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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Figo/Mutu. Implied Raúl/Cesc/Iker, Figo/Zidane, Villa/Silva.
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: This is absolutely fiction and not real and I don’t know these people at all. Any resemblance to any real-life magazine is completely accidental.
Notes: Titled after the song by Melissa Etheridge.
Summary: Where’s Figo?
***
Mutu cracked open the door just enough for them to see one baleful eye, scruffy hair and a frying pan. Silva promptly shoved himself in front of Villa, while gesturing frantically for Iker to say something. “Um—um, we come in peace,” Iker blurted out.
Everyone looked at him with identical expressions of incomprehension. Then Silva sighed and waved his hand to get Mutu’s attention. “Hey…so. Um, we’re not interrupting anything, are we?”
“No,” Mutu said after a moment. He opened the door a little wider so they could see the hand holding the frying pan was all soapy. Some of those suds got smeared over his jaw as he scratched it, starting to look nervous. “It…is…who hurt who?”
Villa sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, when he was the person least deserving of having that reaction, in Iker’s opinion. “Nothing. Nobody. Well, unless you count Victor’s ego.”
“Victor?” Mutu’s expression went back to suspicious. “Who…who did he do?”
“Don’t you mean what?” Villa asked.
“No,” Mutu said, rolling his eyes.
Silva stifled a snicker, then hastily composed himself. He glanced at Villa, then at Iker, and then he snorted in disgust. “Okay, look, we’re here because we figured you need to know a couple things about Zidane. You’re kind of part of the office now and you deserve those memos, too. And well, um, we were hoping that maybe you’d have some idea about what to do about Figo.”
Even if it was cowardly making Silva do it, he probably was the only one of them who could say it sincerely enough for Mutu to believe him. At the very least, he was the only one who could say it without getting side-tracked into his own beef with Figo; Villa was muttering under his breath about Morientes’ next column, while Iker had to admit that the idea of Morientes getting in trouble wasn’t totally unattractive. But it’d also screw up…Iker shook his head and resumed paying attention.
“…so that’s why we came,” Silva wrapped up with a winsome smile. “Can we come in and talk about it?”
Somewhere along the line Mutu had freaked out. He’d yanked open the door but kept hold of the knob, and was alternating between shaking that and the frying pan as he stared with wide eyes at Silva. “What? And you left him? What kind of people are you?”
“No!” Then Iker had everybody looking at him again, without knowing where they were in the conversation but needing to come up with something quick. Figo—Zidane—right. “One, Figo can take care of himself—he just can’t take care of Zidane. Two, he kicked us out. Three, Victor’s watching him. Well, arguing with him, which is the same thing.”
“He’s hungover,” Mutu objected.
“Which means he’s twice as determined to stick with Figo, because according to him it’s always Figo’s fault that he’s hungover,” Silva put in. He stepped forward, best pleading look on. “Can we please come in and talk about this before you get more upset? And then we can figure out how to fix it?”
Villa badly stifled a cough, then a hiss as Silva backstepped onto his toes. Fortunately—maybe—Mutu was still so distracted with worry that he didn’t seem to notice. He fiddled with the frying pan, which came dangerously close to Silva’s knees a few times. Then he grimaced and backed up.
“Okay. Okay, but you promise this will help. Help Luís, and not one of your…your things,” Mutu finally said, pointing the pan at Silva.
Who was already halfway through the door as he nodded vigorously. Sighing in relief, Iker made to follow but instead got a shoulder to the chest. He stumbled back, then grabbed Villa’s shoulder as the other man damn near lunged after Silva. Villa cursed at Iker and tried to twist away, but Iker held on. He yanked the door shut behind them, then gave Villa a shake.
Once his eyes had stopped rolling back into his head, Villa glowered at Iker. “What the fuck is wrong with you? If you’re getting nerves now, you should hike back to work to keep Victor—”
“Nothing’s wrong with me. For some reason nothing’s ever wrong with me these days, but things always end up wrong anyway,” Iker snapped. He saw the blank incomprehension in Villa’s face, started to wince and then decided that after all, he didn’t care. “Listen. You will shut up and listen to Silva, and you will let them take care of whatever the hell this is about as quick as possible. Because I need Figo to not have Zidane on his mind and if I have to be Bruce Willis to do it, I will.”
Villa started to ask what the fuck again, then squeezed his eyes shut. He sighed. “You know, I don’t really care what crazy fucking metaphor it is. You want Figo focusing on work. Fine. I get that.” His eyes snapped open, and for a moment Iker thought Villa might seriously go for the jugular. “But you get this: I want this over and then I want me and Silva to go home. Whatever the fuck it is, we’re not in it. Got it?”
“Fine,” Iker said. He let go of Villa, then frowned as he looked around. They’d lost track of the other two.
“Kitchen,” Villa muttered, heading that way.
This time Iker let him go first. Once Villa had his back to him, Iker quickly slipped out his phone and sent off a text. Then he shoved that back into his pocket and headed after the others.
* * *
Two Hours Ago
“Cesc, can you just sit down for a moment?” Raúl said for the fifth time. His tone had previously hit accommodating, nervous, apologetic and irritated, and now he just sounded like an exasperated parent. “I think you’re—”
“Are you kidding me?” Wheeling about, Cesc stuck his head out like a turtle to stare wildly in Fernando’s face. He held the pose for a few seconds, then spun back the other way while throwing out his arms. “Ludovic Giuly! Giuly! That French nutcase! We’d all figured he’d just gone off the deep end, finally, but suddenly he’s back and he wants—he wants—”
Cesc blinked a few times. He put down his arms and fiddled with his tie, looking questioningly at a stone-faced Raúl. Then he frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Sit down and we’ll talk about it,” Raúl told Cesc, in the same tone of voice he’d used to use when the little brat was about to get sent to his room. Raúl pulled out a chair for Cesc at the table, then took his own seat. “Panicking is not going to solve this problem.”
“No, I guess not. But it’s not our problem anyway so I don’t know why we’re worried about solving it,” Cesc muttered. He sat down with an accusing look at Fernando that more irked Fernando than anything else. Even if Cesc had a point, he was making it in such an annoying, pointless way that Fernando’s guilt was too disgusted to rise up for it. “It’s him who has to worry.”
Raúl put his elbow up on the table and leaned his hand against his cheek as he gazed at Cesc. “No, it’s all of us. One, I’m still friendly with Fernando. Two, I’d hope I can be friendly with him without you or Iker getting upset—”
“Well, think again,” Cesc snapped. “We’ve been so goddamn worried about you and—”
“It had absolutely nothing with me, and everything to do with your inability to just believe me. Trust me,” Raúl snapped right back.
That shut up Cesc. For a moment he just stared at Raúl, eyes wide. Eventually he started to move his mouth, but whatever he’d been about to say died as Raúl kept glaring at him. Cesc blinked, hard, then ducked his head down and to the side. He put his hand to his eye like he was going to rub that, but caught Fernando looking at him and angrily jerked it away. Instead Cesc stared at the table and again it reminded Fernando of when they’d all been younger.
Raúl looked a little sorry he’d been so harsh. When he spoke again, his voice was lower and softer. “All I know is that you two seem to think I’m going to get myself hurt again. But I…am not planning on it, and even if it happens anyway, you can’t protect me from everything, Cesc.”
“I’m not trying to.” Cesc fingered the edge of the table. “Honestly, uncle. I know you’re the one who’s best at taking care of yourself, between—well, probably most of the family. I just…I kind of wish you didn’t have to, is all.”
“I’m not here,” Fernando started, and stopped. He blinked at the other two men, surprised at their surprise. Then he sighed and slouched back in his chair. “I’m not here to weasel in between you or anything like that. I swear on my parents’ future grave. I’m just—look, Cesc, the thing is that even though Raúl and I have both moved on, so far as romance goes…we still shared a lot of time together. We know each other. So when this came out, it just…ended up Raúl was the first person I thought of to go to. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Judging from the dirty look Cesc shot him, Cesc didn’t find that entirely believable. Cesc shrugged half-heartedly, then put his hands against his face and exhaled loudly into them. He held the pose for a couple seconds before dropping his hands, a resigned expression on his face.
“If it helps, I’m starting to regret coming—”
“’Nando, you did the—”
“Well, I’m not going to tell anybody who to be friends with. Did that with José and that took forever to fix. And I guess it was the smart thing to do. God knows you couldn’t handle Giuly by yourself, and Iker says you’re not really making friends at Duende either, so you can’t get Figo to jump in,” Cesc finally muttered. He stared at the table some more, then slowly hitched himself up in his seat. “You can’t, right?”
Fernando needed a moment to figure out where Cesc’s train of thought had gone. “Figo? He’s…I haven’t told him yet. I don’t—I’d rather not.” He waved off Cesc’s impending outburst. “Not because I just want Raúl to do it, all right? Because when Giuly visited me, I had one of Figo’s people passed out in my bathroom—not my fault, by the way, I was just trying to take care of him—and it just seems…I’d have to tell Figo about that and I don’t know how he’d take it.”
“Okay, yeah, I guess trying to explain to Figo how you didn’t take advantage of his guy but did put him within spitting distance of getting harassed by a psycho French gangster would be tough.” Cesc wasn’t entirely being sarcastic, reluctant as he was to admit that. He scruffed at his head, then looked at Raúl. “All right, so what do you want me to do?”
Raúl arched his brows. “You’re not offering suggestions?”
“What are you saying? That I like drama?” The wounded look barely managed to get on Cesc’s face before he turned serious. “Normally yeah, but this is Giuly and I’ve seen him put Lehmann in knots. I might like to see where the edges are but I’m not suicidal. And anyway, I don’t know much about him. He’s from way back and he wasn’t around for long last time.”
“Great,” Raúl mumbled. He rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t know the man either. I only saw what he did to people and that was already enough.”
That cold clench in Fernando’s stomach abruptly reminded him of its presence. He bit his lip, then made himself take a few deep breaths. He’d been in the music business a long time and seen a lot of things, and by God, he wasn’t beaten yet. He just—had one hell of a problem. “I just wish I understood why the man wants me to help him go after Cristiano Ronaldo,” he said. “It doesn’t make—”
“Er, no, it does.” Although Cesc looked even less happy about that than he had about finding Fernando in Raúl’s kitchen, amazingly enough. The man even seemed a bit green. “Y’see, when he was around, Giuly kind of had this thing going with Cristiano’s agent—”
“Van Nistelrooy?” Fernando asked faintly.
“Oh, my God, no. Ugh.” Cesc clutched at his stomach and spent a couple moments breathing really, ostentatiously slowly, the little drama queen. “No, this was after Ruud and Cristiano broke up. Cristiano got this guy named Deco, who…well, he turned out all screwed up is all you need to know. He and Giuly hooked up, and then Deco called it off and Giuly lost it a little bit.”
Fernando pursed his lips a few times. “How does Giuly ‘lose it a little bit’?”
“He, um, well, I don’t have all the details but he sort of rampaged through the underworld and then went on vacation. But anyway, I don’t think that that’s going to help…wait! What if you talk to Deco?” Cesc said, eyes lighting up. “From what I hear Giuly’s still stuck on the guy.”
Raúl shook his head. “First, we don’t know where he is. Second, we don’t have time to find out. And third, do you really think Deco would help? When we can’t exactly offer him anything he’d want?”
Cesc considered it for a moment, then slumped in his seat. “Okay, no. He’s not exactly charitably-minded. Um…Lehmann owes you a couple of favors, Uncle…”
“No,” Fernando said firmly. He shook his finger in Cesc’s face just to make sure that the overeager little shit got the message. “Lehmann and FC are staying out of this. It took me a damn long time to get away from them and I’m not owing them any favors.”
“Look, I don’t know what your history was with Lehmann but he at least doesn’t kill people—himself, anyway—”
“Cesc,” Raúl interrupted. When the other man continued to protest, Raúl lifted his chin and just looked down his nose till Cesc sputtered to a stop. He stared a moment longer, then sat back. “I don’t think Lehmann should be involved either. I don’t…no offense, Fernando, but I don’t want to give him the impression that you’re still that important to me.”
It still hurt, hearing Raúl say that sort of thing with that kind of matter-of-fact tone. But Fernando was getting used to it, he thought dryly. And he could understand: both Raúl’s reasoning and the effect of it on Cesc, who promptly dropped the pugnacious attitude. “None taken. But why are we still talking, then?” Fernando pointed to Cesc, then sighed as Cesc bristled up again. “And no offense to you either. Raúl wanted to let you know and I can respect that, but if we’re not relying on FC then I don’t really see any point in involving you in the rest of the discussion.”
“Well, we’re not bringing FC into this but we do need to stall and for that we might need Cristiano,” Raúl said.
“He’s not going to help you either,” Cesc snorted, rolling his eyes. Then he looked down as a muffled beep came from his pocket. He slid out his phone, glanced at it and then nodded. “Shows up when you mention his name, just like the devil. He’s been in such a pissy mood all week, just because we have to find him a new opening act…what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Fernando couldn’t help staring either: it’d been a long time since he’d seen Raúl look that inspired. The man had frozen in place, one hand clawing at his hair. His eyes were wide and unseeing and he was practically crackling with his idea. When he finally did move, Fernando started and then was surprised to realize static electricity hadn’t been involved.
“Just how delayed are you?” Raúl said sharply.
“Um, well, at least a week. We’ve got alternates in town but Cristiano’s insisting on auditioning them—”
“Great. Help him do that.” Raúl turned to Fernando. The electricity was gone but in its place was determination and purpose. “Do you have a way to contact Giuly? You need to tell him you’re not going to do it in your column. You’ll do it by sabotaging Cristiano’s concert. Tell him you’ll talk to the new opening act.”
It took a moment for Fernando to just take it in. Then he sat ramrod straight. “What? Wait, I thought we were trying to stall! My next column’s due in two weeks, and this concert—”
“With the concert you don’t have to do anything till the night of, but with the column he can start asking you to write stuff right away,” Cesc said slowly. His eyes were starting to light up as he looked across the table to Raúl. They were both wearing the same small but delighted smile on their faces. “And also Giuly knows like, nothing about the actual music industry. All the stuff he’s done, it’s been around the edges but he never actually got into the details of booking acts and auditions and all that. He has to leave you alone if it’s a concert. And Cristiano’s being an ass anyway! This is so brilliant.”
“So can you do that?” Raúl asked, sobering a little.
Cesc practically bounced out of his seat. He nodded and grinned his way around the table to Raúl, then threw his arms around the other man. That caught Raúl off-guard, but then he smiled and…and all Fernando needed to know about their relationship, he got from the way Raúl just grazed his mouth across Cesc’s temple.
“Do it? Man, I’m going to have a blast with this! Listen, I have to go now but keep me updated on what the trap’s gonna be, all right? And if you want, I’ll tell Iker too. No? Well, okay, but the offer’s still open if you get too busy later.” With a last squeeze of Raúl’s shoulder and not one look towards Fernando, Cesc made his way out of the kitchen.
Raúl had grown serious again at the mention of Iker; Fernando didn’t need the reminder that he was intruding on other people’s lives but he got the extra pang of guilt anyway. He watched Raúl for a few moments, watched the way Raúl bit back a sigh and stared pensively at the table. What Cesc, and probably Iker, didn’t see was what it cost Raúl to defend Fernando to them.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Raúl eventually said, mostly to himself. He absently tucked his hair away from his brow, then looked up at Fernando. “So we’ve got some time. Now we need to figure out how to actually get Giuly away from you.”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Fernando muttered. He’d said it himself, the first person to come to mind had been Raúl—and he needed to move on from Raúl. If he was a real friend, he wouldn’t come with such a price on his friendship. “I’ll talk to Figo. I know I said I didn’t think I could—I wasn’t lying about the problem with his reviewer, and there’s a few other things…But I should just take the trouble over that and ask for help. I don’t want this to eat up your life.”
“Fernando, I meant it—”
Fernando smiled at the other man and Raúl fell silent. Then Fernando got out his phone. He saw Raúl’s eyes go to it, and Raúl’s hand lifted a little too. But Fernando thumbed to speed-dial before the other man could stop him. “I know you did. And I’m…well, I came to you, and I’m glad you’re helping me. But I shouldn’t be asking you for what you don’t have to give me, and there are some things like that. Since we’re friends now.”
For another moment Raúl seriously looked like he would object. But in the end, he just let out his breath and settled in his seat. He folded his arms against the table and let Fernando make the call.
* * *
Present Time
“So…code red is when Luís is to do something that might be illegal because he had a bad memory of Zidane,” Mutu repeated. His Spanish had gone downhill a little bit but it seemed to be because he was busy trying to figure out David Silva’s diagram, and not because he was getting worn out. Good thing because once Mutu did figure it out, they were going to have to move quick if David had any hope of getting himself and David Silva to a bed tonight.
It wasn’t an entirely selfish impulse. David did see the point in getting Figo’s head back on the magazine and was willing to help with that just to ensure that he had a workplace in the morning. But Figo’s mind was an incomprehensible labyrinth when David was fully awake and capable, and he hadn’t been sleeping well—well, at all since he and David Silva had fought, up till they’d made up last night. And they hadn’t had much sleeping time then either, since they’d…somebody stepped on David’s foot and he hissed, then glowered in Iker’s direction. Just because he was having issues with Raúl and David wasn’t listening to his Morientes complaints now didn’t give him to the right to tell David when to be happy and when to not be happy. And anyway, Mutu wasn’t even looking in their direction. He was still poking at the diagram.
“And code Z’s when Figo’s going to do something self-destructive because Zidane’s actually shown up,” Silva helpfully explained. He gave Mutu a few seconds to put it together. “So you see here, normally this goes through Victor and Guardiola, because for some reason Figo talks to Victor about his personal stuff and Guardiola’s, well, the lawyer, but Victor is—”
“Victor thinks he might have done the nasty with Morientes, which is screwing him up even more than usual,” David put in. “He’s got weird ideas that Morientes is masterminding this whole thing as some sort of revenge trip.”
Iker stepped on David’s toes again, then jutted out his chin when David kicked his shin. “It’s not that weird. Morientes wasn’t any happier than you or me to get locked into a deal with Figo.”
“So Victor’s watching Luís?” Mutu said disbelievingly. “When he thinks…what?”
“And Morientes knows both of them, and I know for a fact that he brought Zidane to town in the first place. Otherwise Zidane would probably still be in—”
“Iker, Guaje, can I just finish explaining this to Mutu so he isn’t confused—more confused—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I like Morientes even less than you, but even I can see that this isn’t him,” David snapped. “If he wanted to get at me or you or even Raúl, why the fuck would he go after Figo? That gets at David too, and he likes David even if he sent him to Eurovision this year. And if he wanted to go after Figo, why the fuck bring in Zidane? Zidane likes Figo. He’s just terrible for the man.”
Iker opened his mouth to argue and David Silva tried to squeeze his shoulder in front of David, and then they all turned to stare at Mutu. Who dropped back into his chair, shaking a little. He stared at the frying pan he’d just slammed into the table; it was still rattling around itself. The handle looked a little bent.
“I don’t,” Mutu started. He stopped and took a deep breath, raking the hair back from his face. “I don’t know your problems with Luís. I don’t—honest, I don’t care. I just want to know if he has a problem, okay? Because he said…he came in to work with something to do with Zidane, but he said he’d be done and come back this evening. But he isn’t here and you come instead, and I just—I just—is he okay?”
For some reason he finished up by looking at David, who didn’t know. David looked at David Silva.
“Um.” David Silva scratched his head. Then he noticed Mutu getting that freaked-out look in his eyes and hastily held up his hands. “I mean, yeah, he’s…he’s Figo, he’s not going to, y’know, jump off a bridge or anything. That’s not the kind of messed-up we worry about.”
“Then what is?” Mutu asked, visibly exasperated.
“Well…” David Silva looked to Iker for help.
Iker fidgeted under the force of those big, pleading eyes. He muttered something, then hissed at David, who just glowered back. If Iker didn’t fucking speak up, he was going to get a lot more than David’s foot in his shin.
“Figo wouldn’t jeopardize Duende and he’s not going to put himself in a hospital either. But every time Zidane comes up like this, he goes into this…funk,” Iker finally said. He avoided Mutu’s gaze. “It makes him make unintelligent personal decisions.”
Mutu sighed and looked at David Silva. “What does that mean?”
“Um—”
“It means he picks a fight with somebody he gives a shit about, then lets them fuck off,” David said, fed up himself. At this rate they were never going to get to just what it was that Figo was doing for Zidane anyway. “You know, breaks up with whoever he’s seeing, junks a friendship, that sort of thing. And it’s usually a pretty damn big fight. Guardiola’s the only one I’ve ever seen come back afterward.”
Surprisingly, Mutu seemed to take that calmly enough. He listened hard, staring at the table, and when David was done, he just kept sitting there and thinking. Once he scratched at the side of his face.
“So…we kind of don’t want that to happen anymore. You seem pretty cool, and Figo’s been way nicer with you around—not that he’s mean normally, but he’s been…nicer,” David Silva added. “Anyway, the problem is people in the office have tried all sorts of things—Victor’s pulled stuff you wouldn’t believe trying to keep it from happening again and none of it’s worked. We were sort of hoping you’d—”
“You at least know what he’s doing for Zidane, don’t you?” Iker asked.
Mutu stirred a little. Then he looked up, frowning like he’d forgotten they were there. He blinked a few times, just looking at them. “No.”
“But you said earlier you were around when Zidane saw Figo last night,” David said.
“I was, but I didn’t listen to them. They wanted it private,” Mutu muttered, pushing back from the table. He got up and went out of the kitchen just as David Silva got a hand up.
For a moment they just all stared at the empty doorway. Then Iker groaned and pulled at his hair. “Well, that worked. I told you we should have had Victor here and you could’ve trailed Figo.”
David raised his brows. “Me? Why the fuck would I be better at sticking to Figo? And in case you don’t remember, Valdés claims he can’t fucking understand Mutu and Mutu doesn’t understand Catalan. It would’ve taken—”
“Don’t argue, all right? We’re all just trying to help here,” David Silva snapped. Then he loudly blew out his breath and flopped back into his chair. “For God’s sake. Well, I’m out of ideas so…oh.”
He had seen something in the doorway and it was weird enough to make his eyes widen. When David turned around, he found that Mutu had come back. Dressed up a bit too: he’d swapped the dingy dress shirt he’d had on before for a clean white see-through one, topped off by a black leather collar. He wasn’t wearing anything under the shirt. Maybe he looked grumpy, but his nipples seemed perky enough. “Okay, where is he?” Mutu asked irritably.
Nobody answered him for a few seconds.
“Well, we’ve never tried appealing to that side of Figo,” Iker finally said. “That could work. The whole Zidane problem is unresolved sexual tension, so…”
Mutu arched his brows questioningly, then seemed to get it and looked down at his shirt. He grimaced, then shrugged and pushed into the kitchen. “It is—it was laundry day but in all the fuss I forgot to drop it this morning. This is the only clean shirt I have.”
“I don’t know if it’s a shirt,” David muttered.
David Silva managed to hop to his feet and elbow David in the side all in the same motion. He got out his phone and started to flick through his contacts list. “Um, I dunno where Figo is right now, but I can find out by the time we get down to the car. Victor would’ve called and freaked out if he’d lost him.”
“It would’ve gone faster if you knew just what the hell he was trying to do for Zidane,” David said. “I can’t believe you just stood around and didn’t eavesdrop—hey!”
David Silva echoed that, but Iker didn’t. Mutu just ground his fist harder into David’s chest, like David could back up any further without actually getting inside the fridge. “I. Don’t. Know,” Mutu said through gritted teeth. “And it isn’t your business.”
“Look, we’ve got Guardiola on that one anyway,” David Silva soothed, tugging at Mutu’s arm. He slid between Mutu and David as much as possible, then held up his phone in Mutu’s face. “I’m ringing Victor, and Xavi said he’d get back to me on Zidane in another…five minutes, I think. So why don’t we just…find Figo? So you can talk to him?”
Mutu flicked a glance at David Silva, then looked back at David. His nostrils flared out, then pinched tightly as he reluctantly loosened his grip. He backed off and then stalked out of the kitchen; David Silva asked if David was okay, patted him down when David said yeah, and then hurried after Mutu.
“And we never had somebody who could be just as passive-aggressive as Figo,” Iker said thoughtfully.
“That’s not fucking passive-aggressive. That’s fucking pissed off.” David pushed himself off the fridge and brushed down his shirt. Then he slid a look towards Iker. “Well, you going to stand there and keep making your lofty observations, or are you actually going to help with this?”
Iker’s eyes went flat, and for a moment David thought the man might actually punch him, speaking of passive-aggressive. But then Iker just twisted around David and walked out of the kitchen. The man was mumbling something about Morientes again, something about him and how it’d be better if it was a conspiracy because that would make Morientes less of an idiot. Which was completely nonsensical, so David didn’t pay any attention to it. He just hurried past Iker and after David Silva.
* * *
Two Hours Ago
Fernando gave up and ended the call with a disgusted sigh, letting his arm drop straight down along his side. Seated across the table, Raúl gave him a questioning look and Fernando shook his head. “Still not picking up. I don’t know what’s the problem. He shouldn’t be busy right now.”
“He wouldn’t be avoiding you, would he?” Raúl asked.
“No. That is, I can’t think of why he’d—oh, Valdés?” Then Fernando shook his head again. He got up from his seat and tossed his phone onto the table, then began to pace around the kitchen. “No, if that was it, Figo would’ve called me right up and had it out. Actually, he wouldn’t have called. He would have tracked me down and done it in person.”
“Then maybe an emergency came up. Is there somebody at the office who you can call?”
Fernando’s first, instinctive response was to say no, but for the sake of being thorough, he spent a few seconds thinking through the list. “No. Not without touching off more drama. I…well, it’s complicated but I don’t have a lot of friends over there right now.”
“I take it that’s related to why Iker showed up with David Villa last night,” Raúl muttered.
That made Fernando look up sharply, but Raúl was getting up and had his back to Fernando. The other man crossed the kitchen and took his mobile off the counter. He thumbed it on, but then stopped with his thumb hovering over the keys.
“Look, don’t call Casillas,” Fernando said, suddenly understanding. “Like I said, I don’t want to impose on you any more than I already have. I can call…I can call Albiol, maybe. He’s my editor and so far he seems like he doesn’t care about all that other crap.”
Raúl started to nod, then froze. He put his phone down and looked up at Fernando. “Is Albiol going to know why Figo isn’t answering your calls?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. I don’t think he’s got much to do with Figo, usually.” Fernando swore inwardly, realizing now how goddamned low on human resources he was. Once upon a time, he could’ve called on half the town for help. And right now, with his whole future on the line, he had to look at what he’d lost and face up to the fact that it wasn’t all down to refusing to play FC’s game. Some of it was just him running away from his problems and leaving all sorts of things—and people—hanging. If he’d just sent out some holiday cards, made a few calls once in a while—hell, if he’d just been nicer about Silva picking Villa over him, he could have made a call now without a second thought. “Goddamn it. I’ve really screwed myself over.”
“I’ll call Iker. He should at least know if anything strange is going on,” Raúl said firmly.
And he had already done that, in fact. By the time Fernando got the objection out of his mouth, Raúl was greeting Iker on the phone. Fernando bit his lip, then let out his breath slowly around it. He leaned his shoulder against the wall.
“Hello, Iker? Can I ask you something? Is Figo in the office?” Raúl listened to the answer with a furrowed brow. It seemed to take a lot longer than just asking Raúl why he wanted to know would go on. “Well…are you busy? This is going to take a little explain—all right. Good.” Not really, said Raúl’s face. “Fernando stopped in earlier…no, I’m fine. He wasn’t rude at all. Actually, he wanted help. He needs to speak to Figo about something and can’t get hold of him.”
Iker’s reply was a lot longer and louder this time. Not loud enough for Fernando to make out the words, but the panicked, angry tone came through as clear as a ringtone during a movie. Raúl tried to cut it off but Iker just got more shrill, and finally Raúl pulled the phone from his ear. He kept it up by his head, but obviously wasn’t listening to what Iker was actually saying. He glanced at his watch, his lips silently moving, then looked up and around with a frustrated expression.
When his gaze happened to cross Fernando, Fernando winced and then mouthed an apology. Raúl shrugged, then looked at his phone. He put it back to his ear. “Iker. Iker. Please listen—please listen to me. I’m not trying to hide anything from you. I was planning to tell you all about it as soon as you got off work, but Fernando has to talk to—he’s tried calling Figo. Figo isn’t answering. No, I talked to Cesc and Cesc’s fine with—well, he said he’d let me deal with it and went back to work.”
Long pause.
“Iker,” Raúl said more softly, regretfully. “Fernando really does need my help, and I’m going to help him. If you can just tell me how to reach Figo, that’s all he needs, and that’s all I need to do for him. If you can’t…can’t or won’t, that’s your decision. But I’m still going to help him.”
The funny thing, Fernando thought, was that once upon a time he would have been proud to hear Raúl say those words, to that person. Over or not, their relationship was still just that important to Raúl. But these days he felt more ashamed than anything else. Making Raúl look that agonized didn’t have anything to do with their old affair.
“Oh.” Raúl blinked, looking a little blindsided. He rolled his shoulders. “Well, so when will he be back? What do you mean, you don’t know? Iker, this is—look, this is not about me not getting over Fernando or something like that, all right? This is about Fernando being in a maybe life-threatening position by something from our old FC days, and I do not goddamn love him, all right? I love you and Cesc. But I did love him, and I’m sorry if that bothers you but I did. And I don’t want to see his obit in the papers any time soon.”
After another pause, Raúl sighed and muttered something about calling him back. He thumbed off the call, then stared at his mobile for a few seconds. He looked as rough as he’d used to after a long night doing house-calls.
“I take it Figo’s off on an emergency,” Fernando finally ventured.
Raúl started, then looked slowly up. He pressed his lips together for another moment before answering. “I don’t…Iker isn’t sure. He said that Figo left the office to deal with some personal business, and nobody knows where he is or when he’ll be back.”
There was something he wasn’t telling Fernando, but Fernando figured it was the other half of the argument Raúl had just had with Iker. “I’m sorry about all the fighting. If it helps, I promise to pay for you to all have a reconciliation dinner at a restaurant of your choice when this is done.”
A wan smile sluggishly tugged at Raúl’s lips. Then he looked away, pulling at his hair the way he did when he was doing serious internal wrestling. “We would’ve had this argument at some point anyway. Better now than later—and it is as much them as it is you. I just wish—but anyway, I think the main problem is Iker thinks Figo’s out of the office because of you.”
“Me?” Fernando let his jaw hang and didn’t feel that embarrassed about it when he realized what he was doing. For once it wasn’t his damn fault. “Why the hell would I do something like that?”
“I don’t know, but according to Iker, Zidane showed up last night and asked Figo to do something, and Iker thinks you made Zidane do it,” Raúl said.
Oh, for the love of—Fernando whipped out his phone and…and cursed, shoving it back into his pocket. Then he went across the kitchen and grabbed Raúl’s phone while the other man was asking him something. He hit Iker’s number and spun around to fend off Raúl’s grabbing hand. “Casillas? It’s Fernando Morientes.”
* * *
Present Time
Andrés cracked open his office door, then yanked it the rest of the way when he saw Xavi’s face. He nearly collapsed on the other man in relief. “Tell me Guardiola’s figured out what it is and we can all go home.”
“Ah, no.” Xavi slid inside, shut the door and then squeezed Andrés’ shoulder. “Sorry, my boss is amazing but not that amazing. But we did make some progress.”
“I hope it at least gets Iker and Victor to calm down,” Andrés muttered, flopping into the nearest chair. He rubbed at his cricked neck, then realized he’d actually said that out loud.
Sometimes being super-pale came in handy: Xavi didn’t seem to notice Andrés’ dismay, but instead just got himself his own seat. He waved off Andrés’ belated apologies for not doing that for him, then got out his PDA and started typing on it. “Sorry, I’m not ignoring you,” he said. “But we are trying to find Zidane, and I have to keep in touch with the office.”
Andrés shrugged it off. Far be it from him to question the man’s judgment on how to handle that; he didn’t even know why they had to find either of those people. He just knew that if they did, it’d calm down the movie reviewers and those two had refused to let anybody go home till Figo was back. Of course they both knew Figo a lot better than him, and had seen this sort of thing more often, but he still wondered whether this was the best way to go about it. For one, Albelda had run out of work to do and was lurking in corners, scaring the hell out of anyone who just wanted a cup of coffee.
Xavi looked up and Andrés politely waited, but then the other man went back to his PDA. He started chewing on his lip; Andrés thought about then that he probably should find himself something to do, if he was going to complain about other people.
A quick search of his desk turned up some half-proofed articles, and another rummage produced a pen that hadn’t run dry yet. After another look towards Xavi, Andrés settled himself down in his chair with the articles. Within ten seconds he’d found a dangling participle and an incorrect tense, and couldn’t help a sigh. No, they didn’t necessarily hire the writers for their grammatical skills, but would it kill them to turn on the autocorrect on their computers?
“Okay,” Xavi suddenly said.
Andrés looked up and saw that the other man had gotten on his mobile. Xavi listened intently for another few seconds, then groaned just as Andrés started to look down. The other man dropped his head into his free hand, which started to pull at his hair.
“Well, can’t you…no, that bad. Okay. No, I get it. I just was thinking we could…okay. Okay.” Xavi hung up, looked at his phone, and then flipped it to the floor with a disgusted snort. Then he leaned back, pushing his arms up over his head, and yanked them back in quick when he saw Andrés. He grabbed up his phone, looking embarrassed. “Shit. Sorry, forgot it’s not my office.”
“You didn’t dent anything, which is more than my officemate can say for himself,” Andrés said. He put down the article. “Bad news?”
The other man grimaced. “We found Zidane but he told us to fuck off and shoved Piqué out of a taxi. Which was parked, so Piqué’s fine, no need to look so panicky. But anyway, it seems like it’s a private matter and we’re not going to be able to talk Zidane into calling it off.”
“You thought it was business or something before?” Andrés dropped his pen as well. “Figo doesn’t go nuts when it’s business. He—”
“Yes, I know, but it’s a good idea to rule it out anyway,” Xavi snapped. He looked apologetic almost before he’d finished talking. “Sorry. I’m just—well, wishful thinking. Pep knows how to deal with business.”
It was on the tip of Andrés’ tongue to point out that everybody knew how to deal with that; some of Duende’s staff might be a little eccentric but none of them were idiots or naïve. But he kept quiet. Judging from the way Xavi was trying to shred his cuff, the other man didn’t need any more reminders of anything.
“So how’s it going here?” Xavi asked after a moment. “Are people…wait, you said somebody was upset, didn’t you?”
“Iker and Victor, even though they’ve both been out for hours. Oh, and everybody they wouldn’t let go home. Which is most of the writing staff.” Andrés rolled his eyes before he could help himself. “We all know that Zidane showing up leads Figo to do stupid things but I don’t get why we have to treat this like it’s…like we’re in quarantine. It’s not exactly helping. And really, isn’t all we need is somebody telling Figo to snap out of it?”
Xavi pursed his lips a few times and Andrés figured he was going to get the same off-hand condescension that Victor had thrown out earlier, when Andrés had said the same thing to him. So he was pleasantly surprised when Xavi instead shook his head. “Well, it’s not really that simple. You’re right, we probably don’t need the whole staff on it, but…the thing is, Figo gets so weird about Zidane. And it’s really frustrating because nobody ever understands just exactly what it is—not even Pep! And he and Figo go back to university.”
“Pep doesn’t know what it is?” Andrés said. Guardiola had once walked into a conference room with Figo in mid-rant, deadline-night emergency looming over their heads, and made Figo go out into the hall with him with just a mention of pork. After that, they’d all assumed that Guardiola at least knew what the hell Zidane had done to Figo.
“Nope. I asked him once and he told me all he knows is, Figo went on one of Zidane’s early tours in southern France. Pep didn’t go—he had some internship. But something happened on the tour and Figo came back and has never told Pep what.” Xavi said that last bit with more than a little awe in his voice. “You don’t know Pep that well, but if it’s been fifteen-something years? And Pep hasn’t gotten it out of Figo? It must’ve been really something.”
“I figured that out when Figo set up Iker on that horrible blind date with Zidane,” Andrés muttered. “You heard about that, right? Zidane pops in ‘for coffee’ and then once Figo’s back, poor Iker walks in to ask about a film festival and next thing he knows, Figo’s committed him to a charity marathon with Zidane. And we don’t even talk about what Figo did to the Barcelona people.”
A knowing, pitying snort came from Xavi. He nodded and Andrés nodded and for a couple moments they were synced up in mutual agreement: a Zidane-driven Figo was something to fear.
After that, it started to feel weird. And the weird feeling seemed to get to both of them at once, because just as Andrés awkwardly reached for his pen, Xavi cleared his throat and tried to turn on his phone at the same time. The mobile beeped and Xavi looked down, then grimaced and turned it off. “So,” he said. “Does that mean people around here are superstitious about coffee invitations now?”
“Huh?” Andrés intelligently answered.
“Well, so I’d like to get to know you better, and I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, but it never seemed like an appropriate time.” A flicker of irony went through Xavi’s eyes; lately Andrés had only seen him whenever some disaster had to be averted. “But it looks like that time’s never going to come, so…whenever this wraps up, and we all catch up on our sleep, can I call you for coffee?”
Weird. Weird during a weird day, and yet André had to admit it’d just made the rest of the day a lot more tolerable. He shoved away his pen and got up. “If you wait for me to get enough sleep, you’re going to be waiting for a while.”
Xavi had started to get up, surprised and nervous, but he wasn’t half out of his chair before Andrés got around the desk. Andrés grabbed the other man’s elbow and pulled him towards the door.
“Victor’s going to go ballistic if he finds out I’m gone, but he hasn’t checked in for a while and it’s not like I need to be here to know when he’ll be back in. There’s a coffeeshop across the street,” Andrés said.
And just like that, Xavi’s mobile went off. The look Xavi gave it should have melted the plastic.
Andrés sighed as the awful nature of the day crowded back in on him. Xavi reluctantly answered the call. He listened to about five seconds of it, then snapped his phone shut and pulled Andrés back just as Andrés had started for his desk.
“How about coffee to go?” Xavi asked. “That was Pep. Figo just called and said he’s coming over.”
* * *
Two Hours Ago
“I don’t know what Zidane is doing and frankly, I don’t care. We know each other but we—”
*Then how do you know he’s here?* Casillas demanded. *He’s here and Figo is distracted, and this plays right to your—*
Oh, for God’s sake, Fernando thought. He honestly was more exasperated than anything else. So where the yelling came from, he had no idea. “Casillas! It doesn’t play to me! I need Figo, you goddamn idiot, or else I have French gangsters terrorizing my life! You think I want that? You think I’d fucking bring Zidane to town for that! You’re a goddamn lunatic! You’re a lunatic and you have the love of my life on your side, and you can’t even be happy with that. You have to make him miserable with your—”
*How am I making him miserable? It was fine till you came!*
Fernando hit something with his hand. He vaguely registered somebody’s stifled exclamation. “Oh, it was fine. It isn’t fine if all it takes is me coming for you to think Raúl’s going to run off with me. What if I hadn’t come, all right? What if I didn’t come, but hey, I still record music sometimes. I get asked to be on TV shows and things. What, were you going to block Raúl off from all music and all TV? Sooner or later I’d come up and you’d be asked whether you trust me, and you don’t even though you should because for God’s sake he picked you—”
Suddenly the phone was gone. Fernando had a brief glimpse of Raúl’s knitted brows, and then he was catching his breath against the counter while Raúl went off in the corner, talking so fast into the phone that, normally crisp as ice, he was tripping himself up. Raúl jerked up his shoulder the one time Fernando moved, like the other man might grab whatever was nearest and hurl it at Fernando. So Fernando stayed put.
Whatever Iker was saying, it was at least calming Raúl down. The other man started leaving pauses for replies and gradually unwound from his tight coil. He finally sighed and thanked Iker for something, and then he turned to face Fernando.
“I’m not ashamed of what I said. Somebody should’ve told him that a long time ago,” Fernando said. He braced himself against the counter. “It shouldn’t have been me. I wish it hadn’t been me, I really do. But somebody had to tell him.”
Raúl’s expression was unreadable. He just stared at Fernando, and didn’t stop till his phone beeped. He glanced at it, then shoved it into his pocket. “Iker said he’d go get Figo. He said first they’d have to get Figo off whatever the man is doing for Zidane, but after that he’ll let Figo know about Giuly. I didn’t tell him anything about that besides that he was threatening you and you needed Figo’s connections.”
“I’m sorry,” Fernando blurted out.
“You did a better job with Cesc,” Raúl said, looking up. Then he laughed a little harshly. “And you’ve known him longer, and don’t like him as much. No, don’t even try. I know he always annoyed you.”
Fernando sighed. “Yes, but I had time to get used to him being a shit.”
“He’s not a shit.” What little good humor had been in Raúl’s face vanished, and in its place was a level, commanding gaze. “If you’re going to stay in town, and stay in touch, you have to get used to being civil to them. I told them and I’m telling you now, I don’t need to be defended to anybody. I can speak for myself.”
“I know,” Fernando said after a moment. He had to laugh himself. “I know, because that’s why we ended.”
Raúl looked at Fernando again. This time the look was softer but it wasn’t any more willing to cede ground. He’d been such an idiot, Fernando thought again.
“Well, we’ve a few hours before Iker gets to Figo. I don’t have anything but paperwork, so let’s figure out what we’re going to ask Figo to do for you,” Raúl finally said.
“You’re too good for me,” Fernando sighed.
Raúl let Fernando seat before he answered. “I didn’t fall in love with you out of pity, Fernando. Stop talking about how much of a shit you are and help me come up with something.”
Fernando blinked hard. Then he laughed and nodded, and folded his arms on top of the table. Time to stop being an idiot.
* * *
Present Time
Silva twisted around and gave the backseat such a look that Casillas immediately shut up and Villa muttered an apology. “Look, if either of you want to come up here and drive—” Silva started.
“Green,” Adrian said, glancing at the traffic light.
“Huh. Oh.” Just as the car behind them honked, Silva turned back around and hit the accelerator. His driving wasn’t really bad, but he seemed to have a problem reading the street signs and wouldn’t make turns till the very last moment. And he wouldn’t tell anyone where Valdés had told them to go.
The two in the back, Adrian could understand. But he…he might not be able to understand Valdés, but at this point he did fine with the others’ Spanish and he did have good eyesight. One thing that had survived his drug phase without any damage.
“I think another five minutes,” Silva suddenly said.
He was looking at Adrian and it took a moment to realize that the other man wanted some sort of acknowledgement. When Adrian finally nodded, Silva looked so relieved that Adrian felt a little bad for not doing more. Silva obviously cared that it would all turn out all right, and beyond the fact that he wanted to make sure his job was still there in the morning. And there seemed to be other things going on that were stressing him out and making Villa and Casillas snipe at each other.
Adrian almost asked about them, but then decided they’d all be better off if he didn’t step into somebody else’s relationship. He wasn’t even that sure how to step into his own, and he had five minutes to solve that. And he’d already had a bit of a nervous breakdown over it earlier in the day, when it hadn’t even involved Luís going out on some kind of kamikaze mission. Now he had to worry about that and try not to break down again, and somehow talk Luís into…into not doing whatever he was doing, when Luís had always been the one doing the talking.
He’d tried to make Adrian use his head, but that just made Adrian smile sourly, thinking about it. Adrian’s parents could’ve told Luís how well that tended to go—his parents, his old bandmates, his old manager and agents and all those damn people who’d watched him slide and hadn’t been around to pick him up. And Luís hadn’t even known him, but he’d done that for Adrian and then more, and now Adrian needed to pay that back. Adrian was more scared than he’d ever been in his life.
“We’re here,” Silva said. Then he pulled up to the curb and parked in front of a grimy little apartment building.
It looked like the kind of place Adrian had sometimes woke up in after a binge, with no fucking idea how he’d gotten there. Fucking amazing that he’d never gotten knifed. He felt like he had a knife twisting in his gut right now, sitting there and thinking that if he didn’t get up, he was going to lose everything and this time he was going to be awake and conscious for it.
“I think you have to go inside,” somebody in the backseat said.
“I know,” Adrian snapped. He bit his lip.
Silva’s seat creaked. “I think we’ll stay out here,” he said, lilting the end like a question.
Adrian almost missed it by turning to answer Silva. He whipped back just in time to see Luís coming off the last step of the building’s stoop; the other man was turning to head in the opposite direction. His back faced them and Adrian thought of Luís telling him to go home and wait, and of what it’d felt like to think I can wait for someone for the first time in so long, and then he had the night air on his face and the top of the car door biting into his clammy palm.
“Luís!” he called.
***