting for him. Damn, Luís regretfully thought. “Exclusive with Kun and not his handlers. Take it or leave it.”
*Handlers in the hall. Kun’s a very self-possessed young man. I can’t stop him if he wants to call them in.*
“All right. Have your people talk to my people, all that nonsense.” Luís listened to Lehmann grunt agreement, then snapped shut the phone since come to think of it, he didn’t feel like playing around either. “Adi, I think I have to take lunch to work with me. So Helen’s friend will be here at two—”
Adrian had been in the middle of drinking milk. He burbled it a little, then lowered his glass and hastily wiped the foamy moustache off his upper lip, still blinking. “What? Oh, the…the clothes. Listen, I was thinking about that and—”
“You need clothes.”
“Wait—”
Luís fiddled with his phone. “Are you still arguing with me about this?”
“No,” Adrian quickly said. Too quickly: he sloshed his glass and milk splashed nearly to the rim. He looked down in a minor panic, saw that that was all right but then made that moot by jerking his head up so fast that the milk splashed again, dribbling over the side and down onto his hand. “No—I--wait.” Shoulders rolled and reset. “No, I know, I can’t keep taking your clothes. But…I mean…do I have to…do that…now? I could—if you showed me where the laundry room was, I could just do—”
“I’m not worried about my dirty-clothes hamper,” Luís said. He was getting confused now. “Look, this guy’s Helen-approved. At the very least, it’s not just going through the mall, and anyway, I just got off the phone with Lehmann to make sure nobody sics paparazzi on you or me.”
Adrian opened his mouth, then partly shut it as his brows lowered. “That was Lehmann? As in Jens Lehmann, the—wait. No, wait.” He frowned, then dropped his head. Gave it a shake, then lifted it while pressing one hand to its side like he was getting a headache. “No, it’s not that. I’m really—I don’t think you need to go through all this trouble anyway, so I’m not saying that I don’t think you’d do a good job—”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I know!” Grimacing, Adrian put up his other hand. He put his fingers over his face, then dragged them down his cheeks as if trying to peel off a layer of skin. His eyes were closed and they stayed closed as he folded his fingers over his nose, as if in prayer. He stayed like that for a long moment before he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “Okay. Look. I…don’t want to go out. And it’s not…totally the reporters. That’s a lot of it, but…I just…want to stay in for a while. It’s—it’s not what your staff said either. It’s—it’s been a really, really long time since I talked to people. Talked to them, you know, back and forth like with you, and not had the drugs doing it for me. You’re—it’s easy with you, but I don’t—I don’t know—even if they had no idea who I was, and was just asking if I was all right because I, I don’t know, looked odd…”
“You want me to come with you?” Luís asked after a moment. More of a feeler question than a real offer, and to be really honest, he had to admit that a flash of irritation went through him when Adrian’s head shot up and naked gratitude spread over the other man’s eyes. Because now it would have to be a real offer, and this was going to immensely complicate his day, and…and fine, he wasn’t actually annoyed at Adrian. And would’ve offered if he’d been thinking a little faster. “Fine.”
“Wait, I don’t want to get in your—”
Luís was already flipping open his phone and thinking about how many snippy editors he’d have to get through before he could get to his lunch. “I’m going, Adi.”
“You really get this.” Adrian laughed a little awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes were still on the bright side, surprised and delighted and relieved. “I—thank you.”
“I’ve seen this before. Afterwards, I mean.” One ring and then Silva was on, but he almost immediately got off with only a frantic babbling about getting Iker. Sighing, Luís listened to the hold tone and tapped his foot against the ground. “Well, except for fucking the person I was supposed to be helping all over my insanely clean apartment. I don’t think that’s an approved treatment.”
He looked up when something touched his jaw, then went still as Adrian leaned further. The other man pressed his lips against Luís’ cheek, just short of Luís’ ear. They moved slightly down, then lifted and Adrian stepped back to hand Luís a plate of food. “You are helping,” he said. His smile was fragile but wide…and then it turned into a slight smirk. “And I don’t know, I think that blue and black fuzzy thing in the fridge probably violated some health code.”
“Adi, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, that? Your ex-wife said it was good for the back.” Adrian looked at Luís, eyes big and dark and truthful. And not really counteracting the man’s quivering lip. “She left a couple of messages, too. I’ve got a different list for them.”
Luís looked heavenward and just consigned the day to those hands, because God knew he’d lost his grip. “Okay, give me that damn list. And then put some clothes on, so I can get some more clothes to take off you.”
* * *
Jens cursed and shoved down hard on Robin’s shoulders, jamming the other man under his desk. He paused for a moment, taking in both the utter absurdity of the situation and the fact that he’d just let his dignity slip another notch. Then he cursed again and shoved his chair forward; his knees banged into Robin and the other man let out a muffled grunt before snapping his fingers around Jens’ calves. Robin’s cheeks flexed in, and then his tongue started to wiggle against the underside of Jens’ cock and the door was opening. Goddamn it. “What?”
“Jens?” Lahm poked his head into the room. “Your schedule says you have a minute. Can I have it to talk? I promise it’ll be quick.”
“Is it deathly important?” Jens snarled. Without cause and he would have to come up with an apology and an excuse later, but right now Robin was…well, Robin was being quiet, but only because he was that annoyed. His fingers had dropped to Jens’ ankles and were teasing around them, sliding ticklish fingertips in between Jens’ socks and trouser-cuffs.
Philipp didn’t even hesitate. He nodded, and Lahm was neither a prevaricator nor an exaggerator, even if he did occasionally help certain people escape Jens’ reprimands. “It’s about Cristiano. And also Eurovision. They’re related, and…um, can I come in?”
Robin dug his fingers into Jens’ Achilles tendons and sucked so hard that the tip of Jens’ cock hit the back of his throat and made him gag. Jens smacked his hand against his desk to cover up the noise. And also cover up for the fact that his vision had briefly gone blurry, and for the love of God. He shoved his free hand under the desk and grabbed at Robin’s hair. “Fine. But you have the minute you asked for and that’s it.”
“Okay,” Philipp said quietly. He came in, shut the door, then leaned against it like he was talking to Ballack. Not joking around, of course, but not looking particularly nervous or frightened either. “I know Cristiano’s in trouble and that’s all I know about that, but I just want to make sure that our new work isn’t affected. Because I really believe it’s going to be great—I know it’s not what he’s been doing and it’s new and marketing’s going to say it’s unreliable because new isn’t predictable, but Jens, it’ll be great. Cristiano’s got a shot at a place in music and not just fame with this one. I really believe that. And—I believe that so much that I’ll do Eurovision this year if you let us make this album how we’ve been making it.”
Unfortunately Robin had recently gotten a trim, so his already short hair provided even less of a hold than usual. Though to be honest, Lahm’s low but certain tone had been so intriguing that Jens didn’t notice till Robin let his teeth touch his prick—actually, till after Robin had done that and Jens had reflexively grabbed Robin’s jaw. He paused, collecting himself, and Lahm frowned and stared at him, while Robin apparently sensed the change because he smartly stopped that nonsense. “Hildebrand’s already having a bit of a brain-block. I don’t need him—”
“I already talked to him about it and he doesn’t like it, but he’s not going to make me stay or make things…weird over it.” From the way Philipp shifted on his feet, it wasn’t quite so clear-cut, but he probably wasn’t lying. So he and Timo had at least come to terms. “Me being here’s not going to help the brain-block. We all know that—I can make him feel better about it, but I can’t do his work for him. Oh, and I know I’m not supposed to know about the Eurovision problem, but that’s not anybody’s fault but mine.”
“I beg to differ. You knowing requires somebody telling, and calm down. I won’t dock David or Philippe for this, though I’m going to remember it.” Jens propped his elbow up on his desk and rubbed at his jaw. It would solve the Eurovision problem, but Philipp’s suggestion would also take away the biggest lever Jens could apply to Cristiano while that brat was agent-less. Possibly. The biggest obvious lever, anyway. “The snippets I’ve heard so far are interesting, but maybe at most are singles, not a coherent album—”
“If you listen to the whole thing,” Philipp started. Then he coughed and ducked his head, his first sign of discomfort. “The skeleton’s there. When he’s back from his tour, we can fill it out, but you can already hear it. Really.”
Jens loosened his grip on Robin’s jaw, then almost tightened it again when he heard Robin’s relieved hiss. Then he mentally kicked himself for the lapse of attention. “All right, get David a copy before the end of the day—no, close your mouth. No more bargaining. When you give the tracks to David, you can pick up your plane tickets. Philipp, I’ll give you my word that you’ll get to put out this album the way you and Cristiano want it. But how much official FC backing you’ll get for it still depends on whether or not I can see it anything like you do.”
At first Philipp had jerked forward, one hand up and ready to protest, but as Jens had talked, the other man had sunk back against the wall till he was silently staring. His mouth was a little open, and after Jens had finished, Philipp had to shake himself before he could talk. “Thanks, Jens. I really appreciate this.”
“And I have no idea why, but I appreciate what that says about things,” Jens muttered. He glanced down at his desk, but cleared his throat just as he heard the door open. “Lahmi? Cristiano doesn’t get to hear from you. I will be telling him before he gets back from Portugal, but I will. All right?”
“Okay,” Philipp said after a moment. Then he left.
Jens put both hands against the edge of the desk and leaned hard over them, breathing in and out, in and out, in-out in-out. He let his forehead fall onto the desk and rested for a moment, then inhaled deeply and slid back to look at Robin’s half-annoyed, half-shocked eyes. “Get out of there. I can’t see your jaw.”
“Maybe because you crushed it off,” Robin grumbled, immediately proving the impossibility of his suggestion. Though he crawled out and put one elbow up on Jens’ left knee, using his other hand to rub at said body part. He made a face but didn’t resist as Jens nudged away his hand, then took his chin and turned his head back and forth. “Also, you’re fucking crazy. We’re going to play nice now? Why’s Cristiano even going to bother listening to you? I don’t think you scare him anymore.”
“No, I don’t, and not much else does. And what he does fear isn’t going to cooperate, and no, I’m not going to break a functioning part to fix a broken one. If you can call Cristiano that.” Only bruises, Jens noted. He took his hand from Robin and put it on his desk, thought a moment and then reached into a drawer for a tube of ointment. Then he pushed Robin down by the shoulder when the other man made to rise. “Don’t make that face. You can know how flawed your opponent is, but you can’t ever underestimate them. Not unless you want to lose.”
Robin rolled his eyes but turned his head into Jens’ fingers as Jens rubbed the ointment over his jaw. He put his other arm up on Jens’ thigh, his fingers idly drifting towards Jens’ still-open fly. “Any other words of wisdom you want to share?”
“You don’t give up the moment something doesn’t work. You give it some time. But when it keeps not working, you move on to something else,” Jens said. He let himself smile slightly at the petulant way Robin moved his shoulders, but made sure the other man couldn’t free his head, even after the ointment had been rubbed in and Jens was essentially just petting the man. “In other words, Cristiano’s goddamn single-minded that hurts more than helps him because he hasn’t really learned what focus really is. Instead he just lets what he’s not focused on completely slip his mind. So if he wants to focus on this album, then fine, he can do that.”
“If you say so,” Robin replied. He wasn’t totally convinced, but he did seem to be thinking it over. Up to when his wandering right hand grazed Jens’ prick, and his attention went there as well.
Jens looked at him as Robin rose further. The angle of the other man’s head was suddenly coy, turned mostly away but dipped as well so that the eye was drawn to the long half-lowered lashes, the bruised mouth. Robin flicked a glance at him, then away and down, nuzzling at Jens’ hand, lips brushing over the muscle at the base of Jens’ thumb, and despite all Jens’ mental recriminations, he found himself chewing at the inside of his mouth. “Didn’t I have a rule about you not showing up at work? Even if Thierry calls you and says I’m standing on the damn ledge outside of my window saying I’m going to jump?”
“Yeah.” Robin sucked Jens’ thumb into his mouth, then held it loosely there as he started to unbutton his shirt. “What happened to that, anyway?”
“Monofocus isn’t just unique to Cristiano, much as he’d probably like it to be,” Jens said after a moment. He looked at the schedule on his computer, then shrugged. He did have a meeting in ten minutes, but it was Thierry again and Thierry could wait, given this was partly his fault. “Apparently I don’t think of you as a threat these days, so that slipped my mind.”
Robin’s jaw slipped down a little so that Jens’ thumb slid out. The other man stared at Jens long and hard, not reacting when Jens moved his hand to cup the side of Robin’s neck. He only twitched when Jens lightly pressed one of those new bruises with his thumb, ducking his head first left and then to down. “…you’re not drunk, are you?”
“In the middle of a work-day?”
“And you—you…God. So I’m not a threat, but you’re still going to come up with the most fucking insulting way of giving me a compliment, and…and damn it, Jens. Goddamn it, I wanted to fuck,” Robin finished, stammering to a savagely rough stop. He glanced at Jens again, then snickered shakily as Jens pulled them to their feet.
The laughing stopped when their mouths touched, though Robin didn’t immediately go from that to anything. And when he did, it was to a soft, open mouth that leaked shivery little noises in between eager kisses. His hands grabbed repeatedly at Jens’ shoulders, and each time he got a good hold but his fingers kept slipping as if he’d lost control of them. He needed about five times before he finally got them to stay put, and then his mouth got a little more forceful, a little more demanding. He pressed himself up against Jens, straddling Jens’ left thigh and grinding his erection against that, and then he abruptly laughed again, his mouth jerking away to slide against Jens’ cheek.
“Okay. Okay, fuck now,” he said unsteadily.
He looked irritated when Jens merely trapped his wrists. Robin tried to pull them free, then tugged a second time. Then he gasped as Jens twisted his hands up behind his back and bit at his bruised jaw. His knee banged into the side of Jens’ leg and Jens forced him back against the desk, then resumed nibbling those bruises. “What?”
“Oh.” Robin laughed a third time, a wild edge of excitement filtering into his voice. He jerked at his arms, then turned molten against Jens when Jens gave him a shake for it. “Oh, good. For a moment there I thought we were going to get all mushy, and that’s not—”
And this was why usually he got drunk first, Jens thought. Though the better coordination was definitely a plus when shoving someone over a desk, and Robin also wasn’t talking now. Sensible of him.
* * *
“Victor, how many days have you actually worked in the office this month? And no, just coming in to check your mailbox doesn’t count.” Luís saw that sales clerk with the coffeepot and the supercilious upper lip come round the corner and ducked to the side, only to nearly smother himself in a rack of suit-coats. He slapped his way out, ignored the odd looks he was getting, and ducked to the other side, where there was a nice little alcove. “It won’t kill you to spend twenty hours in the building this week.”
*Look, it is not the environment. The building’s fine. I love the building.*
They didn’t pay him enough for this. Though they did pay him enough for these stupid boutiques to spend more time sucking up to him than actually trying to do their job: getting clothes on Adrian. By Luís’ watch it’d been fifteen minutes since another snooty clerk had whisked the other man off into a dressing-room. “Yeah, I know. It’s the fact that I’m making you co-write with Guti, and the only way that I can make sure that that actually happens is if I can watch from my office.”
*Figo…C’mon. We’re not kids.*
Luís pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not…I’m not even responding to that. So aside from you, how’s the office? Villa show up yet?”
*No, but Albelda and Ole are taking turns stalling Silva in the coffeeroom, so I give it another five minutes before Villa storms in here wanting to know why nobody’s answering his emails. You had five deliveries, four of them look like press packages, somebody from Accounting came over to scream about needing visa info for Eurovision…* In the beginning, Victor’s voice had been put-upon and annoyed, but at the end it suddenly spiked into nervousness. *Is that what you’re…waiting for Villa for?*
If you did the pause right, you could actually hear somebody’s blood pressure rising. “I don’t know. I’ll call Accounting and let me know when Villa does show.”
Then Luís hung up, cutting off Victor mid-squawk. He heard a door open behind him and turned around, but it was just another clerk and fine, another minute and then he was going to check that they hadn’t tried to slip Adrian into the equestrian—Luís could not believe that had become a genre instead just dying out like a responsible fad—department or anything silly like that. He stuck his phone in his pocket and turned back.
“I had no idea we went to the same suit-maker,” Deco said. “You certainly never looked like it.”
Neither did he: Deco had on jeans, a nondescript wrinkled buttondown that bulged up at the left shoulder, and delicate rectangular-rimmed glasses. He needed a shave and a good hair-trimming, and…he was a good bit shorter than Luís had been expecting, considering the way Cristiano had talked about him. The slightly agonized cast to his face was spot-on from his photos, though.
Luís put out his hand. “And I certainly believe in your ignorance. Luís.”
Deco glanced at it. His upper lip twitched and Luís began to withdraw the hand, but then Deco abruptly took it. The handshake was brusque and less than a formality. “Anderson,” Deco said.
“And is this your last stop before you flee the country?” Luís added dryly.
For a moment Deco just looked at Luís as if responding would be too much for his feeble constitution to handle, after suffering through the epic misfortune that indelibly stamped his expression. Then he snorted and shook his head. He seemed a lot quieter than his reputation would have suggested as well. “Anderson’s the name on my birth certificate. The glasses are prescription. I just usually wear contacts.”
Okay, this was actually going to be interesting. Luís found a nice spot on the wall and leaned against it. “All right.”
“It’s none of your business what I’m doing here or how I got here, unless you also want to meet my lawyer. But I wanted to know something,” Deco said. He glanced to the side as somebody walked around in the next aisle over, but then shrugged and continued on in the same level voice. “What the hell were you doing with Cristiano? You’re not stupid and he’s not subtle. He was throwing himself at you worse than a drunken spinster at a wedding.”
“I—” Luís started. He caught himself, then sank back against the wall, frowning. That had actually stung him into being defensive. “Well, it’s a really great time for you to start showing some interest there. I’ve never seen an agent be so hands-off with a client, especially where the media’s involved.”
Deco grinned and it was unpleasant but strangely brittle. Possibly because his left arm was beginning to shake; he noticed and grimaced, then awkwardly swung it up against his chest with his other arm. “Don’t talk about what you don’t know. And what Cristiano tells you isn’t the same as knowing all about it. Maybe I didn’t care, maybe I was incompetent. Maybe Cristiano asked for it to be that way. Maybe things just got fucked up really fast. But you wouldn’t know, would you? Because I know Cristiano has no idea what it was.”
On second thought, this wasn’t interesting. This was dangerous waters, and Luís did know of what type from the way Deco’s eyes glinted, the way Deco was biting off the ends of his words. And suddenly Luís wasn’t so fond of the verbal jousting, and just wished…he sighed, then shook his head. People would be people, over and over again. “You know, I don’t know what I was doing. He just stormed into my office and I thought he was ridiculous, but he had balls. That’s a lot more than you see these days—God forbid the PR folks let anybody have a shred of original personality left. And he does have talent.”
“Not that he knows it,” Deco muttered. He pulled at his swollen shoulder, then raised a brow when he caught Luís staring. “There’s a difference between really knowing what you can do and just preening.”
“I know,” Luís said slowly. He glanced over at the dressing-room, slipping one hand into his pocket. “Anyway, I got a little interested, and started talking to him. Just between you and me—I don’t always have to be Duende’s head editor. I don’t necessarily want to be. But nowadays it’s a lot harder to go that way, with people just wanting a leg up on the competition and not thinking about anything else. I’m getting old and I forget that sometimes. That’s all it was.”
Deco lifted both brows. “So you fucked up. And you don’t seem that concerned about it.”
“Well, I am, but that’s not between you and me, that’s between me and my conscience.” Luís paused, then shrugged. “And various lawyers, staff members, et cetera, but…why would I be upset, is what I think you want to ask. Well, why should I be? I did what I did and now I have to deal with what that led to. I was there the whole time, and I know what happened.”
It wasn’t that complicated or that profound a thing to say, but for some reason Deco fell silent. He dropped his gaze from Luís and stared at the floor between them. His lower lip went under, then out from beneath the pressure of his teeth. Once he seemed to wince and his right hand made a slight movement towards his left shoulder, but then he gave himself a shake.
“That’s nice,” Deco said neutrally. “Still, I don’t think you know everything that happened. You probably want to keep an eye on that, even if Cristiano’s not so interesting now.”
With that, he turned on his heel and walked away. A clerk went towards him from the right and Deco glanced at them, then angled himself so that the clerk ended up crossing behind him. At the same time he reached up and adjusted his glasses, obscuring his face with his hand, and it seemed to work since the clerk didn’t look twice at him.
“Sir? They’d like to know if you wanted matching collars with each set.”
“Hmm?” Luís looked up at the clerk, then twisted away. He pulled out his phone and jiggled it a moment, then decided not to poke now. He had just given his word to Lehmann, and anyway this wasn’t going to be something he wanted officially checked out. “Did you ask Adrian?”
“He said no, but to check with you,” the clerk patiently said. The moment Luís looked his way, the man flapped little swatches of fabric at him. “We have a very nice medium-weight silk, breathable, holds color well…or if you want to continue with the leather—”
Oh, for God’s sake. The next time Helen was in town, they were having some words because Luís did not remember couture clothes-shopping being this irritating. Luís flipped open his phone and dialed for the office; even Victor’s neuroses were preferable to this. “Just go with what Adrian says. He’s wearing it. Now go away, and don’t come back unless you’ve got him with him…Villa. About time. What the hell did you do and how much are they suing us for?”
* * *
Yesterday Morning
Ludo seemed to take it calmly enough. He blinked once, then looked down while putting one hand in his pocket. His other hand rose and scratched at his temple so that Deco could see the dried blood under his nails. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit.”
…Deco didn’t even know where to start with that. He stared at the other man, then cursed and grabbed at his shoulder as a sharp stab of pain went through it. The movement made his sling move so the strap slipped and dug in as well, and Deco ripped that over his head with a snarl. To the side, one of the nurses made an abortive move towards him and Deco jerked his head up to glare at her. She flinched, then hastily ducked behind another nurse.
“It wasn’t because I was too busy taking care of things, because I could have made time. I did want to, but…” one side of Ludo’s mouth crooked up “…well, I was angry enough. I had a feeling if I came, I’d be angrier and I don’t think that sensibly when I’m upset.”
“You’re not sensible anyway,” Deco blurted out. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you being so—so—”
“I am sane, Deco. In that I can be consistently rational.” Ludo passed his hand over the top of his head as he looked up, then dropped it to clasp the back of his neck. He was still smiling, close-lipped, faintly regretful. “I do notice what people think of how I act, and I suppose I could act in a way that means they don’t have that opinion. But having them be contemptuous can be useful, and anyway, I think if you have done what I have to get where I am, you should at least be allowed to not care about most people’s opinions. But I do care about yours, and I’m sorry.”
All the breath in Deco’s lungs rushed upward at once. It slammed into the roof of his mouth, brutal and burning, but he had his lips parted because he had a bitter rejoinder all ready. But in the heat of his—his disgust—those words were blasted into a few incoherent chokes, and then the air hissed out after them in a disappointed trail. “It’s not…it wouldn’t have mattered if you’d shown up. I don’t give a damn whether or not you care about me. It never—”
“It was, and you wouldn’t be so upset yourself if it wasn’t.” Then Ludo laughed. Right in Deco’s face, shaking his head, looking rueful like he’d just been caught hiding presents under the Christmas tree. “But no, me coming wouldn’t have changed this. I didn’t mean it that way anyway, though it would have mattered. Just not with whether or not you walk out that door, and as for that…go ahead. Go.”
“I’m not in the mood,” Deco finally said. His jaw was beginning to ache from how hard he was clenching it.
Ludo snorted again, then rubbed at the side of his face. “I know. I can see that. But I’m not joking. If you want to leave, then I can’t keep you, can I?” He waited a moment, head cocked. “I can stop you, obviously. But keeping is different. And I know, you don’t want to hear this, and I’m sorry about that, too. This is why I wished I’d come before, so I’d have the time to say this better.”
“This isn’t fucking fun—”
Good and hard and long, one mouth melting the other. The spasm of pain in Deco’s shoulder spread out into an agonizing strain in his back, making him shake as he tried to keep his balance in his half-stooped position. He couldn’t lean back to relieve any of the stress because of the grip Ludo had on the front of his shirt, and the man’s fingers were burning through the cloth that was too thin, telling him how easy it’d be to let that be stripped away and Deco twisted hard from it, unable to take that promise.
He was let free. He stumbled back a few steps, then caught himself against the bed and gasped for air. Then he jerked up his head.
Ludo raised his hands, palms to the front. He wasn’t smiling now, and his somberness cooled the air even quicker than his stepping deliberately backward, so Deco had a free line to the door.
“It’s not funny,” Ludo said. A flicker of something dark and sad went through his eyes. “It’s never funny, really. So go.”
Deco put his hand to his shoulder, then to the side of his neck. Then finally to his breastbone, and that was where the pain was coming from, but when he pressed down, it only seemed to get worse. He bit the inside of his mouth, then dropped his hand and pushed himself off the bed. “Goddamn you. Goddamn you, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m just being myself, Deco. Just somebody, trying to get what he wants. Which is not always the smart thing to do, but everybody has something that trips them up, and I think wisest people are those who don’t try to pretend they’re not like that, but who find out what it is for them and then work around it.” This laugh was a touch bitter, though when Deco looked a second time, Ludo shrugged with the same liquid carelessness he always used. “And I tried, but that’s just me. You’re different, and maybe you can try something else. I hope something works for you.”
“I don’t believe you,” Deco said after a moment. His voice was shaking.
“Well, I don’t either. I don’t think there’s another way, but I mean it when I wish you well.” Ludovic looked at Deco for another moment, then slowly turned. He seemed to stop when he was about halfway around, but then continued on till he’d put his back to Deco. Then he began to walk towards the silent group of onlookers in the corner. “I want you to be well. I also want you to be well without leaving, but I can’t do anything about that.”
“No.” Deco took a step forward, watching the other man. Then another, and then he was stumbling towards the door as fast as he could go, and never mind his dignity or even his stamina right now. He just needed to leave. “Don’t bother waiting.”
He heard a slight click just as he reached the door, where he jerked to a stop. Breathed a few times, and then looked over his shoulder.
Ludo lifted his head, the freshly-lit end of his cigarette glowing redder than the flame just beneath it. He met Deco’s eyes, snapping shut the lighter, and then he turned away, taking the cigarette from his mouth. “Unfortunately, you don’t get a say in that any more than I do in your going. So I hope you do better, Anderson. When things come that way again, you know where to find me.”
Deco twisted on his heel. He paused, then kicked the door open. “If.”
“When,” floated after him. It didn’t make him look back.
***