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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Van Persie/Lehmann, Deco/Giuly, Casillas/Raúl/Fàbregas, J. A. Reyes/Van Nistelrooy
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 Metallica.
Summary: It’s the crises that really bring out people’s true personalities.
***
It was so good that Jens’ ears were ringing. He pressed his face harder against Robin’s throat, scraping at the sweat there with his teeth, and Robin hissed, arching so Jens’ prick slid into him up to the balls. And even then Robin pushed with his hips and pulled with the legs he had wrapped around Jens’ waist, as if trying to take in even more. “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh—”
The ringing changed, and for one second the fact that sex sounded like a Cristiano Ronaldo ballad threw Jens. Then he realized that that was his phone, and that ringtone was attached to Deco, Cristiano and Heinze, and…and damn it, he was going to have to answer that and it wasn’t going to be good news.
Jens peeled his hand off Robin’s waist, then reached for the side-table. The movement made him lift his head so he ended up seeing Robin’s wild-eyed, incredulous expression a second before the other man furiously jerked down on Jens with his legs. “What? Oh, no—you are not--”
“Hello?” Jens said to his phone, suppressing a sigh.
Robin’s legs yanked at him, making him drop onto one elbow. Then Robin let his head fall back against the pillows, rolling his eyes; if Robin’s hands hadn’t been firmly tied to the headboard, Jens was certain the other man would’ve also been letting his arms flop out to either side in sheer disbelief. “Oh, my God,” Robin groaned.
*…are you in the middle of something?* Heinze. Trying and failing to sound deferential, though it wasn’t clear whether the shakiness of his voice was due to ill-timed amusement or to something in a more hysterical line. *I’m sorry, but there’s a problem.*
“I’d hope there’s a problem, otherwise I’d be extremely curious about why you’re calling me after midnight on a weekend when I’m not expecting anything from you,” Jens acidly said. He put his head down on Robin’s chest, then reached around and irritably shoved at Robin’s thigh when the other man tightened his legs around Jens again. “What. Is it.”
Heinze took a few deep breaths, which meant that it was a grand fuck-up this time. *It’s Cristiano. He’s had…an altercation. With one of Kahn’s singers, and…and there may have been witnesses. And Kahn may already be—*
“Kahn’s heard about it?” Then Robin flexed around him, slow but tight, and for a moment Jens…he shook his head, then reached up to rub at his temple. “Get to my office and stay put till I get there. Don’t talk to anyone and keep Cristiano out of sight. Do whatever you need to for that. Got it?”
Jens hung up before he heard Heinze’s answer, since that didn’t actually matter: if the man wanted to live to see dawn, and he seemed to put a reasonable value on his life, he could only give one answer anyway. Then Jens began to slip his phone into his—only to remember he was naked, and therefore didn’t have pockets, and damn it, he wanted to kill somebody already.
He started to rise, but was abruptly stopped. After a long, blinking moment, Jens looked down at Robin. Who jerked up his already jutting chin and clamped his legs down harder around Jens. “Oh, no. Not again. I am thisclose--”
Sighing, Jens dropped the phone to the side, grabbed Robin’s hips, and slammed himself into the other man. He let himself tip with the movement so his teeth drove into Robin’s shoulder, then bit down on that as he pumped himself forward again. And again, and again, thinking about how much he wanted to just take a handful of Kahn’s scarecrow hair and use it to bang that over-the-hill asshole’s head against the--wall--
Things went white for a while, though as soon as Jens got hold of himself again, he was trying to blink that away, swearing at the new delay. He fumbled around till his hands found the mattress, then twisted himself till the spasming flesh around his cock was no longer there. Then he carefully rotated until he was facing where the side of the bed should have been.
Right about then his vision began clearing up. So did his hearing, so slowly the sound of Robin’s rasping whimpers made it into his consciousness, and then into his…with another sigh, Jens turned back to untie the other man. Then he got up and headed for the bathroom.
When he came out, he was clean, had on an aftershave that would kill the sex-smell without also killing every bird for meters around, and was already thinking about the possible scenarios as he headed for his closet. He vaguely registered the dark form flopping about on the bed, but didn’t pay it any attention till Robin crumpled onto the floor in a flailing of limbs and multilingual swears.
Jens stopped with one trouser-leg on, but finished pulling on his trousers once he saw that Robin’s face was wrinkled in annoyance and not pain. “Can you walk?”
Robin snorted, then let out a gaspy laugh as he slowly levered himself onto his hands and knees. “You know, I don’t know what’s scarier—you being able to keep an erection no matter what you’re being told on the phone…or…” he stopped, looked at Jens, and then rolled his eyes “…yes, I can walk. Not if I’m wearing anything but sweats, though.”
A calculation including various people’s work-habits, the late time and several other factors automatically started in Jens’ head, but he irritably cut that off. His head was still trying to work out the Kahn situation and he wasn’t yet recovered enough to multitask that much. “Fine. Just…stay in my office. Senderos should still be up and he can do the footwork, if there’s any.”
“Okay.” For some reason, Robin was crawling across the floor. Fairly fluidly, so he probably was capable of standing now, but instead he was sliding on his palms, his head tipped up so even in the dark, Jens could make out the flush in his cheeks and the glitter in his eyes.
He paused when he reached Jens, his hands on the tops of Jens’ feet. Then he adjusted his position, sitting up while his fingers slipped up Jens’ shins, their tips curling invitingly along the back of Jens’ calves. Robin pulled the rest of himself up that way, never lifting his hands from Jens’ body, till they were standing so close that all Jens could smell was the sweat on the other man. Jens cursed, gave up on his tie, and grabbed Robin’s head.
The kiss out of his system, he pushed the other man back and rubbed at his mouth, hoping Robin hadn’t left any permanent teethmarks there this time. “No. Not till Kahn’s dealt with.”
For a moment, Robin tried pouting. Then he decided to be sensible and just twisted around to start yanking his clothes out of the closet. “I’d hate that asshole even if I didn’t know what he’s done to you. He’s interrupted sex more than any other fucking nuisance…oh, and I think you look better without the tie.”
“Because you want it on you,” Jens snorted. He threw on a suit-jacket.
Robin went still, his sweats half-pulled over the slightly bruise-mottled globes of his ass. Then he grinned over his shoulder. “Well, yeah.”
“Do you know what you do to my wardrobe budget?” Shaking his head, Jens rummaged about for some socks. “Go get your things. You’ve got five minutes to meet me at the car.”
* * *
“Why my ties?” Deco hissed through gritted teeth. He tried to pull up his knees so he had somewhere to rest his bound wrists, but his legs were still shaking too much to obey him. Of course, it didn’t really help that Ludo was pushing the head of one of his young gunmen between Deco’s thighs, urging him to lick up the come.
Ludo stopped charming whoever was on the other end of the line and slanted an amused look at Deco. “Because they’re so much better than mine, and you deserve the best. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you where you buy those—clearly my tailor’s been letting me down.”
The head wedged up against Deco’s cock paused. Then…Gaël?...craned around to look shamefacedly up at Ludo. “I’m so sorry, if I’d known—”
“Oh, no, no, no, that wasn’t meant as a critique of you,” Ludo purred. He chucked Gaël under the chin, then rethreaded his fingers in the other man’s hair; Gaël’s eyes half-closed in a blissful expression and he nuzzled at Ludo’s wrist. Ludo settled back against the headboard, looking quite pleased with himself. “Someone can cut you loose if you need that, Anderson. Just ask.”
Which guaranteed that Deco wasn’t going to ask. He’d finally managed to suppress the twitch that came every time Ludo used the name on his birth certificate, but he had a feeling Ludo still knew it bothered him. The man certainly kept on using it, and always in that damnably familiar tone of voice.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Deco muttered. He proved the point by yanking the last loop free, letting the tie fall from his wrists into a limp, wet puddle on the back of Gaël’s head, but of course Ludo was already back to his phone conversation.
Sometimes Deco truly disliked himself for enjoying the sex so much. And the push-pull of dominance that preceded that, and the occasional odd but genuine displays of affection and the bizarre sense of humor Ludo had. He knew he wasn’t here now so much for the way Ludo offered a potential counterweight to Lehmann’s and Cristiano’s influence as for what rightly should’ve been mere side-benefits—and he knew that someday, he was going to get in serious trouble for that. The kind of trouble he honestly thought he’d learned to steer clear of, but sometimes…it was just damn obvious he had a need and that need went too deep to root out.
“…not me. I’m already on the phone,” Ludo said, sounding confused.
Deco looked up, frowning. Then he rolled his eyes and started pulling up the wrinkled sheets, using one hand to hold the cloth away from the mattress while he swept the other hand under it. After a moment he realized his search would be easier if he didn’t have a tongue tickling his balls and pushed away Gaël. “No, that’s mine.”
“I thought you had today off.” Ludo was apparently done with his other conversation, since he snapped his phone shut without so much as a word to the person on the other end. Then he shifted so Gaël was lying across his legs, his hands absently drifting over the other man’s chest and shoulders. “I told the chef to make up a special meal, since you can actually stay long enough to eat.”
“Well, maybe—” And it’d forever remain a mystery whether Deco would’ve said maybe I still can or maybe not as right then, his fingers grazed his cell. He whipped it up to his ear without checking to see who it was. The hour made it a very small list of potential callers, after all. “Hello?”
*…Deco?* The line was a little crackly, so the voice sounded faint and shaky. *It’s Cristiano.*
But even with static, Cristiano should’ve come through stronger than that. In his puzzlement, Deco glanced at Ludo, who raised his eyebrows; giving himself a mental shake, Deco turned away and slid towards the other side of the bed, where he vaguely remembered his clothes were. “What is it? Why are you calling at—”
*I’m at Premier. I was just in because—because I heard one of the new signings was getting a tryout and I heard they were good. I wanted to see if they’d work for a duet idea I had.* All of a sudden, Cristiano’s voice firmed up and rose in volume, regaining its usual brazen tone. *That’s all I was doing. I was just leaving, only I needed to take a piss first and the line to the toilet was too long—*
Tryouts…one of the South Americans. Deco nearly dropped his face into his hand before he remembered Ludo and Gaël were still watching. Of course Cristiano had been there because he just wanted to pursue a musical idea, and it had nothing to do with the fact that it was Ruud’s signing and he was guaranteed to also be there. Honestly, as estranged as Deco and Cristiano were now, Deco still genuinely wished Cristiano would get over the man. It’d make Cristiano a better opponent.
*--I didn’t start it. He was messing with Aguero, and I thought I saw one of his—*
This was going to be bad, Deco suddenly realized. With Cristiano shaken up enough to call him, when the other man knew what it’d look like to Deco…“It’s a work emergency. I’ve got to go,” Deco said to Ludo. He grabbed up his clothes, then retreated to the bathroom and jammed the door before he could hear a reply. “Wait, who was messing with who? What happened? Tell me in order.”
*Ribéry, okay? It was that snotty French signing of Kahn’s,* Cristiano snapped. His voice echoed slightly. *He’d caught Aguero coming out the backdoor and was picking some fight, something about something Aguero had said to some girl who’d come in with Ribéry, and they started pushing at each other. And one of Ribéry’s fucking hangers-on pulled a knife, and I thought it’d be bad to have a murder right behind Premier so I knocked him over. Only—only he ran into Ribéry, and Ribéry fell and—I didn’t even know the trashcan was there, okay? I didn’t!*
Deco winced at the shrill turn Cristiano’s voice had taken, then resumed dressing himself. He heard muffled voices in the next room, but put that aside for the moment. “Cristiano. You stopped going in order. Tell me what happened or I can’t do anything.”
*You’d do something? But you hate me. Why would you do anything?* The aggression was still there, but only as a sideshow to the clear hysteria that was dominating Cristiano’s voice. The other man hit or kicked something, then cursed. *Why the hell am I calling you?*
He sounded like when Deco had first met him, and told him to stay away from Ruud. Well, maybe there was a little more control, but it still was the same…fear. “I’m not sure what your motives are, but my motives are that no matter what my personal feelings are, I am your agent. I represent your interests and I do my damnedest to advance them in ways that I think will be beneficial to you. Which don’t include landing you in jail.”
*But you don’t like me,* Cristiano repeated, softer and shakier.
“No, not really.” Deco leaned against the sink, pinning his trousers against his hip so he could do up his fly one-handed. “But it’s still my job to look after you, and I care about my job. I like my job. Now…what happened to Ribéry—no, actually, where are you right now?”
Long pause. *I’m in my car. In FC’s parking garage.*
“And where’s Ribéry?” Deco asked. He strained to modulate his voice to as gentle as possible.
*He’s with me. In the backseat. He’s…he’s still breathing. We tried not to move him too much. But he hasn’t woken up or anything.* A loud, wheezing breath came over the line. *That fucking Argentine ran off. I have no idea where he is, but I hope it’s somewhere awful.*
That was typical Cristiano, but Deco didn’t bother being relieved or even snorting a little at the other man’s waste of vindictiveness. He went still as the voices outside abruptly stopped, then hurriedly stuffed his shirt-tails into his waistband and jammed his feet into his shoes. “Wait, ‘we’? Where’s Heinze?”
Very long pause. Long enough for Cristiano to make Deco suffer through several uneven huffs of breath. *I think he’s calling Lehmann,* Cristiano finally said. His voice was mostly flat, but it curled a little at the end of each word, and either anger or bitterness could’ve done that. *He kept saying that this was too big to handle by our—he was panicking more than me. He kept talking about the boss, the boss--I’m his boss, and he wasn’t listening. He said he was going off to make sure nobody was in so we could get Ribéry in without anyone seeing, and not to worry, but—*
“If Lehmann gets there first, he’ll use this as a reason to put you under wraps again. He already thinks you’re irresponsible and the way you’ve been threatening him lately won’t help,” Deco replied. He checked himself in the mirror, then opened the door.
Gaël was gone—not even the man’s socks were left—but Ludo was still on the bed. Fully dressed and looking ready to waltz into a boardroom, and he’d had the same time and less resources than Deco. That was the other thing, Deco thought. Sometimes Ludo made him feel downright incompetent.
“Really big emergency?” Ludo casually asked. He picked up something from behind him, then pulled it around so Deco glimpsed the gleaming black pistol in the shoulder-holster. Then he began strapping on the holster without even taking off his suit-jacket, hands moving with the ease of long practice. “Shame.”
“I do have a job.” In his ear Cristiano had broken into a flurry of whispers, demanding to know who Deco was talking to and why hadn’t Deco told him there were other people around, but Deco ignored all that. He tugged at his collar as he went towards the door.
His hand had just touched the knob. Then his phone was clattering off his foot and his back was aching from the slam into the door it’d taken, his breath was caught in his throat and his cock was suddenly hardening again. Deco hissed slowly through his teeth, trying not to flex his wrists against Ludo’s grip. Considering the height he had on the other man, he was surprisingly helpless whenever Ludo chose to slip off the charm for something rougher.
“I know you do,” Ludo murmured, pressing up against Deco. His chin dug into Deco’s chest, just above the last done-up shirt-button. He smiled, his lips lifting away from his teeth to show a thin white line. “That’s how I know you’re not around just to freeload. I appreciate that. I appreciate it a lot, Deco.”
Then Ludo pulled on Deco’s wrists. It was barely a tug, but Deco found himself leaning down anyway, like he was a puppet and Ludo had his strings, and then he was moaning weak-kneed at the ferociousness with which Ludo took his mouth.
Sometimes it was worth even the humiliation, Deco acknowledged.
And then he was free and Ludo was sliding out the door, waving a hand in farewell as he went. “Come back when you’re done, yes? The chef’s still going to be here, and you’re always hungry after you’ve done your work.”
After a moment, Deco swore, harsh and low. Then he sighed and bent down to retrieve his phone.
*--wrong with you! I’m having a fucking disaster here, and—*
“And it’ll be fine if I can get there before Jens does, all right? Don’t argue about that either, unless you want to get shipped off to some anger-management clinic,” Deco snapped. He waited just long enough to get a reluctant assent, then shut off his phone and ripped open the door. Whatever he had with Ludo, it definitely wasn’t a safe harbor in case he lost out to FC, and if Cristiano was muzzled, then that was the same as losing. Lehmann didn’t need Deco if he could control Cristiano on his own.
* * *
Iker knew it was bad just from the way Raúl’s shoulders hitched up. Then the other man turned around, phone in hand, and his face confirmed it. “Emergency call?” he said.
Raúl’s eyes flickered. He glanced towards Cesc, still sleeping between them and not likely to wake till Judgment Day, given the way he’d all but collapsed into Iker’s arms when Iker had opened the front door for him. For a moment Raúl’s face softened, but then he made an irritated noise and pushed himself off the bed. “Yes. There’s been some kind of—oh, I don’t even know. But if they can’t even bring it here and Jens is asking me to go there, then it’s…I probably won’t be home till morning, if that.”
“Oh.” There was definitely something better Iker could’ve said, just floating around, but even when he was fully awake and well-rested, he never seemed to be able to hook those down without a laptop. He grimaced, rubbing at the back of his head, but jerked his gaze back up when he felt the mattress move. “Um—”
“Don’t stay up,” Raúl sighed. His curved back was limned in silver from the moonlight for a brief moment. Then he straightened up, scuffing his foot at something on the floor and pulling his shirt down over his head. He frowned at the floor, then sat back down on the bed.
“It wasn’t that. Um, not that I wouldn’t stay up for you, but you just said to—damn it.” Iker started to drop forward, but then recalled Cesc, so instead he ended up awkwardly stretched over the other man, propped up on his elbows. “I just…is it family?”
After a moment, Raúl twisted around to look at Iker. His expression was oddly sad and his gaze tended to drift towards Cesc. “No, thank God. It’s just…” Raúl grimaced “…you know, I do believe that everyone deserves medical care. And music stars, you think they’d get the best of all, but with them it’s not really cost and more about whether they understand what caring about yourself means. It gets depressing to watch—I just wonder sometimes what the hell their parents are doing. And I can’t be their parents for them, damn it.”
Then Raúl grimaced again, abruptly turning around as if he were embarrassed at himself. He reached back to give Cesc a pat, then paused when Cesc stirred. It only turned out to be a grunt and a change of position, but it gave Iker time to crawl over and peck Raúl on the cheek.
“You’re a good doctor the way you are. You’re not leaving anything out,” Iker told him. It sounded good in Iker’s head, but when Raúl didn’t move, he got a little nervous. Well, actually he started to knead the bed and was about a hair away from burying his face down there as well, but his lingering sleepiness was doing wonders to stifle his usual neuroticism. “Ah, well, I’m not sure that that was what you were saying, but whatever you were saying, you’re not doing. Doing. I—just—you don’t need to worry—”
Raúl twisted around, took Iker’s face between his hands, and soundly kissed Iker. He leaned back, a wry lopsided smile on his face, and then pulled Iker’s head down to press his mouth to Iker’s forehead. Then he let Iker go and got off the bed. “Thanks. Listen, if I’m not back before you have to get up…apologize to Cesc for me?”
“Okay.” Relieved, Iker dropped down behind Cesc, who promptly squirmed backward to basically drape Iker over his back. Iker absently nuzzled Cesc’s shoulder, then lifted his head over it to watch Raúl get dressed. It still didn’t think that Raúl was enjoying himself, but then…if he had been, then Iker probably would’ve been worrying about the other man developing psychotic tendencies. “I hope you are, though.”
“Well, so do I, but…sometimes knowing so much about the human body is so damn…oh, never mind,” Raúl muttered. He came back over to kiss Cesc’s forehead and brush Iker’s cheek with his fingers, and then he was out the door.
* * *
By the time Philippe got to FC’s headquarters, he’d already started feeling out the local police for any preliminary reports, filled in a groggy Thierry while Robert Pirès stumbled around in the room behind him in only a dress shirt, boxers and socks, and picked up Raúl. He still wasn’t certain what was going on, but he thought he had his end relatively under control. In fact, he was even beginning to think that he could think he wasn’t going to need the last-resort aspirin packet in his wallet.
It was so late that even at FC, the parking garage was mostly empty, and so it was fairly obvious which car it was. Philippe pulled in a few spaces down, then paused to check his beeping PDA. “Okay. Robin’s got the security.”
“He would,” Raúl muttered. Then he added some rather rude Spanish afterward, which Philippe carefully tuned out, and twisted around to get his bag out from beneath the dash. “Do you see who it is?”
“I see—”
Twin circles of white light flashed off the on-ramp a bare moment before the sound of squealing tires reached Philippe. He jerked his head down in a wince, then gritted his teeth and fumbled the door open just as the newcomer zipped by, fast enough to make his suit flap against his hips. Then he straightened up, frowning, and watched it hang a hard right to skid into the space one over from Cristiano’s car.
“What’s going on?” Raúl had gotten his bag and gotten out, but was standing by the car with a wary look.
“I don’t know,” Philippe said, though he was actually in the middle of a frantic text to Robin. That was—
Another car roared up the ramp. This one Philippe instantly recognized, and in fact reflexes almost had him leaping out to meet it before his commonsense kicked in. He grabbed the door of his car, hesitated, and then slapped that shut and hurried after the newest arrival. Behind him Raúl was saying something, but Raúl was experienced enough to know where to go from there, so Philippe just put his head down and ran.
He got to the car just as it slapped back down on its rear wheels from its hard stop. Barely a second later, Jens whirled out of the driver’s door: he had on a full suit but no tie, and his collar was also undone so Philippe glimpsed some fresh-looking bites—which meant Jens had been in the middle of sex. And therefore would be more homicidal than usual, and also it was a good thing Philippe hadn’t finished that text to Robin, who usually was looking for any excuse anyway. “Jens!”
Jens flicked a look at Philippe, but kept on going, stalking towards Cristiano’s car. He didn’t seem to have noticed the other car, or at least wasn’t even glancing at it till its door opened and Deco came out. Then Jens paused.
Deco walked casually across the one-space gap to Cristiano’s car, where he paused to peek into one of the back windows. Then he straightened up, one hand in his pocket, and pivoted on his heel to look at Jens. The last few times Philippe had seen him, Deco had always had a look of purgatorial exasperation on his face, but right now he was staring at Jens with his chin up and his eyes hard and no-nonsense offense written over every elaborately nonchalant line of his body. Philippe noticed his teeth hurt, then realized he was pressing his fist against his mouth. After a moment, he pressed harder and sank back to support himself against Jens’ car.
“What.” Jens settled back on his trailing foot, then crossed his arms.
Portable stretcher under his arm, Raúl calmly walked past both of them, to the side of the car opposite of Deco. Neither Jens nor Deco turned to look at him—even when he banged on the window, had a sharp but low-toned discussion with whoever was inside, and then pulled open that door. He dropped his bag and the stretcher on the ground by his feet, then shouldered his way in over someone’s muffled protests till he’d disappeared into the car up to the waist.
“What?” Deco said, eyebrows raised.
“Is he in there?” Jens shot back. His tone made it pretty clear he didn’t want an answer. At least, not one to his actual question.
Deco glanced down and to the side, then pulled out his PDA. Then he proceeded to type an email while Jens watched, the incredulity rising off him in thick waves. “Where’s Kahn?”
“I don’t—”
“Because that’s not my problem, that’s your problem. Well, it cuts both ways—my contract says that where Cristiano is isn’t your problem,” Deco said. He was still typing, his thumbs moving fluidly over the tiny keyboard of his PDA. “Your doctor can take Ribéry. That’s your problem too. But Cristiano’s mine.”
Jens was silent and extremely still for several moments. Philippe heard his PDA and then his phone buzz, and when he checked, Jens’ right trouser-pocket was vibrating as well. He ignored the phone, but pulled out his PDA to read the inevitable message from Robin.
“You pick an interesting time to claim responsibility,” Jens finally replied. “You realize that if anything major’s happened to Ribéry, it will be your problem. Because you both will be my problem. If I still think it’s worth defending you against Kahn.”
“You would. Even if Cristiano wasn’t—still—your biggest moneymaker, you wouldn’t give him up to Kahn. And you can’t sacrifice me either.” Deco raised his head from his PDA just long enough to give Jens a confirming look. Then he shrugged and leaned more casually against the car. “Look, Lehmann. This time Cristiano’s sober, clean, and he has an agent who isn’t so busy thinking about how to make nice with him in bed to forget about the bottom line. And that happens to be making sure everyone walks away from this one. So you’re not shipping him off anywhere he doesn’t want to go.”
Philippe’s PDA went off again. He bit his lip, then hunched down so he could reply without being too obvious about it. Then he actually read Robin’s message and stood up so fast he nearly took out Jens’ rearview mirror. As it was, his elbow wasn’t going to be up to much for a few days.
The shoulder of Jens that was closest to Philippe twitched. Then Jens unfolded his arms and let them hang loosely by his sides. “You’re not shipping him off anywhere either.”
The corners of Deco’s mouth quirked, then pulled upward into a brazen smile. “Do we actually need to discuss this?”
Shit, Philippe thought.
For a moment Jens was perfectly still. Then he rolled his shoulders, like a lion loosening up from a nap, and shook his head once. Then again, as he walked wide of Deco to where he could see Raúl. “Clever. No, we don’t, except that I’ll expect you in my office first thing tomorrow to discuss the media strategy for this. Raúl? Do we need a hospital?”
“Yes, and I need Senderos to drive us to it. And I need Ribéry’s medical records.” Raúl’s hand slapped against the top of the car, then grabbed at it as the rest of him pushed out. He looked up at Jens, then half-suppressed a start when Jens just nodded and waved Philippe forward. Then he clearly pushed that out of his mind and bent back inside the car to tend to Ribéry.
“Robin’ll get you the records. Phil, the hospital…” The pause was just for Philippe to nod, like he had that taken care of—he didn’t, but he’d get it done while Raúl was arranging Ribéry in the backseat. Then Jens frowned as Philippe lingered. “What?”
“Kahn’s on his way, Robin says,” Philippe said. Then he ducked around Jens and Deco to go help Raúl. And to get out of the line of fire, like any sensible person.
Behind him, Deco snorted. “Well, that’s yours.”
“I suppose it is.” Jens moved again, the slight scuffing of his shoes echoing weirdly in the garage. “Although I understand Kahn has a habit of meeting certain unsavory people in certain restaurants. Not French, but possibly of interest to the French…which makes it dangerously complicated, doesn’t it?”
“No, support his neck,” Raúl hissed at Philippe.
Which Philippe hastily did, but he couldn’t help looking up, and seeing the way Deco stiffened. Then Raúl tugged at Ribéry and Philippe had to look down to see what they were doing, and along the way he happened to notice Cristiano half-hanging over the front seat, eyes fixed on Deco.
“What are you saying?” Deco finally asked, voice tight and low.
“I’m saying—look to your own problems. Then lecture me about how to go about tending mine.” With that, Jens’ footsteps started up again and rapidly faded into the distance; he wasn’t going back to his car, but towards the elevators to the office floors.
Deco lingered a little longer, but as Philippe was easing Ribéry’s head out of the car, the other man abruptly whirled. He stopped, blinking, because Cristiano was also getting out of the car. Then he grimaced and jerked his hand towards his car. “Come on. I’ll take you ho—where’s that damn assistant of yours?”
“I told him to meet me at my place,” Cristiano said, half-sullen, half-bitter.
Philippe looked up again, then flinched as somebody hissed at him. He glanced over to Raúl, who leveled a reprimanding glare at him. “The politics will still be going on when you get back,” the other man muttered. “Help me get this one over to the car first.”
“Sorry.” Since he was right, after all. So Philippe bent down to the other end of the stretcher and just made a note to himself to follow up with Cristiano later, if David or Robin didn’t get to it first.
* * *
“All right. You’re—no, I can do that. That won’t be a concern from this end. But I want to know that—yes, because there was a legitimate reason why we were at Premier and I don’t want to let that go to waste because Kahn can’t control his stable.” Eyes closed, Ruud leaned his forehead against the wall and rubbed at his forehead.
Something touched his arm. He opened his mouth, then bit back his harsh remark—mostly because Jens was still talking and would have heard it as well. Though when Ruud turned and opened his eyes to see José standing there with a steaming cup of coffee, he was rather glad he’d held his tongue for other reasons.
“Kun’s calmed down. I cleaned up the cuts on his head and arm and I don’t think they need stitches, so I just bandaged him up and put him on the couch,” José said. In Spanish, and so low that Ruud was more reading his lips than actually hearing him. “He’s still worried about what’s going to happen to him, though.”
“Actually, I think it’d be the best piece of counter-media work you could come up with. We don’t field self-destructive divas, but hardworking young singers just thrilled to be living out their dreams.” Halfway through it, Ruud had to close his eyes again. He ground the heel of one hand against his right eye as he listened to Jens reluctantly assent, on the condition that—well, there were always conditions and they were always unpleasant. “Fine. I’ll see to it.”
Jens hung up without saying anything else, though Ruud gathered enough from the voices in the background: Robin sounded irritated about something, and at the very end Ruud thought he’d heard Bobby Pirès coming in. So Legal was on it and damage control had well under way, or else Robin wouldn’t still be with Jens. Possibly there was a chance they’d come out of this unscathed.
Ruud shut his phone and began to step forward, only to remember José. He looked belatedly up, then muttered something apologetic as he took the coffee mug from the other man…who’d already been splashed when their shoulders had collided. Biting back more than a few swears, Ruud turned around, plucked a towel from the counter, and handed it over. “Kun’s what? Oh. Well, I’ll be in there in a moment to talk to him—I need to call…”
Something odd happened to José’s face. It was as if he’d suddenly been in pain, but the…pain was so embarrassing or otherwise unwanted that it’d pained him twice over. But then he ducked his head, wrapping the towel around his hand, and attempted to shrug his way to the counter. “All right. I’ll just—you didn’t finish dinner before we had to run out, did you? I think there’s some leftover pizza.”
Gourmet stuff with truffle powder and sausages made with Kobe beef, but still ultimately junk food. The salary just didn’t justify the lifestyle sometimes, let alone truly improve it. “No, I had plenty. Is your hand all right?”
José jerked his fingers off the towel-wrapped hand, then back on. Then off, so he could knock on the cold water and stick his hand in the sink. “It’s fine. It’s just a little tingly.”
Work reflexes had Ruud glancing towards the other room, his anxiety increasing with every moment an inexperienced, jangly starlet was left to his own ends, but on the other hand he was one, used to spotting deceptive behavior and two, very aware of all he did not want to do to José. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I—my hand—well, it’s nothing. You’ve got work, you should go—” José stammered, glancing back and forth between Ruud and the sink. “You have to call—”
Things clicked. Which made Ruud grimace, but he couldn’t exactly change the pattern of history now. He could…he just took a deep breath, and then eased forward to lay his free hand against the small of José’s back. The other man stiffened and Ruud waited a moment, then moved so his arm wrapped itself about José. He leaned forward till his mouth just brushed José’s temple. “I’m not calling Cristiano. I was going to call your—Raúl. He’s treating Ribéry.”
José breathed in sharply, then twisted slightly, as if to look at Ruud. But the movement touched his skin to Ruud’s mouth and he stopped there. “You—I thought you saw him, even though he was in the corner. But—Kun was telling me—”
“And Jens told me about that, too.” A little bitterness crept into Ruud’s voice there, as hard as he tried to sound neutral. Goddamned Lehmann, even in crisis mode he didn’t miss a chance to twist the knife. “He said Ribéry’s not seriously hurt, which with some luck will let us get both Kun and Cristiano off the hook, but I don’t know how much he’s editing what Raúl said. That sounds a little optimistic for your uncle.”
“He’s not grumpy all the time,” José said, blinking. His hand slipped back to cover Ruud’s, pressing that harder against his spine, and he leaned tentatively into Ruud’s chest. “I thought…you’d be more worried.”
No need to ask for clarifications. Ruud winced again and briefly closed his eyes. “Cristiano’s a grown man. If he wants to play the political games, then that’s his business. I’m not even his agent now.”
José was silent for a moment. He leaned more into Ruud, dropping his head so it’d fit under Ruud’s chin. “I thought you’d be more worried.”
“I am. I’m sorry, but I am,” Ruud finally said. He waited, but though José tensed again, the other man didn’t draw away. “But what I said…it still stands, you know. He’s decided to make his own way, and I don’t have any say in that. And I shouldn’t—I can’t say I wouldn’t still want some, but only because…he should be happy, and I don’t think he is now. He wants to put himself up as some power player, but honestly, I don’t know anyone who’s one of those and who’s really happy about it. Even Lehmann seems to prefer being at home with Van Persie than out scheming to take down someone.”
He kissed José’s temple, then buried his nose in the top of the other man’s head. After a few seconds, José twisted around—Ruud loosened his arms, but José just adjusted himself to lie against Ruud’s front, his hands going up to fit on either side of Ruud’s waist.
“It’s partly an old habit,” Ruud added more quietly. “But it’s not one with any real grounds now.”
“I don’t like it, I think. But then, if you still care about him even though you shouldn’t, that also says something about what you’ll put up with, and I bring a lot of that with me. So maybe I like it a little, too.” José let out a ghost of a chuckle against Ruud’s chest, his shoulders shivering. Then he lifted his head, and his mouth seemed a little tense but he was looking Ruud straight in the eye. “You want me to call Raúl instead? I—well, I should call him anyway. I’m trying to talk to the family more, but it’s still a little…it’d go easier with some business excuse, so it’d be helpful for me, actually.”
It was a tempting offer, but Ruud bit down on his lip till he’d actually thought through it. “Go ahead and call, use me for whatever excuse you’d like, but keep him on the line. I’d still like to ask him questions myself, since what Jens told me was a little…puzzling. Anyway, Kun shouldn’t take too long to straighten out. He seems sensible enough, when he’s got his temper under control.”
“All right,” José nodded. He paused, then stepped back. Then he stood there.
Ruud abruptly realized why and almost hit himself, then diverted his irritation into a swig of his coffee, which he clearly needed. Then he handed his phone over to José, and while the other man was dialing, went out into the next room to deal with Kun. It wasn’t going to make him happy, but getting through it would get him to what did do that.
* * *
“I just can’t believe you did that! You’re my goddamn assistant! You don’t do that!” Cristiano snarled. He stormed into his bedroom, then back-kicked the door shut.
The resulting bang seemed to rattle the whole room, and definitely drowned out whatever Gaby had been yelling after him. For a moment, Cristiano was pleased.
Then he shook his head at himself, and for good measure made sure that, when he threw himself onto his bed, he didn’t turn his head to the side so the bridge of his nose ended up a little achy. Honestly, if he was satisfied with that little these days—no wonder Ruud could act, after the first startled glance, as if he didn’t exist. No wonder the fucking critics panned him. If he didn’t even have the guts to stand up to his own fucking assistant, how the hell could he write anything meaningful?
“Cris?” Gaby’s voice might’ve been muffled by the door, but it was still pretty clear that he was irritated. “Cris, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t.” Cristiano jerked up, stared at the door, and then fell back again. It wouldn’t be worth it. He didn’t need any more trouble. Really. That was why. “Fucking call me that.”
There was a soft thunking noise, like Gaby had half-heartedly kicked the door, or maybe banged his head against it. Either way, hopefully it’d hurt him a lot. “Cristiano. Look, I know I’m your assistant—I like being your assistant. Otherwise I would’ve applied for—”
“Then why’d you go running to Lehmann the moment it got really hot? Huh? What the fuck did he ever do for you? Did he help you out? What about your friend? I don’t think so, since he practically bit off my head for hiring you in the first place,” Cristiano snapped. He glared at the ceiling, working his jaw till he realized the stiffness in it wasn’t from any sort of weird cramp, but from him working it. So he stopped and threw himself over instead, burying his face in the mattress. “The last fucking thing I wanted was Lehmann in it! You should know that by now!”
“Leave Pato out of this,” Gaby finally said. He sounded a good bit angrier. “I thought you were helping me out there, not that you were going to call it in as a favor later.”
What the…oh, he was just being an asshole now. He wasn’t getting Cristiano at all, and frankly, Cristiano didn’t really feel like correcting the other man. It was just so typical of—of everyone, thinking their meaning was it, and Cristiano was so fucking tired of trying to be what they thought and wanted, and explaining himself over and over again so they understood, and…and he was just sick of it. He was tired. “This isn’t about your damn friend. This is about Lehmann.”
“He’s—I know I answer to you, but you answer to him! And you needed to tell him. If I hadn’t done that, you’d be in worse trouble—”
“Well, then you should’ve let me do it myself,” Cristiano snarled. “I don’t need you to protect me. I pay you, damn it.”
Nothing from Gaby. And the silence stretched on and on, till as annoyed as Cristiano was, he started to become a tad uncomfortable. He rolled over onto his side, then raised his head and listened more closely. Actually, he wasn’t even sure the other man was still there.
He was about to get up and check when something scuffed by the door—Cristiano felt an odd flash of relief go through him, but that was quickly chased down with a reflaring of his temper. “Now what?”
“Cristiano.” It was…Deco. Who Cristiano had thought had left after dropping him off, but apparently not. “Open the damn door so we can wrap up tonight and both go to bed.”
After a long, long think about it, Cristiano irritably shoved himself off the bed onto his feet, and then ambled over to the door. He cracked it open and Deco shoved it the rest of the way; a glance past him showed that Gaby wasn’t there.
But before Cristiano could think much more on that, Deco had shouldered his way into the room and was turning to face him, a deceptively pained look on his face. Like that had fooled Cristiano past the first couple of days—if Deco ever felt any real pain, it was only when that crazy Frenchman he was fucking forgot to use lube, or something like that.
“Lehmann managed to keep your name out of it as far as Kahn’s concerned. At least till Ribéry’s in a fit state to talk—the doctor says no real harm was done, which is a little unfortunate since that means Ribéry probably will remember everything. But Kun does back you up, and so does what the security cameras caught. So it’s entirely possible something will be worked out,” Deco said. He stopped to take a breath and to check Cristiano’s expression.
“But what’s the conditions?” Cristiano asked. Pretty calmly, he thought.
Deco pursed his lips a couple times, but then, anything less than groveling probably would’ve been too little for him. Though for once he refrained from blatant sarcasm. “Your mini-tour of Portugal’s getting pushed up to next month. And till that starts, you keep a low profile. Don’t bait journalists, don’t go out if you can help it, even to FC’s establishments—and for God’s sake, Cristiano, stop showing up where Ruud is. It may not hit the papers, but do you realize that word does get around the insiders? Just for the sake of your credibility with other musicians…”
“What do you care about my credibility? I thought you wanted Lehmann to think I was controllable. By you.” Well, somebody had to bring the sarcasm. It was just hanging there in the air, like the stench of garbage, and to be honest, it was more annoying to Cristiano to pretend it wasn’t there.
“Look, we have a lousy relationship. No, I don’t want to get in that now.” There was a weird little hiss at the end of that, as if Deco was going to tack on a comment anyway. But instead he shook his head and pressed two fingers against his temple, and this time he looked genuinely pained. “But goddamn it, the least you can do is trust that I want to—to make money from this. To make sure my reputation is protected—I’m your agent for the foreseeable future, exclusively your agent, and when that ends, it won’t help me get another job if I have a spectacular crash-and-burn on my résumé. And also, we are related, so I’d hear about it from too many relatives.”
Cristiano snorted. “So you just don’t want to get embarrassed by me.”
Deco went very still, but somehow managed to make that give off the impression he was going to lunge for Cristiano’s throat. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and deliberately pulled himself back on his heels. “Yes. Exactly.”
They stared at each other, good and long and hard. The grimace on Deco’s face thinned a lot, till it was pretty obvious there was a lot going on beneath it, and moreover, that that was what was important. So Cristiano looked at that instead.
“I still don’t agree with your idea of what’s getting an advantage on other people, but as far as the basics like just keeping you out there go, I’ll help you with that. I’m your best ally there, since I have just as much at stake,” Deco added. He rubbed at the side of his face again, took a covert glance at his watch, and then looked up at Cristiano again. “We understand each other?”
“Yeah. I guess.” Cristiano kept looking at him. “But you still liked it, didn’t you? Me needing help?”
The corners of Deco’s mouth twitched down, then up. Then, surprisingly enough, Deco laughed. He shook his head, still laughing, and turned towards the door. “Honestly, Cristiano. Of course I enjoyed that, a little bit. That’s why I have this job. If you don’t like manipulating people, you just shouldn’t bother. Leave it to me.”
“When you don’t give a shit about me besides what I can do for you? Yeah, if I was an idiot,” Cristiano snapped. “No thanks, okay? I might not like it, but it’s still better than letting you do it.”
“Except I’d do it right, because I’d never have a second thought about it,” Deco tossed over his shoulder.
He walked out while Cristiano was still struggling with his urge to throw a chair at the other man’s head, and then…well, then all Cristiano really had was a door he could kick, but even that just seemed—he was just too fucking disgusted. He lifted his foot, then put it down. Then he yanked himself forward, shut the door with his hand and in the same motion, whirled about to stalk across the room.
Cristiano didn’t really have any real aim, but when he couldn’t walk any further, he happened to be by his computer. And then—it just came to him. He jerked the chair out, then slid in front of the keyboard and hit the ‘power’ button before he even sat down. He couldn’t waste the time; the idea was just too desperate to get out. He needed to get out, and this was the only way left to him, it seemed.
* * *
“Not even a skull depression,” Robin noted, reading over Jens’ shoulder. When Jens twisted away the laptop, the other man just hopped over the couch, like Jens had told him not to do countless times, and had himself wedged down between Jens’ side and the power cord so Jens couldn’t shove him away without yanking that out. “Well, it wasn’t too big an emergency after all.”
Jens looked at him, then down at the floor. At least Robin had remembered to take off his shoes, Jens absently thought.
“I’ve already got some possibilities on Ribéry, so getting him to agree when he wakes up shouldn’t be that hard.” Nudge at Jens’ ribs. Then a couple fingers hooking through one of Jens’ belt-loops and tugging. And when that didn’t work, Robin ground his pointy chin into the top of Jens’ shoulder. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing. You were fine, for once.” Staring at the photos of the x-ray scans Raúl had emailed wasn’t going to help, so why Jens was still looking at them, he didn’t know. Except maybe it was better than going to bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering just how much he was going to want to punch the mirror when he had to get up for official work.
Robin was silent. He lifted his head, then laid it back on Jens’ shoulder cheek-down, his hand slipping through Jens’ arm so Jens glanced at him. The other man adjusted his legs, somehow folding them so their whole length would fit onto the sofa cushions, his knees bumping against Jens’ thigh. “How was Kahn?” he asked. Quieter and less brash.
“Awful,” Jens said. He finally turned off the laptop, but then just pushed down the top and let his hand rest on that as he gazed out across the room. “I had to delay Kun’s debut so Kahn can bring out Jansen’s first single without any in-house competition. Which didn’t make Ruud happy, and I actually agree with him there. Kun’s good enough. He should get a chance to battle it out.”
“And get the holiday season boost, instead of getting stuck in February or March.” Robin slumped more against Jens. Then he lifted his head.
Jens closed his eyes. “No.”
“I didn’t even…” Exasperated exhale. But then the laptop was lifted from Jens’ lap and he opened his eyes just in time to see Robin replacing it with himself. Head cocked, Robin carefully set the laptop to the side, then put his hands on Jens’ shoulders. “You’ll get him back the next time.”
“Great for then, but I still lose this—” Jens bit off the rest. He put his hands down on either side of himself, then changed his mind about getting up and just let his head fall back against the couch. “God, I hate him.”
“Yeah,” Robin said. His hands moved up and down Jens’ front, then slid off to the right as he laid down against Jens, tucking his head into the crook of Jens’ neck. “Well, his girlfriend’s too far along for him to be getting any for months, at least. So you know he’ll be frustrated no matter what happens.”
After a moment, Jens decided he’d snort. His hand rose and draped itself over Robin’s waist, and then he snorted again, turning his head towards Robin. “You’re hopelessly crass.”
“Shut up. You agree,” Robin muttered. He made a soft, contented noise when Jens pulled him closer, his hands plucking at Jens’ shirt. “You know, the bed would be even more comfortable.”
“You—oh, hopeless.” Though Jens got them up anyway.
* * *
“No, the food is fine, and—damn it, don’t distract me. I’m worried,” Deco snapped.
Blinking, Ludo slowly withdrew his hand, as if he thought Deco might try and bite it off. “Worried?”
“Lehmann said something about—” Deco was already regretting this, but funnily enough, he found he could be that and still want to do it anyway “—about you coming under fire from some rival. I thought you’d cleared the field. Isn’t that what all that—that—”
“Fighting was about?” Ludo raised his eyebrows, his fork balanced in his other hand like he was on the verge of using it to point out the obvious to Deco. Then he shrugged and flipped it about, stabbing downwards into a carrot. “It’s interesting that you suddenly are interested, but well, Anderson, I’m not exactly running a charity. More like a laundromat, actually, where no matter how many times you run it through the machine, it still comes back dirty.”
Deco looked at him. Then at their plates, which actually contained some very good duck confit, and then at Ludo again.
“You don’t like the analogy, or you don’t like something else?” Ludo asked, looking blankly innocent.
“It came up because Kahn’s apparently trying to get involved,” Deco finally said.
From the way Ludo just went back to stripping meat from a thigh-bone, he already knew that. He would, of course. “That’s not really a new strategy for him, or so I think you’ve said before.”
“No, but…that was when you’d just come…and…” And Deco put his hand up and rubbed hard at his face. He knew he should’ve just gone home and gone to sleep, which he truthfully needed more than food, but apparently his efficient streak had snapped when he’d laughed in Cristiano’s face. For some reason the universe still loved that naïve brat. “Look, are you saying it’s true?”
“I’m saying that you should eat your damn duck because I’ve finally gotten a good chef and I haven’t seen you eat in weeks,” Ludo said. His tone was a touch snappish and when Deco looked, the other man’s eyes were hard and glittering. But then Ludo sighed, blinked and his usual weirdly affectionate expression returned. “Thanks for asking. But whatever Kahn’s doing, that’s Lehmann’s business. If he cares, since I only hold back when he asks nicely. Otherwise it’s just my ordinary business, and I take care of that like you do yours. And I’m usually quite good, no?”
It’d been a stupid thing to bring up, all right, Deco told himself again. But he needed a couple more minutes before he could pick up his own fork and poke at the duck. He paused with it in mid-air when he felt something slide against his ankle, then shook his head and prodded some vegetables while Ludo’s foot nuzzled his calf. The other man was right, and he was just being…he just needed to stop, before he ruined his rare victory over Cristiano for himself.
“I don’t understand this fascination you have with me eating,” he muttered.
Ludo’s foot hooked around the back of Deco’s leg, then pulled it wide as the other man beamed broadly across the table. “It’s just because I care, Anderson. Now, did you want dessert down here or upstairs?”
* * *
Luís blinked hard, trying to make the ache behind his eyes go away, but the action only seemed to blur his vision even more. He slouched lower in his chair and mindlessly moved his mouse around, then roughly pulled himself up and dragged the keyboard over. Yes, he was exhausted and he was going to need a whole bottle of eyedrops in a few hours to keep the secretary from screaming when she saw him, but just fucking about wasn’t going to help with that. Only getting the damn editorial done would.
So, with all the wisdom of his accumulated experience, he opened his email. God, he was a sorry example of an authority figure sometimes.
“Victor, if you go on a bender tonight and expect me to straighten you out, you’re just getting left in the hallway,” Luís muttered. Or if Iker had some panic attack over a nearly-missed deadline, or if any other journalist got too smashed and missed his connector flight or hit on the wrong person or anything like—he didn’t recognize that email address.
Well, he didn’t recognize a lot of email addresses he got, given the sort of editorials and reviews he wrote, but this one had a preview snippet in what looked like Portuguese, and that was really unusual: he oversaw a Spanish magazine and regularly contributed to English publications, so those were the predominant languages in his inbox.
Luís frowned, then shrugged. If he didn’t, he would never be able to sleep out of sheer curiosity…so he clicked on the email. Then read it, frowning some more, and then downloaded the attached file before booting up his music player and listening to it.
Then he stared at his computer for a very, very long time.
“That’s really good,” he muttered. He left his mouth open for a moment afterward, then closed it and shook his head. Then he told himself not to—and opened a reply box and started typing. Because goddamn it, but that song was good. Even Cristiano Ronaldo deserved to know that.
***