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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Deco/Giuly, Van Nistelrooy/J. A. Reyes, Ramos/M. Torres.
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 Bonnie Tyler (Jennifer Saunders cover).
Summary: Some people are still idealists at heart. And sometimes this can be pretty costly.
***
“What?” Cesc asked blankly. His hand missed the soda he was trying to take from Lionel so the other man gave him a funny look, then promptly pulled up a chair. Which for once wasn’t the right thing to do because this was so not the time for gossiping, and God, who got shot in the middle of the day? And…“What?”
*Sit on it. Unless you’d care to be packing up your desk tomorrow.*
And then the phone clicked off, and Cesc still couldn’t believe it, and…and that couldn’t be all of it. He wasn’t hearing something. There had to be something else. Because otherwise he really, truly couldn’t work here anymore.
“Cesc?”
He jumped, then crashed back into his chair and stared wildly at Lionel for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, pulled himself up, and took the soda. Before he quite realized what he was doing, he’d popped off the lid, taken a big swig, and been vaguely disappointed—oh, well, it wasn’t like he could get drunk. Even though it already seemed like he was, because he couldn’t believe…Lionel was staring at him. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, emergency call…which I’m still on, actually,” he hastily added, noting the sudden gleam in the other man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, but can I catch you later?”
“Yeah, no problem. It wasn’t anything—I just was wondering if I could hide in your office for a while. Rafa’s introducing himself around, and…um, bye?”
By then Cesc was already halfway out the door, nodding his permission and hand-flapping his goodbye. He felt bad about leaving Lionel that rudely, in that vague, I-should-apologize-later kind of way that didn’t actually penetrate but just sort of skated over the surface of his panicked…was he running? He was running. He was running and whoa, there went some German, and thank God. “Ruud!”
The other man looked up, then threw himself back into the room out of which he’d just come. Cesc skidded and broke his fall with a stiff arm against the wall, and then realized he was breathing rather hard. He spent a useless couple of seconds trying to get that under control before he gave up and just tiptoed towards the door. From inside the office was coming a lot of bangs and muffled cursing.
Right as Cesc was peeking in, Ruud abruptly popped out his head, ruffled and gasping a little himself. His eyebrows flew up as Cesc yelped, and then he reached out to steady Cesc as Cesc kind of jumped and lost his balance because he was a panicking little spaz right now.
A second later, Ruud had jerked back his hand. He held it in the air for a moment, then echoed Cesc’s awkward cough as he put it on his shoulder, like he meant to rub it against his coat, and then changed his mind and raked it back through his hair. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. I’m totally fine. I mean, I’m here and not bleeding to death somewhere, so I guess I’m fine and shit!” Cesc clammed up his mouth, then slapped his hand over it for good measure.
Well, it wasn’t like they’d parted on terms that were…anything less than weird and complicated, and they hadn’t had a sit-down to sort that out since Ruud had come back. They’d just had to cross paths sometimes, because Thierry occasionally lent Cesc out to help with Ruud’s new prospects, and because well, Ruud was sleeping with Cesc’s cousin. Kind of hard to just walk into that one day and say “Hey, I did like working with you and I hope you’re better now.”
“What happened?” Ruud said after a moment. Then he glanced about the hall, brow furrowing. “Wait, should we go in—”
“Um, maybe.” No reason not to be that careful, Cesc figured as he slipped into the room. He did notice Ruud’s flinch, so he didn’t shut the door all the way. “So…let’s say there’s—okay, forget the hypothetical. Look, Deco got shot, we don’t know where he is except he was with Giuly, Cristiano called it in and Jens just said not to do anything about it. He even said to tell Cristiano that. And—and he can’t mean that, can he? We don’t even know if Deco’s alive.”
Ruud’s response was to stare at Cesc for long enough for Cesc to start fidgeting, catch it, and then nearly tear his cuff making himself stop. He grimaced and looked down, then back up. Then he straightened as Ruud opened his mouth, but the other man never…he was going to ask something, his expression said, but he changed his mind and stared some more at the far wall instead.
“You said Cristiano called it in? Is he there?” Ruud asked. But almost immediately he shook his head, and then he put up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No, if he had been, Jens would’ve been on this right away. So—Deco’s with Giuly. Deco got shot while with—no, Cesc, if Jens says to leave it, then leave it.”
“What?” Cesc blurted. “I—what? I can’t—and you say you love my fucking—”
“Goddamn it, you do not know everything that goes on here. If you didn’t learn anything else with me, you should’ve learned that.” Ruud reared back like he meant to spit out more, but instead pressed his hand across his face. “Cesc. Listen to me, and listen because…because I’m saying this because I owe you a good deal, and I’m trying to repay it. If there is a serious injury involved and Lehmann decides he doesn’t want you to interfere, then don’t. He’s perfectly capable of taking care of that himself, and you’re wonderful but you’re not.”
It took a few moments for what Ruud was saying to really penetrate, since Cesc was not only stunned but getting up to really fucking mad at this point. And yet he was trying to stay calm and listen, and at the beginning not really because he was a professional. More because this was Ruud, and José loved the guy and Cesc couldn’t kill him. So Cesc had to think instead, and that was when he began to listen. “So…wait…you think…”
“I don’t presume to do that with Jens,” Ruud snorted. He finally dragged his hand off his face, but he might’ve stood to have left it up there a little longer, considering how tired he suddenly looked. “But I have seen in the past that in a crisis, he does depend on certain people not acting, and on…say, certain people not knowing certain things as they act.”
“All right,” Cesc reluctantly said. “But th—Cristiano’s never going to buy that. And he sounded really upset.”
Ruud had been staring over Cesc’s shoulder again, but he looked at Cesc again then, and his eyes flickered in a way that sent an uneasy lurch through Cesc’s gut. He pursed his lips a few times, then shrugged over-casually. “Well, tell him anyway. If he doesn’t listen, then I imagine Jens has considered that already.”
Cesc considered his next comment very carefully. “Ruud…”
“He’s seen Giuly and Deco more than anyone here, I’d think,” Ruud added, tone a good deal more edged. He seemed to realize that and began to move his head around, uncomfortable with it but unable to stop himself. “I—Cesc. Look. If Cristiano wants to do something, he’ll find a way to do it. And that’s what he wants. It’s not…necessarily worth the risk to yourself to try to stop him.”
That stopped Cesc for another few seconds, but in the end, he couldn’t leave it at that. Shaken up as he was, he hadn’t let certain things slip his mind. “You know, there’s a difference between trying to prove you’re over him and being a coldblooded jerk.”
“And there’s a difference between saying you love someone and meaning it,” Ruud replied right away. He blinked, but his jaw firmed up right afterward, so he didn’t regret it too much. “I never have said that to José, you know. Because…Cesc, I realize I’m still not the ideal person for having a relationship with. But I am trying. I mean my trying, and I mean—I mean leaving Cristiano be, to live his life how he wants. And you should remember, I know him better than any of you.”
“But—okay, but just as one person to another—”
“Cesc, I am not and probably will never be ‘another person’ to Cristiano. And…and was there anything else?” Ruud had changed his mind again, substituting a different ending to his sentence.
Lost cause, Cesc immediately thought. And then thought he was wrong, because that wasn’t quite it. But what it was…he couldn’t figure that out right now, but he didn’t think he liked it.
“No,” Cesc finally said. “Thank you for the advice.”
No you’re-welcome came after him as he left. He put that away for later as well, and pulled out his phone to call Cristiano back.
* * *
“No, I don’t hate everyone. I just…well, I am still mad, all right? And it’s not just because everybody forgave José. Some of it’s still because they gave him so much shit before that, before he…it’s complicated, okay?” Fernando said, pulling a face. He rocked back and forth while holding onto his shins, definitely not noticing the floor now. Which was a little dirty, but the man worked on movie sets made out of scavenged trash and worse.
Sergio felt the sheet slip some and retucked it around himself, then shivered a little as a breeze tickled his back. He glanced around the room, absently wondering what Miguel was doing, since obviously it didn’t include getting Sergio his clothes. “You know, you keep saying it’s complicated, and I get that it’s complicated—I mean, anything that gets Raúl to yell at our aunt is gonna be—but that doesn’t really help me understand it. You wanna be a little more specific?”
Fernando made an annoyed face, but then rocked back so far that he nearly fell over and had to put back an arm to brace himself. Then he pushed himself back up, but continued to stare up at the ceiling. “I…yeah, I know. But it’s just…when I left, okay? I really, honestly wanted to—I left because if I didn’t, I was going to seriously hurt somebody. Not just words. Like, put them in the hospital. Family.”
“You were upset, yeah, you told—”
“No, I didn’t!” Fernando snapped. His head came down so Sergio could see his eyes were wide like he’d been the one to get screamed at, but his hands were in fists and pressed so hard against his knees that Sergio could see the little white bits in the weave of his jeans. “I didn’t tell anyone. Believe me, I made sure…because if I had, I think I really would’ve just…lost it. So I had to go. So I wasn’t going so much because I was mad as because…as because I was scared as fuck about what I’d do.”
After a couple moments, Sergio decided that this was one of those times where a dumbass comment would be not only inappropriate, but a complete disaster. And since he couldn’t even afford inappropriate, he shut up.
“I mean, it’s like everybody just forgot what came before José running off to South America and Raúl and Cesc finally got their heads out of FC and did something. Jesus.” Fernando dragged his hands off his jeans, his nails pulling hard enough that the denim stayed stretched out for a couple seconds afterward. “He was a mess, and Raúl…okay, he tried but basically he let me take José because he didn’t have the time. And I’m annoyed about that, but I can understand that a lot better than—I mean, Raúl’s got Cesc and that other guy, Iker to deal with. And he hasn’t really known José for a long time, so I think…I think he was afraid he’d make it worse, fooling around with what he didn’t know. But everyone else, my God. They let me take José to Madrid and then they just washed their hands of him.”
“Hey, wait—”
“I know you called a couple times, and if you hadn’t had school, you would’ve come down to visit. Which seriously, Sergio, I really appreciated. Really. Because everyone else acted like it was a fucking sideshow, when they weren’t ignoring it.” From almost cringing, Fernando was so earnest, to bitterness so intense that Sergio found himself flinching back. And then Fernando didn’t stop. “That was how it was. Either they ignored him, because I was ‘taking care of him,’ or they fucking—I started telling him to just stay locked in my place, because all they wanted to do was ask about Ruud, about how they’d met, about Cristiano Ronaldo, and it was—disgusting. It really was.”
No, Sergio hadn’t known all that. He just sat there for a moment, taking it in, and then he was mad. At Fernando, actually, for telling him all that shit about their family, because…they weren’t bad people. They weren’t. At least, Sergio had never seen it, and he’d already known he’d missed a lot with the José saga, and…and he didn’t know what to think, to be honest.
Fernando exhaled loudly and pushed himself forward, till his forehead was almost tapping the floor. Then he slowly sat back up, rubbing at his back and grimacing like it hurt there. “And I did what I could, you know? I really…I’m not a psychologist and that was what José really needed. Actual help, but he wouldn’t go and anyway, that would’ve just made the gossiping worse. So I tried, I tried to get him to talk and I hung out with him as much as I could, but I had my job. And I should’ve just taken a break, I know that now, but…and he ups and runs off with Ruud. When the one thing I did get from José was that if we’d all been paying attention to him in the first place? He never would’ve wanted to hook up with that—him.”
“Okay. Okay, nobody really did…well, we all pretty much fucked up. But look, ‘Nando, people did realize that. That’s why they’re trying to make it up and be understanding about José now,” Sergio said slowly, pushing at the sides of his face. His head hurt.
“Oh, great, pity-party,” Fernando snorted.
Sergio jerked his head out of his hands before he could think about it, much less be smart about it. “Fuck you. They can figure out when they fucked up, at least. How about you? What, you think you were perfect?”
And Fernando just slumped down, his gaze dropping to the floor. “No. No, I think I fucked up the worst.”
* * *
Gaby changed gears without completely syncing the stick and the clutch, so for a moment the engine made a horrible grinding noise. “Really?”
“Yes! That fucking German asshole says not to do anything, doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t say he’s going to find Deco. Doesn’t say if he’s trying to get—that asshole!” Cristiano pushed his hands against the sides of the seat, forcing himself further back, stunned by the force of the thought he’d just had. “Oh, my God. Deco’s contract, the only way out of it for FC is if he’s dead! And Lehmann doesn’t like him!”
“But—but do you really think he’d go that far?” Gaby asked, downshifting again. He grimaced and glanced at Cristiano, but changed his mind about whatever he’d been about to say. Instead he hung a sharp left, and then somehow spun the car in the middle of the road so that it ended the spin snugly against the curb, perfectly fitted in the narrow space between a battered truck and an oversized SUV. “I mean…”
“He’s not going far at all! He’s just letting it happen, and he can put all the blame on Deco for associating with ‘bad people,’” Cristiano snapped. He started to get out of the car, but then realized he had absolutely no idea what neighborhood this was and sat back down. And kind of wished he could melt the windshield with his eyes, if his head was going to hurt that much anyway. “And me, for having yet another fucking scandal when it was all his fucking fault in the first place. He introduced those two, he told Deco to—”
Right about there, Cristiano remembered that Gaby could be a scandal in the making, too. At least, he still wasn’t sure what to make of the man, and God, this was inconvenient and awkward.
He stared at Gaby, trying to get his thoughts in order. So far he’d just let Gaby do everything while he waited for and then took Fàbregas’ call, and okay, Deco was maybe dying somewhere but goddamn it, Cristiano had to do better than that. Especially because Deco was in trouble, and Lehmann—wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. Was proving that yet again, he didn’t give a shit about Cristiano except for the money he could make, and he’d made it clear a while ago that he thought Deco might be getting in the way of that. And besides, he was just a control freak, plain and simple.
“So…what are you going to do?” Gaby finally asked, tone hesitant and soft. His fingers were drumming nervously on the wheel, though.
The last time, Gaby had called Lehmann and then Deco had forced that German dick back, Cristiano remembered. Yet another reason why Cristiano was reading Fàbregas’ message correctly, and also—well, so far Gaby was listening to him, and not babbling on about Lehmann. “What, you aren’t worried about FC now?”
Gaby stiffened, his eyes widening. He looked away, then down, and then, very slowly, back at Cristiano. His expression was a good bit firmer than Cristiano would’ve expected. “Cris. I’m sorry about last time. I…I got scared, and I’m used to working for a label, not for…for one person. But I’m trying not to mess up again. I really want to help, and—and not just because you pay me, but because I kind of thought we are—were friends. And I liked that. So whatever you want me to do, I’ll do.”
“Even help Deco? Who’s hated you since the moment I brought you in?” Cristiano asked.
The other man didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t hesitate like he was panicking either. The set of Gaby’s jaw firmed up as he took a long breath, then pushed the hair out of his eyes and looked directly at Cristiano. “I think that’s weird, but if that’s what you want to do, then I guess you’ve got a good reason for it.”
And Cristiano was almost convinced. He wanted to be—he wanted to take that and get moving already, get going because the more time they spent sitting around here, the less likely it was that Deco would be okay where…whenever they got to him. But he’d been through a hell of a lot by now, and he’d learned his lessons, and all right, he’d fucked up a bit at the beginning of this one, but one thing he really knew now was that it was never a good idea to just let things go on as they had been, just because they’d started that way. “So what, you’re really not mad at me now? I know you were. I know—”
“Yeah, I was, but I thought about it and you were right, and…and I showed up for work, didn’t I? If I was really mad at you, don’t you think I would’ve left?” But then Gaby winced and shook his head, as if he wished he could suck that sentence back into his mouth. He twisted in his seat a little before finally slumping back and staring at Cristiano again. “Well, no, you’d probably think I stayed to find some way to fuck you up and get revenge. And that’d be sensible, because of who you work with. But Cris, seriously…please trust me on this. I’m not interested in that kind of shit. If I had been, I would’ve stayed with MU.”
He didn’t think Cristiano would believe him, even though he was pleading so earnestly that his voice cracked a little at the end. So it looked genuine, but Cristiano still just…he couldn’t be sure, and for a moment he thought of Ruud and wanted to punch the man for doing this to him.
“I don’t really have a choice here,” was what Cristiano said instead. He shifted up in his seat and grabbed the door handle, then exhaled, long and slow. “Lehmann says no, that means I’ve got nobody from FC on my side. It’s just you and me. So okay, I’ll go with you. But I’m going to be watching to see if you mean it.”
“That’s more than…that’s all I’m asking for. Just a chance.” Gaby blinked a few times afterward, like he still didn’t believe it. He moved his arm and hit his hand on the wheel, then jerked it back as if he hadn’t realized they were sitting in a car. Grimacing, he pulled it down so he could rub it against his chest. “Uh…all right, so we’re down…I used to live here, back when I first moved here. Down the street, that bar? With the diamond sign? That’s where you can get a lot of news about things like…like shootings, if you know certain people.”
Cristiano arched an eyebrow. “Which I don’t, right?”
“No, but I do. But…” Gaby glanced around, looking nervous. For the first time since they’d got there, actually; when he’d been trying to convince Cristiano a moment ago, he’d looked depressed and desperate, but not nervous. “…well, it’s not a good idea for you to walk around here. There’s…I don’t know if you knew this, but there’s a little bit of a turf war going on. Lehmann and Giuly are on one side of it, and Kahn and some French guy, Domenech, are on the other. This area doesn’t…really belong to either side.”
“Well. Great.” Cristiano kicked the floor a little. “So fine, you have to go, but what am I supposed to do? Sit in the car? I…wait. You really want to show you mean it? Then drop me off at Monaco, and then come here and do your thing.”
It was a very close thing, but Gaby did not break his neck whipping about to look at Cristiano. “Cris. Wait. I don’t think—”
“But I do,” Cristiano snapped. He saw Gaby flinch and part of him twinged a bit, because once they had been friends. “Look—”
“Never mind, I’m sorry—”
“I’m not going off on some dumb fit,” Cristiano interrupted, but a little quieter. “I’m thinking about this. And thinking about Lehmann, and he’s going to be looking for me, because he doesn’t like me or trust me either. And he thinks I’m going to go crazy—well, fine, I’ll lose it. So drive me to Monaco, and then you better find Deco. Okay?”
For what seemed like a long time, Gaby stared at him, and it wasn’t till a distant thud made the other man flinch that Gaby stopped. He coughed once, glanced at Cristiano again, and then started up the engine. “Okay,” he said. He pulled sharply out into the road, then drove as if the empty sidewalks were filled with people watching their every move. “Cris? Can I…just…why do you want to help Deco? I’ll do it anyway, I’m just…wondering.”
“Well, he’s family. Distant cousin.” Cristiano slumped lower in his seat, jiggling his leg. He felt a little drained, but at the same time, he felt more jangled than ever, as if he’d downed fifteen espressos to get hyped for a performance and then gotten stuck waiting in an airport lounge. “And…and he’s still my agent. Mine. Not Lehmann’s—mine. Most of the time Deco works for himself, but when he doesn’t do that, he works for me. And that’s never true about anybody at FC.”
* * *
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t hear anything and thought you’d moved out to the hall or something,” Miguel apologized, stepping back out of the room.
Sergio tried to twist about, meaning to end up on his feet, but the sheet got in the way and instead he rolled onto his knees. Kind of hard, but at least the sheet helped there with cushioning the blow. “When I’m naked? And hey, come back and give me my pants, damn it. I saw you holding—Miguel!”
His boyfriend had a good arm, and Sergio didn’t necessarily mean that in a complimentary way as getting a faceful of khaki was pretty unpleasant. The fucking zipper snagged on some of his hair, and hey, it could’ve hit his eye and then that would’ve been bad, and…and by the time Sergio had clawed his pants down into his lap, he just sighed. Fucking annoying, all right, but way better than having to deal with a different person’s different way of retaliating every week. Sometimes he really wondered how he had taken all that variation.
Still grumbling, Sergio looked back up and caught Fernando looking weirdly at him, kind of smiling but not really, because the man’s eyes were all shuttered. Fernando twitched slightly, then shrugged and actually smiled. “Wow. You…you two are kind of cute.”
“Thanks,” Sergio muttered. He rolled one shoulder, then grabbed the other because he thought it was cramping, but then he figured out that he was just embarrassed. “We’re…we’ve been pretty exclusive for the past couple of weeks.”
“Oh. Oh. Damn.” Fernando’s eyebrows went up, but then he put up his hands as well and made placating gestures, so Sergio didn’t have to get mad at him again. “No, that’s really great. You look happy, and…”
His hands went down to pull at his shins again. He bounced a bit, his mouth twisting out of its smile but not quite into a grimace. When Miguel did something in the hall, Fernando didn’t look up, but instead just stared at the floor, brow furrowed.
“I kind of got that José’s happy now. Happier, anyway. He’s called and…well, he can’t lie. He’s happy.” Fernando worked his hands up and down his legs as he talked, voice halting and low. Not because he was really that upset—on the contrary, it seemed like he’d thought this over for a while—but because he didn’t like it and didn’t want to admit it. But he had to, because that was how Fernando was. “And he did do it on his own, pretty much, and I know I should be happy about it for his sake, but I just get pissed off. Because—and I know how this sounds—I didn’t make that happen, or have any part in it. I don’t want to be his parents, I don’t want to rule his life, okay? But I did think I knew him, and knew what made him happy, and it turns out I…don’t.”
“You kind of sound like you’re jealous,” Sergio blurted out. He followed up right away with a curse, then pressed his hands over his face. So much for trying to be smart. “’Nando, pretend I didn’t say that.”
Oddly enough, the other man let out a short laugh. “Thanks, Sergio. But…yeah. I’m jealous. And that’s the part I really have a problem with.”
“Because you two are that closely related?” Sergio dropped his hands like they were made of lead so he could stare at Fernando. And that wasn’t any more tactful, but he didn’t feel nearly as bad about it. “Holy shit.”
“I--no. I have Ollala. I love Olalla.” But there was something funny about the way that Fernando said that, and he knew it. He scrubbed at the side of his face, not quite looking at Sergio. “Okay, I said that wrong. I mean…it’s not all about sex, Sergio. I don’t want Van Nistelrooy to fuck off because I want to—” the discomfort in Fernando’s awkward gesture was genuine, thank God “—but I…I do love José. More than I kind of—we all took him for granted, including me. And it just…is hard to deal with that.”
Fernando’s teeth clicked after that last word, but he raised his brows so Sergio gave him a moment to go on. Except the other man didn’t, and so they were sitting there in strained silence and Sergio found himself hoping that Miguel would make another noise. Which was stupid and he may not be the genius of the family, but he at least had balls, he thought.
“Well, except you’re not really dealing with it at all. You just went off,” he said.
For a moment, Sergio thought Fernando was going to hit him. But then Fernando exhaled and slumped back, putting a hand to his forehead. “Yeah. I know. But it’s hard—”
“Just come home and say hi, ‘Nando. It’ll be okay. No, really, I’ll kick asses if I have to, and I think Raúl will help, if only because he doesn’t want any more fights. And José really would like to see you again,” Sergio interjected. He paused, then leaned forward and knocked his hand against Fernando’s knee so the other man would look at him. “Come home with me.”
“I…” Fernando was going to object, but Sergio turned on his pleading face. So Fernando instead looked like he was really confused and maybe a little nervous into the bargain—fine, Sergio wasn’t Cesc, but he wasn’t that bad at it—and finally glanced away. He pulled at his hair, screwing up his face, and then sighed. “If I don’t, you’re just going to keep bothering me, aren’t you?”
Sergio vigorously nodded.
“Okay. Okay…I have the weekend off and Olalla doesn’t anyway. I can go,” Fernando mumbled. He pressed his hand back over his face, then peeked through his fingers. “But put on some clothes, would you? I don’t love you that much.”
God, Fernando could be a stuffy prick sometimes. But Sergio whooped it up anyway, grinning like mad.
* * *
Yoann sat on his stool and nursed his macchiato and decided he was still very, very put out. So they had apologized and explained the mix-up, which really wasn’t that bad considering the current situation. But still, all they’d done since then was question him to death about a five-minute phone call that somebody else had arranged for him, where all he’d done was take the phone and give his itinerary. He wasn’t going to know who the hell he’d spoken to, though honestly, he wanted to know that more than any of them, probably. That bastard had caused him a lot of trouble, and when he got out, the first thing he would do was track him down and return the favor.
Except, Yoann sourly thought, he wasn’t allowed out. He kicked at the bar and down at the other end, the bartender looked up to glower at him, but seriously. They weren’t even letting him make any phone calls, much less hit the streets, to figure out who’d intercepted his call, and then they were mad that he couldn’t tell them? How else was he supposed to do it?
“No, no vodka. Still on,” said a thickly-accented but soft voice. When Yoann looked over, that doctor was talking to the bartender. He took a glass of orange juice, then glanced rather vaguely at Yoann as he took a seat on one of the stools, like he hadn’t just had his hand up Yoann’s ass less than an hour ago.
“Hi,” Yoann pointedly said. When the other man failed to look up, Yoann slid off his stool and pushed his macchiato down the bar, till he was standing so close that he couldn’t be ignored. Not that the doctor didn’t try, drinking steadily from his orange juice with barely a twitch towards Yoann. “How are you?”
The doctor finally looked up, eyes slightly narrowed. He was a little odd-looking. Not in features, which were about the expected level of handsome, but in the way his age seemed to vary depending on how close one was standing to him. Far away, he seemed younger than Yoann—the blond, probably—and medium-distance made him look old, with the dark shadows under his eyes and the slight tired sag of his skin. But up close, he was young again, definitely younger than Thuram—just very worn out.
“Enjoying that?” Yoann picked up his drink and used it to point to the doctor’s orange juice before he took a sip. He noticed that the doctor shifted slightly, so he let his tongue slip out to lick off the foam from the cup’s rim as he looked up again. “I don’t blame you for just doing your job. If you were worried about that.”
“Sheva,” the doctor said after a moment. He pushed his stool around so he could lean against the bar; he was almost lounging, actually. “My name. If you were wondering.”
Then that was it, Yoann thought, and smoothly moved up so he was standing between Sheva’s knees and the next stool over. It was a bit of a tight fit, so their legs grazed. “Yoann.”
“I know, I heard you yell.” Sheva drank more juice, his eyes flicking coolly up and down Yoann. “You know Italian, maybe?”
“Yeah, I do, actually,” Yoann replied, immediately switching to that language. He put his macchiato back on the bar, then braced himself against the side-rail with his elbow. “So you’re the house doctor?”
The other man smiled a little, and put his glass to his lips but didn’t drink. After a moment, he put that back on the bar and bent his head, laughing under his breath. “Okay. Listen. You understand this language, and I can actually speak it. So yes, I doctor here, and yes, I know what you all do for a living, and yes, I like my job. So fuck off. I’m not interested in politicking.”
Then again, maybe Yoann had been reading the man all wrong—oh, fine, he’d totally fucked it up. But Sheva was still draped over his stool, grinning lazily, not seeming to mind that they were suspiciously invading each other’s personal space.
He thought it was funny, Yoann suddenly realized. “You teasing son of a bitch.”
“Oh, whatever,” Sheva said. He pushed himself off the bar and flopped back in his seat, letting his limbs sprawl rather ungracefully. “I’m not trying to be mean. I get that you have old habits and this is how you’re used to working, but really, you don’t have to with me. I’m just not interested.”
“Well, excuse me, but I think you’re the mistaken one because I’m not a wh—” Yoann began heatedly, only to be cut off by a furious jingling.
He and Sheva both turned about to face the front, where another man had just walked in. At least ten years older than Sheva, judging by his pruny face and straw-like hair, and not a gangster but not that far off, judging by the downright extravagant quality of his suit. He scanned the place with a disgusted look on his face, which made perfect sense when he addressed the bartender, who’d come out to greet him, with a German accent. “Are you not open? The sign says you are.”
“No, it doesn’t,” the bartender said. He had been wiping down the bar, but interestingly enough, he’d come out with a heavy-looking peppermill in hand. “If you want to make a reservation—”
“Well, I was considering it. I’ve heard so much about this place, you see. But I don’t know. I’m a busy man, and it may be a while. Too long—I wouldn’t want to make a reservation and then show up to find that the place is no longer in business.” Sneering, the man leaned in and tapped the bartender’s peppermill in a way that wasn’t anything but challenging.
A small noise made Yoann glance over. More out of reflex than anything else, but he looked again when he realized that Sheva was moving. Trying to get off the stool and over behind the bar, in fact. And not to get anything to back up the bartender, because that was clear fear in Sheva’s eyes.
Yoann blinked, then dismissed that and looked forward again while sliding his hand back towards Sheva’s glass. The bartender was a tall, broad-shouldered man and probably had things in hand—Yoann didn’t even know what was going on—but just in case, a little broken glass couldn’t hurt. They’d thrown Yoann in the back of a van and let Sheva stick fingers up his ass, but they were still friends of friends.
“Oh, don’t bother,” said the newcomer. He took a step back, but just grinned when the bartender continued to flip open the phone he’d produced and dial security, most likely. “I’m just—”
“Gloating like the sick bastard you are?” Well, this man Yoann did recognize. Hard not to know what Cristiano looked like, with his latest hit single and his crazy tabloid escapades. “Don’t you have some nightclub opening to get caught macking on your girlfriend at, Kahn?”
That not only ruffled Kahn, but set him literally back on his heels as Cristiano brushed right past him and he attempted to avoid contact. Unfortunately Cristiano walked in front of him right then so Yoann couldn’t see his expression, but it must’ve been something. His voice alone was boiling over with spite. “Ronaldo. Fancy seeing you here. What, Lehmann can’t keep the scum coming enough so you’ve got to go trawling?”
“Trawling? I don’t know anything about that. I’ve been in the studio like a good boy, working my ass off. Which is more than I can say for certain of your ponies,” Cristiano sneered. The moment he had the space, he whirled on Kahn—still blocking the other man’s expression, damn it. “Headbutting a paparazzi, wasn’t it? And now I find you down here…doing what? It’s a little odd place for you to be, isn’t it? Big clean executive that you are?”
“I wouldn’t talk if I was you,” Kahn finally said. He was still seething, but he was losing and he knew it. He took another step, then turned when Yoann had almost seen his face. “Give my regards to your agent…what’s his name, Deco?”
Cristiano stiffened, and both the bartender and Sheva fumbled or stumbled or whatever so they knocked up against things. But by then Kahn had strode out of the room, and so they all could only stare at the empty space where he’d been.
Then Cristiano whirled around. He glanced about, paused for a moment on Yoann and then, shaking his head, went straight for Sheva. Of course the bar was in the way, and Cristiano made his opinion on that clear when he slammed his hands down on it so hard that the glasses rattled. “You! Where’s Deco? I know something’s wrong, I was on the fucking phone, so don’t tell me—” he snarled in English.
“I fucking doctor, I know nothing. I never know nothing,” Sheva retorted in broken English. It was a strange tone he used, half-snappish and half-pleading, and though he was clearly angry, his eyes were also darting about as if seeking an escape route.
“Yeah, whatever, I’ve seen you talking with Deco and with Giuly, and I know—”
“You were on the phone? With who?” the bartender interrupted, grabbing Cristiano by the arm. His eyebrows went up as Cristiano immediately flung him off, but he stood his ground. “You heard what happened?”
Cristiano paused, breathing a little heavily. His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I fucking heard it, anybody could’ve heard that, but the call cut off. And I wouldn’t be here if I knew where they were, and I want to know. Deco’s my agent, I think I get to know if my agent gets shot dead because of you assholes.”
He’d obviously been going for a grand effect, but even he looked surprised when the bartender suddenly whitened and swayed, really looking like he was going to pass out. The man collected himself a bare moment later, then lunged for Cristiano’s arm again, but still. That was something, for a man of enterprise.
“We need your phone records. We can track—” As the bartender talked, he dragged Cristiano off towards the back. After that first harsh outburst, his voice dropped a lot and Yoann could only make out Cristiano’s end, but then even Cristiano shut up and just listened, staring hard as the bartender tried to convince him of something. In the end, he seemed to buy it and they disappeared through a door.
“Shit.” When Yoann looked back, Sheva had a bottle of vodka up and an empty shotglass in his hand. Which was shaking so badly that he splashed vodka onto the bar when he tried to pour it. His face screwed up, and then he abruptly slammed the bottle back down and shoved himself away from it. “Shit. Oh, what are you looking at now? You want to know what that was? That was me finding out my boss is not at risk—he’s fucked, and I—whatever. Fine, I’m nothing but a doctor, I can’t fight, I need a boss. That’s how I am. I stopped trying to pretend otherwise a long time ago.”
Yoann blinked a few times, not understanding that at all. He glanced at the door in the back, then looked again as several men passed by it on the other side, talking in loud, urgent tones. Then he looked at Sheva again—the man reached for the bottle, then yanked back his hand. Then Sheva snarled, the bitter hopeless sound of a cornered animal, and jerked himself to the side. He banged up the hinged section of the bar and stormed out, heading for that back door.
“Fuck it,” he muttered. He glanced at Yoann, who had hurriedly followed, and then flicked out his hand in a sharp, dismissive gesture. “Go find somebody else to tail, puppy. I’ve got scalpels to wash.”
“Fine,” Yoann said shortly, and detoured the moment he spotted somebody he knew. “Philippe! Philippe, I just heard—I’ve got nothing to do, let me help.”
* * *
Funnily enough, Deco had never gotten shot before, though that seemed like more or less a rite of passage for the music industry these days. And he’d worked in Brazil, too.
Now that he’d had the experience, he thought, he really wished he hadn’t.
“How are you feeling?” came a whisper in his ear. It was followed by several clicks and rasps, and then a very large submachine gun rising over Deco’s face. The gun hovered above him for a moment, then was replaced with Ludo’s head. For once the other man wasn’t smiling. “Deco?”
Who? Deco actually thought. He absently shifted and then the world blacked out on him, and when it came back he was gasping for breath and clutching at his wet shoulder, terrified till he realize that the odd ragged edges he was feeling belonged to strips of cloth and not his actual flesh. Not that the gunshot would didn’t feel like it deserved to have that sort of damage. “Goddamn you.”
Ludo blew out a breath of relief, but still didn’t smile. Then he ducked down again as some small noise filtered to them…where were they, anyway? This was not the hotel room they’d rented, but they couldn’t have gone that far either; Ludovic was surprisingly strong for his size, but Deco had been unconscious and he knew how unwieldy a limp human body could be.
It was dark and cramped, wherever it was. Deco’s feet were jammed up against one wall, and—a bullet ripped through the other wall, and Deco just glimpsed the brilliance of the light streaming through the hole before Ludo’s weight came down on him, knocking him out again.
When he woke again, it couldn’t have been that much later, since they were in the same place with the only difference being two more bulletholes in the…door. That was the door. There was enough light coming through now to see that, and then also that Ludo had blood all over his front and what looked like part of his shirt wrapped around his left arm. But he was moving all right, so it couldn’t have been serious.
“We’ve got a little problem,” he whispered when he saw Deco was awake. He and Deco were both stuffed as far into the side as they could go, down beneath some pipes which were better than no shield at all, Deco supposed. “We’re surrounded. I don’t suppose you know how they knew?”
“Why? Aren’t we—stuck?” Deco tried to talk as softly as he could, but somehow he still sounded terribly loud and harsh.
Ludo snickered. His eyes were glittering and not anything like amused, and when he twisted around to lift his gun into view, he moved with the smooth, spare motions of a well-trained killing machine. “Oh, for now. But later, later I’m going to have a lot of tidying-up to do.”
You fucking crazy shit, now is when I’m fucking bleeding to death, was what came to Deco’s lips. And he could’ve said it too, and the fact that he didn’t wasn’t down to him not having the strength. He was angry and in pain and he could’ve said it. But he didn’t.
There was another gunshot outside, so the smile dropped off Ludo’s face. His lips were moving, and after a moment, Deco realized that the man was counting. And Deco went cold with disbelief, because he didn’t know how many were out there but it had to be more than Ludo could take on by himself, and even if he could, he was just going to barge out there and leave Deco. Without even thinking that Deco might…God knew what…before he got back or could get back, and goddamn it, Ludo was a thoughtless--
Deco wrenched himself about, somehow. He threw out his arm, his vision going fuzzy as the white-hot pain shot up the limb, and as he was passing out again he just felt the edge of Ludo’s arm.
“…Boss! Boss!” somebody shouted.
Ludo had been jerking away from Deco, but he stopped then. “Lilian? Lilian! Lil—Anderson, it’s…”
And right there was when Deco completely lost consciousness, and this time, he hoped, he’d wake up when it was all fucking over, one way or the other. He was so tired of this, of giving in and giving in and really, he just wanted to know where rock-bottom was. That was all.
* * *
“Ah, no, they’re all out. Giuly is mobile, Deco is unconscious,” Henrik murmured. Then he frowned, shifting his rifle over a few millimeters. “Hmm. Heinze is present.”
The earphone crackled a little as Freddie consulted with somebody. *That explains where he got off to. Cristiano’s been at Monaco for hours now, being very loud and obnoxious so we all thought he was only working through them. You sure Deco’s alive?*
“They’re fussing enough over him for him to be. Either that or Ludo’s obsession with the man is a little more disturbing than I really want to think about after lunch.” Though just as Henrik spoke, Deco moved slightly and his eyes fluttered open, so thankfully that confirmed Henrik’s first guess. “Is Heinze being here a problem?”
*No. No, no, no, no shooting him.* Then Freddie took a deep breath. Slurped something, hopefully his ever-present cappuccino, and started again in a calmer tone. *No, that’s good, actually. That means we don’t have to do anything tricky to reassure Cristiano.*
Henrik frowned. “Doesn’t he think we’re all calculating, heartless bastards for not helping him?”
*Yeah, and that’s not even our goddamn fault. It was Thuram who insisted that we stay off this…and speaking of, they haven’t noticed you yet, have they?*
“No,” Henrik said after a moment. He glanced at the corpse beside him, then decided he wouldn’t be annoyed at Freddie asking him that. Given the number of Domenech’s men he’d had to kill to keep Giuly safe till Thuram showed up, it was probably a fair concern. Thuram had a good head on his shoulders and Henrik would have to work all night to make sure that Lilian didn’t figure it out after the fact, once he’d gotten his boss to safety. “No, I’m fine. But I have some clean-up, so I’ll be staying maybe forty-five minutes after I’m sure that they’re gone. Is that okay?”
More conferring, and when Freddie came back, he sounded depressed. *It’s fine. Robin can tail them from here. But…this means you’re not coming home tonight. Goddamn it. Yet another reason to hate Giuly.*
“But I get tomorrow off,” Henrik soothed. He shifted on his elbows, then laughed a little as he heard a poppy ringtone come over the line. “You know, Freddie, life never seems to change that much. This is really just my old job, only with a soundtrack.”
* * *
The next time Deco woke up, everything was very white and bright, and he wondered for a moment. But then Cristiano’s face bobbed into view over him, and Deco totally dismissed that idea. Instead he tried to move and he hurt again, only now the pain seemed to have spread all over his body. It’d thinned a little as well, so it was more of an ache in the bones, the echoes going on far longer than the actual hurt.
Cristiano pursed his lips a couple times, his brows twitching as he tried to sort out what he was feeling. Oddly enough, that seemed to include some relief. “There’s this button. You have to press it, the nurse says.”
Oh, thank God. Deco fumbled with his right hand and grazed something that gave, then jabbed his finger hard at it. He felt an odd pang in his arm, and then, very slowly, a lessening of the pain on that side. “So…what…called…”
“Yeah, but Lehmann said not to do anything,” Cristiano snorted, glancing away. Then he looked back at Deco, frowning in confusion. “What? My hair? There’s something in my hair?”
It took him forever to understand a simple gesture, but finally he went and got Deco…a nurse. Who sat Deco up and gave him some ice chips while telling him that he had to stay in the hospital another week, which was going to make supervising the start of Cristiano’s Portugal tour a blast. After Deco pressed the button for more pain medication, he realized that that throbbing between his temples was just his usual migraine.
When the nurse went out, she let the door swing open enough for Deco to glimpse Sébastien standing in the hall. Cristiano saw too and shrugged, retaking his spot leaning against Deco’s bed. “You’ve got a bodyguard. I guess that’s good since Lehmann’s not doing anything about that, either. And he won’t let me do anything.”
“Why would you?” Deco rasped. He maneuvered a fresh ice chip to his mouth, then jammed it between his teeth and his cheek so he could talk. A little. His throat was so dry that every time he swallowed, he was surprised that it didn’t collapse in on itself.
“Hey, I sent Gaby after you. He found you before your boyfriend’s men did,” Cristiano said, striking a nonchalant pose. His peek at Deco ruined its effect, if it was actually supposed to have any; occasionally it seemed as if Cristiano had just done so many photoshoots that model poses had become his default positions. “Helped them out, actually. Don’t look so surprised—you’re my agent. I don’t like you, but you’re mine and if Lehmann thinks I’m just going to sit around while he lets you get fucked over so he can replace you with a better puppet, then he’s a moron.”
And again, the thrown-back shoulders and the slightly jutting jaw were far too stagy to be really that determined, but somehow Deco thought Cristiano really was that serious. At the very least, he’d convinced himself of what he was saying—it of course was still out whether or not he really knew what he was saying, but he certainly believed that he did. And believed in it.
Deco needed more painkillers, but instead he bit down on his ice chip. It’d melted to a sliver, so the crunch wasn’t as hard as he would’ve liked, but it would do. “Possessive.”
“Well, it’s good for business, or else the lawyers wouldn’t fuss so much about exclusive rights.” Cristiano casually flipped a hand. The smugness he was wearing now did match his overdone posturing. “So how are you feeling? You up to Portugal, or—”
“You’re not delaying that. If anything, you should be heading out of the country right away. That tour’s supposed to be making up for the last time you crossed Lehmann, and here you are, doing it again,” Deco snapped. On the last word, his throat gave out and he had to pop another chip into his mouth, but he only sucked at it for just enough moisture to continue. “Cristiano, for the love of God. You have no idea what you’re doing. Would you just accept it and move on? And no, you’re not ‘learning.’ You can’t learn if you don’t think you’ve got nothing to learn, and—no. You fucking listen, you selfish little prick. And you are—selfish. You’re selfish and blind, and that’s why you lost Ruud and that’s why you’re fucking up with me.”
Cristiano’s hands had shot down to grip the railing, but he hadn’t actually interrupted. So he had improved, actually.
Not that Deco was any more inclined to spare him, or frankly, do anything but give him the verbal slapping he’d had coming for months now. A sense of professional responsibility had restrained Deco from doing this before, but now—but now, to be honest, Deco just didn’t give a shit. “This is where you and Lehmann, you and…and Ruud, for that matter, you don’t get it like they do. You want to act like somebody is a thing and not a person, you can do that. But not when you still care about what they think about you. But you, you want me to be grateful to you. My God. For what, sending your assistant to show Thuram around, at the most? I…I knew what I was doing, and whatever happened would’ve been what I deserved. You know absolutely nothing about what you’re doing, but you want it all anyway.”
The railing creaked and groaned as Cristiano tried to knead it. “Ruud didn’t treat me like a thing,” he finally gritted out.
That was—that was not what Deco would’ve thought the man would say, though it made sense when he thought about it. He paused to track back to his original line of thought, then shrugged. “No, but he wanted to. That was his problem, Cristiano. He loved you but his instincts kept telling him to act like he didn’t love you, but like you were his. And then you made it worse, because you wanted him to be yours but you want it like in romance movies, where the two lovers only belong to each other. Well, it doesn’t work like that. And you didn’t even want that. You want him to belong to you, you want you to belong to yourself. Sorry, but you can’t have everything. Because you know what, you don’t think you can have things. You think you can have people.”
“You know what, I should’ve left you to die,” Cristiano spat out, rearing back. He jerked his hands off the bed, making it rattle so Deco winced, and then glared at Deco, his shoulders heaving as he tried to control his breath. And failed, and finally he just spun about and stomped out, still breathing like Deco had punched him in the gut.
Well, Deco wished. He felt his mouth twist wryly as he had that thought, and then felt it twist more as a sharp cough took him by surprise. After hastily stuffing another ice chip in his mouth, he leaned back as best he could and stared at the far wall. His good mood was already disappearing.
“You know what, I quit,” he mumbled.
The real funny thing about it, he thought, was that Cristiano would be better off if he really just was himself. Because the thing about people who really, truly considered other people things…was that it was much easier for them to let go of said things. People.
* * *
“I got it,” José called over his shoulder. As he hurried through the foyer and to the front door, he glimpsed Ruud sitting back down on the couch in the living room. Good, because José hadn’t even asked what tonight was like, after seeing the mountain of paperwork that Ruud had pulled out of his suitcase. He’d just went ahead and started on dinner, because he didn’t have that much to do, and hopefully this wouldn’t take too long…
He should’ve checked the security cam first, but José was in such a rush to get back to his saucepans that he totally forgot till the door was swinging open. Then he grabbed its edge, but after a moment he realized shutting it and checking would be completely ridiculous. And anyway, Ruud hadn’t said anything about any trouble maybe coming home from work, and he usually did. So José pulled the door open, and Fernando was standing there.
Hair flattened on one side, like it inevitably was after a long journey. Clothes wrinkled, one hand nervously brushing at that while the other gripped the strap of his duffel so tightly that his knuckles seemed ready to burst through the skin. He glanced up and met José’s eyes for a moment, then looked behind José. Then jerked his gaze right back, and a lot of things flickered across his face but the last emotion, and the one that counted, was that he was glad.
“Hey, José—” Fernando awkwardly started.
José just spread his arms and fell on the other man, hugging tight, burying his face in Fernando’s chest. He was so ridiculously happy—and then he realized Fernando was all stiff and he started to pull back, but that was when the other man’s arms went around him and he relaxed, grinning so hard that his face hurt. Fernando let out a strained little chuckle, then a whoosh of a breath that ruffled José’s hair. Then he pressed his face against José’s temple—something warmish touched there—Fernando pecked at a spot a little lower down as well, and then settled back a bit, just holding up José and sighing.
“Missed you,” José managed to get out.
“Yeah. Yeah, I—I missed you too.” Fernando coughed. “I…José, I’m really sorry I haven’t been talking.”
“What?” José smushed up his head till he could see Fernando’s face, then blinked hard. “Oh…oh, you know, I don’t care. I’m just glad you’re back.”
“Told you,” muttered somebody, and when José looked, Sergio had the biggest shit-eating grin ever on his face. “Miguel’s parking the car.”
Well, he had a right to look like that, José decided. After untangling himself from Fernando, José couldn’t help a laugh himself as he fell on Sergio and hugged him hard, too. “Wow. You really did it.”
“Yeah, I told…oh, hey, Ruud,” Sergio said, expression going from mega-watt brilliant to shuttered in about two seconds. He let go of José, then gave José a weird pat on the shoulder as José turned.
“Hello.” Ruud looked over the three of them, wearing that blankly polite expression he resorted to when he was still trying to figure out what was going on. He finally settled on José, who gave him a hesitant smile. While Ruud didn’t quite smile back, the set of his shoulders slackened and his expression turned guardedly welcoming. “I…I’m sorry, I wasn’t really expecting company but if you want to invite them all in, I can just move to the study.”
José grinned a thanks, but then sobered again as he saw Fernando’s arched-brow look. He lowered the hand he’d been lifting. “Um, well, do you guys want to? I was making dinner anyway…but you had a really long trip, I’m guessing?”
“Yes, but I’m actually really hungry from that. I’d love to come in, since it’s all right with you.” Fernando addressed the first part of that to José, relaxed and pleasant, and the second part to Ruud. And he was a good bit stiffer about it, but Ruud nodded and Fernando began to pull off his muddy shoes, and so José thought it was fine.
Anyway, he just was too happy to really want to think about that now. He’d have to—later, later. Right now he was going to enjoy having Fernando back.
***