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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Ibrahimović/Nesta, Van Persie/Lehmann, H. Larsson/Ljungberg, Van Nistelrooy/J.A. Reyes, Van Nistelrooy/C. Ronaldo.
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 Staind song.
Summary: And so the wheel of fortune turns.
***
Breakfast was a little weird because Ljungberg wasn’t talking and Larsson wasn’t anywhere to be seen. When Cristiano casually asked about that, Ljungberg nearly jumped up to strangle him before telling him that Larsson had gone off to see to some last-minute detail. Then Ljungberg buried himself back in his double macchiato. He wasn’t super-twitchy so probably Larsson had told him the real reason—Ljungberg had such a hang-up about honesty that Cristiano didn’t think even Larsson would be immune to it—but he clearly didn’t like it, whatever it was.
After that, they sat around waiting for Lehmann to show up. Ljungberg wouldn’t let Gaby even go get Cristiano a coffee, so Gaby and Ljungberg just glared at each other from opposite sides of the room. At first Cristiano stayed there to watch and to occasionally move towards the door, just to see Ljungberg get tense, but he got bored of that pretty fast and went to his room. For a while he worked on some lyrics, but he was so restless that he couldn’t sit still and kept getting up and sitting down, and finally he just gave up on that. Threw his notebook back in his bag and stomped out into the next room. “Can I at least check on my shoes?”
“They appear to be fine,” Lehmann said. He was standing in the middle of the room, peering into a large red box lined with tissue paper. His lips twitched. “In that they are a painful waste of high-quality diamonds, but I understand that that’s the fashion.”
“Those are mine,” Cristiano snapped, stalking across the room. This already wasn’t going the way he wanted and he knew he needed to calm down, to just let the shoes go, but goddamn it, he had paid for those with his money and FC didn’t have any reason to touch them and he just wanted what was his.
Lehmann handed them over as soon as Cristiano was close enough, with this little shrug of the shoulder like he didn’t give a damn. He was so…as if he didn’t throw fits when somebody even looked at his goddamn boyfriend wrong.
Cristiano paused, then turned around. Van Persie grinned at him from the couch, where the man was curled up with a laptop and a drink. His eyes flicked to behind Cristiano as he stuck his drink-straw into his mouth and slurped loudly.
“We’ll talk in your bedroom,” Lehmann announced. He sounded vaguely annoyed, but he didn’t look at Van Persie or anybody else as he then marched into Cristiano’s room.
From the other corner came a creaking sound and Cristiano looked over to see Gaby giving him a questioning look. Sighing pointedly, Cristiano went over and gave Gaby the shoebox, then went after Lehmann. He heard Ljungberg mutter something at his back but ignored it.
After Cristiano came in, Lehmann shut the door and leaned on it, facing Cristiano. He had one hand in his pocket and the other one just hanging at his side, as if he was dealing with some summer intern who was barely worth a glance. “So you’ve been trying to find an agent on your own.”
“Yeah.” Cristiano considered getting a chair, but then he’d be looking up at Lehmann. But he couldn’t keep his feet from shifting around and he didn’t want to look nervous, so finally he settled for going over to the bed and leaning against it. “I do need one.”
“I know, but your pick last time didn’t turn out particularly well.” So far Lehmann was being very calm about everything. Also condescending and arrogant, and probably trying to get under Cristiano’s skin. “Deco was your idea.”
“So? You approved him t—” Cristiano made himself stop and take a deep breath, even though it’d look—oh, like he cared how he looked to Lehmann. He put his hands down on the bed and pressed them into the covers, then looked up when he felt like he wasn’t going to throw something at the other man. “I know, but I picked him based on a family recommendation. I didn’t check him out and I should have. You should’ve noticed I was doing actual research this time, with all your spies.”
Lehmann didn’t seem to register that last little jab at all. He kept gazing steadily at Cristiano, all cold calculation. “You’re still getting a lot of dreck.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hard to interview people when you’ve got to sneak around,” Cristiano snapped. Then he made a face and pushed himself up the bed. “Look, I need an agent I can work with. You need an agent I can work with. It’s not like you can keep banishing me on these tours, which make more money for me than you, and you can’t keep your pair of Swedes on my back forever.”
“And you want to get back to working on your album.”
“You want me to get it done so you can post a new hit in Kahn’s face.” At that, Cristiano saw something flicker in Lehmann’s eyes. He straightened up, taking his hands off the bed. “I just want an agent so I can get back to work, all right? I don’t want any more shootings, I don’t want to try to fuck around with you. I just want to record some songs, and you and whoever my agent is can do all that other shit. It’s what you get paid for, anyway.”
The corners of Lehmann’s mouth moved up into a tightly amused smile, with his lip lifting just enough to show a glimmer of teeth. He blinked, then nodded and shrugged himself off the door. “Well, that’s true,” he said, looking at something on his sleeve. He picked off an invisible speck of lint, then lifted his head to level a hard stare at Cristiano. “And I think I very much earn what I’m paid, Cristiano. If this is a ploy on your part, or if it turns into one, I will find out.”
Cristiano started to reply, but stopped as something struck him. He reviewed what Lehmann had just said, then raised his brows. “‘If’ it is?”
“Three weeks ago you were getting into fights with Ruud’s boyfriend. Admittedly you’ve been well-behaved since then, aside from your usual quirks, but you’ve done that in the past and reverted.” Lehmann took his PDA out from his suit-jacket and began to work on it. “But just now you’ve acted rationally and calmly and you’ve never done that before when you’ve been in trouble. So I’m going to make a call in your favor for once. I haven’t had time to review all your candidates, but I should have that done once you’ve flown back. Keep your calendar open for a meeting the day after or so.”
“Calendar?” Cristiano blinked.
The other man glanced up, then turned around and put his hand on the doorknob. “So we can discuss your potential new agent. This is an offer, not a game, Ronaldo. If you think you can stand me up before you—”
“I just meant, I don’t have my—Gaby has my schedule right now,” Cristiano snapped. He still was surprised as hell, but he’d been around enough to know even if he didn’t know what was going on, he needed to look like he cared.
“Well, I think we’re done now so you can go get it,” Lehmann said dismissively. He opened the door and twisted around its edge, then paused. “Oh, and I hope you’ll come as prepared to that meeting as you were for this one. When you’re an adult you set an expectation that you’ll keep being one, Ronaldo. And I hate not getting what I expect.”
At that point Cristiano couldn’t help an eyeroll, even though he knew he was poking at Lehmann’s hair-trigger temper. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
But all Lehmann did was just turn back and walk out of the room. There was some talk in the next room and then Gaby bounded in, eyes wide and curious. “What happened? Lehmann’s telling Ljungberg we’re flying out tonight and not to bother you because you have a lot of reading to do.”
“I do.” Cristiano turned around, started upon seeing the bed, and then shook his head in disgust at himself. Then he flopped face-first into the mattress anyway. “God, I really do. Gaby, he took it. I have to read all those stupid emails now, but he…Lehmann actually agrees with me.”
“Damn,” Gaby said after a long moment. The bed sank down next to Cristiano’s head, and then a hand touched his back. “Cris? You okay?”
Cristiano rolled over and looked at the other man, then at the ceiling. He blinked. “Gaby, I really have to read those fucking things. All of them.”
Gaby made a weird nasal noise, then coughed. Then he coughed again, but it was all raspy and finally it turned into a laugh. “It’s okay, I’ll help.”
“You’re—” Then Cristiano paused. He pushed himself up on his elbows, then into a sitting position as he pulled his shirt back into place. “You’re awesome,” he finished a little more quietly, giving his lap a half-smile.
“I’ll go get my PDA,” Gaby said. He hesitated, then went out of the room.
You couldn’t have everything in life, Cristiano thought, looking after him. Because damn it, but Cristiano—shook his head, and got off the bed. No, he couldn’t have everything, but he could have a lot if he worked at it. And it felt like he finally was.
* * *
*The fingerprints on the syringe belong to the dead man, but we can’t determine who shot him in the head because the bullet fragmented too badly. Still, it’s pretty clear that you were targeted because you’re the prosecutor. They lured you to Portugal and set up a hit to try and throw off suspicion, but the dead man has a very informative addressbook on his mobile.*
*And my number’s not in there. Surprising omission if I’m his accomplice, isn’t it?*
It was a good point, but nobody in the room looked like they wanted to buy it. They all kept talking to each other instead of to Nesta. The feed was pretty grainy, but it was still obvious that Nesta was going to kill them all in a second if they didn’t stop acting like morons. At least they’d given him his phone and ID card back.
“I don’t think he’d appreciate you getting to them first,” Henrik said dryly.
Zlatan started, then slumped back on the couch. “I wasn’t even think—” He shook his head and hunched over the laptop again, pressing his finger into his ear to hold the earpiece in place. The sound was incredibly shitty. “Anyway, what the hell is he doing here? He’s supposed to be bogged down in work, not…and I checked! Two days ago he was in Rome, and he was supposed to stay there!”
Henrik put up his hands, but still kept looking at Zlatan with that hint of disappointment in his eyes. Then he lowered his arms and clasped his knees, rolling his shoulders. “Well, what’s done is done. I still wish you’d waited till you could get me on the phone—don’t get upset, Zlatan, I’m being wishful. I did say it was fine when I should’ve insisted on you waiting till we were on the plane, and that I didn’t is my fault. But it’s just as well, since it looks like you’ll need some help.”
After a moment, Zlatan shrugged and turned back to his computer. He felt the cushions dip on Henrik’s side and then the man’s hand on his arm as Henrik peered around Zlatan’s shoulder, and his lips briefly quirked. In all honesty, he was damn glad that Henrik had been waiting in his room when he’d come back, even if the man was irritated with him. And even if it was fucking scary that Henrik had tracked him down that fast—Mellberg sometimes joked about implanted tracking tags and Zlatan was just going to stop there. “I wouldn’t if they would just think. They’re fucking cops, aren’t they? So why are they so stuck on Sandro? It’s all how’d you know where Cudicini was staying, no, we’ll call your boss when we’re ready. It’s almost like I wasn’t even there.”
“Cudicini certainly doesn’t seem to have gotten much of a look at you, even though a close-range hit is not exactly circumspect…”
“It wasn’t like I wanted to do it that way. It was supposed to happen when Cudicini was sleeping, but he canceled the last day of his reservation and I had to run in and improvise, okay?” Zlatan snapped. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, then muffled a laugh as Sandro finally lost it and started yelling and waving his arms around. With the bad quality of the video, Sandro’s head was just one big dark fuzzball.
But his good humor didn’t last more than a few seconds, given the way those idiot bastards yelled back. One even shoved Sandro down into a chair. Even though Zlatan couldn’t make it out on the screen, he could feel Sandro clenching his fists and doing that angry purse of the lips, and he sympathized a hell of a lot. As annoyingly uptight as Sandro could be, he at least was good enough at his job to justify it, whereas these clowns were just plain ridiculous. And the sad part was, it sounded like they were going to make serious trouble for Sandro. Of course that was par for the course as far as Sandro’s history went, and God, but the man seemed absolutely incapable of catching a break. Sometimes it was like he’d massacred children in a past life.
“At least the job’s over. I haven’t had time to look into it, but I’m guessing you did the clean up for that,” Henrik said, adjusting the earpiece in his ear.
“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I did. Evidence gone, whatever.” Zlatan shifted his weight, then scratched the back of his neck. The sound fritzed and he swore, typing frantically till it cleared up again. It didn’t seem like he’d missed much except more—shit. He stiffened and stared at the screen, sucking his lower lip in under his front teeth.
Sandro just sat there, arms crossed and face grumpy, till the others wandered off to either leave the room or cluster around the doorway. Then his arms tightened up a bit around him. He twisted in his seat, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table and press his hands to his temples. The exasperated and contemptuous look was beginning to melt away when he suddenly pushed his fingers over his eyes and slumped forward, his shoulders rising higher than his head.
He held that pose for a few minutes, long enough for Zlatan to start fidgeting. Then Sandro jerked himself up and put his arms down on the table. He stared straight in front of him and he was a totally different person, with all the scorn that’d been practically bleeding off the screen completely gone. Instead he looked…his whole body was sagging and his eyes were wide open and his lips were no longer screwed up in disgust, but parted slightly like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite dare.
The last time Zlatan had seen him look like that, he’d been kneeling on the ground and looking up into Zlatan’s gun, waiting to get shot. Even his goddamn ex didn’t put that look on his face.
“If you cleaned up, then I doubt that there’s much evidence you can send them. It doesn’t sound like they’d believe it either,” Henrik said. He ignored the way Zlatan jumped, then twisted to glower at him, and just kept looking steadily at Zlatan. “They wouldn’t even believe a confession, probably. There seems to be some other agenda here—but there’s not really time to look into it.”
“They’re such stupid bastards,” Zlatan spat out. He glanced at the screen, then ripped the earpiece from his ear and got up from the couch. But after a couple stomps, he came back and sat down again. He ran a hand over his face and back into his hair, yanking at it as frustrated noises bubbled up in his throat.
After a moment, Henrik reached into his pocket and pulled a strip of paper out. A plane ticket.
Reflex made Zlatan jerk from the other man. Then he settled back into place, but he kept one eye on Henrik. “Don’t even think about knocking me out and chaining me to another damn bed. This wasn’t your mess anyway, Henke. You don’t need to get involved.”
“You need to go, Zlatan. Now.” But Henrik didn’t even try to move.
“No, I don’t. I need—I need to fix this and—fuck.” Exhaling, Zlatan dropped his head into his hands. He pressed at the skin under his eyes, then threw back his head till he was looking at the ceiling. Then he slowly lowered it, till he was watching the screen again. Sandro was slouched lower in the chair, with one hand pinching his nose so Zlatan couldn’t make out his expression.
Zlatan jumped, but that light touch on his arm turned into a merciless clamp, forcing him to look at Henrik. Who, oddly enough, looked almost sorry.
“It happens to everyone, Ibra,” Henrik said. “This is just my experience, but I think it’s better to acknowledge it when it does, and account for it in your plans. Denying it just makes you incapable of planning at all. But on the other hand, you’d have to give up a lot, so be sure that you really—”
“I know! I’m not an idiot, and I’m no fucking—like his ex, who took eight fucking years to say sorry, and—” And Zlatan put his head in his hand again. He rubbed his fingers sideways over his eyes, then lifted his head to stare over the computer.
Something tickled his throat. He tried to cough it out, but it sounded like a laugh and then it was a laugh. Shaking his head, Zlatan fell back against the couch and let it just come.
When it was done, he looked over at Henrik and grinned at the baffled expression on the other man’s face. “Well, nobody can say that Zlatan doesn’t face up to things like a man,” he said. He laughed again, ragged and sharp. His eyes hurt a little at the corners, but inside everything had suddenly settled down and he felt almost…peaceful. “That fucking Roman, he’s not even going to appreciate this. Just you watch, he’ll blame me for not letting him do it.”
“I will watch,” Henrik said solemnly. He loosened his grip on Zlatan’s arm, then slid his hand up to squeeze Zlatan’s shoulder. “I’ll watch, Ibra.”
After a long moment, Zlatan smiled less angrily, with genuine appreciation. “Thanks, Henke. But look, we’d better get started.”
* * *
When José got back, Ruud was still asleep but it’d only be another fifteen minutes or so before his alarm went off. So José might as well start breakfast—people always needed to eat, he thought, and then snorted at himself for sounding like his mother.
He was scrambling some eggs in the pan when his phone started ringing in the pocket of his coat, which was hanging up on the wall on the other side of the room. Not that that stopped José from jerking around like he could grab it, and nearly flipping the eggs onto the floor in the process. Only years spent in a restaurant gave him the reflexes to slap the eggs with the spatula back into the pan, then to shift the pan to a cold burner so they wouldn’t burn while he went over.
But by the time he got there, his phone had stopped ringing. He still checked it and found he had voicemail; José fumbled to get his earpiece connected to the cell, then clipped his phone to his belt and listened as he got back to the eggs and dished them out.
*Hi, José. This is Rui Costa—we met the other night at your parents’ restaurant and they gave me your number, which I hope you don’t mind. Anyway, I was calling because I was very impressed with your knowledge of wine and the restaurant scene. Very impressed. I’m always looking for knowledgeable people to help out with my business, especially as I’m looking to expand from Portugal to here, and would love to talk more about that with you if you’re so inclined. My contact information is…*
José paused with spatula and pan in mid-air. Then he put down the pan and laid the spatula across it, blinking rapidly. He vaguely remembered the conversation he’d had with Rui Costa and he didn’t think there’d been anything special in it. They’d just talked about what José had been doing for most of his life.
He’d never gotten a job offer before. He hadn’t really ever worked to find one, even though there’d been plenty of times when he’d thought about looking. But telling his parents that he didn’t want to work for them anymore had just seemed like such a horrible, ungrateful thing to do—and of course he’d been too damn afraid to do it, too. On one level he’d always figured he might as well not and spare himself the embarrassment, because he knew he wasn’t Cesc or Fernando or even Sergio, who had sponsorship offers galore, and he wasn’t good enough to get any.
This was a hell of a time to find out he wasn’t totally right about that, José thought. A snort escaped him, and then he just went ahead and laughed at himself.
“What’s funny?”
Ruud leaned against the fridge, dressed but with his shirt-tails hanging out and his tie draped over his neck. He fluffed his hair with one hand, then let his arm drop as he leaned forward. He looked really good like that, relaxed and handsome, and he was looking at José when he looked like that.
“Do you still love Cristiano?” José blurted out.
The other man stilled, then frowned. “José, I thought we’d—”
He’d paused, José thought, and for a moment the pain in his chest was almost unbearable. But it was funny—it was morning, and José was smelling the eggs and his stomach was growling a little, and so he breathed and it hurt a little less. It wasn’t going to kill him. But it hurt. “I know. I know, we’ve talked about him till I think you want to kill me for it, and I wouldn’t blame you—”
Ruud opened his mouth to object.
“—but we haven’t talked about that,” José said, louder and faster to keep the other man quiet. This was going to be hard enough to do without having to fight Ruud to get it out. “Not for a long time. I told you—I told you in the beginning, remember? That I knew you loved him, and that I knew I’d always be second, and that I didn’t care. But now I do.”
“José, I want to stay with you. He’s coming back but I won’t be going to meet him at the airport,” Ruud said forcefully. He took a step towards José and it even looked like he was going to try and grab José’s arm, but at the last moment Ruud pivoted to lean against the counter. A rough exhale escaped him as he ran his hand over his face, looking terribly confused. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.”
He was so damn kind. They didn’t have to do this. It could keep going like it was, and it would be nice…and one day José would wake up and realize he’d just settled again, because it was all that he knew. But it’d be worse than with his parents and his job, because this time he really did know what he wanted.
“Say you love me more than him.” After a moment, José managed to make himself look up at Ruud.
Ruud was staring at him with something that was almost horror in the man’s eyes, finally realizing where this was going. Then Ruud shook his head—his shoulders went back and his eyes cleared up as determination settled in them, and he was going to lie. He’d even go that far for José. That far, but not a little more, and he would be stuck too, and maybe he behaved better this way, but even if it was nicer than he’d been before, at the end of the day he’d still be backsliding too.
“You can’t,” José said bluntly. He closed his eyes, then opened them sharply when he heard Ruud’s quick inhale. “No, I can tell.”
“José—José, listen, in a—”
“And it’s not something that’ll change either. Look, I knew from the start. It’s not a surprise.” The muscles in José’s jaw were beginning to ache and he rubbed at them, then at his left temple. Then he turned around, taking up the plate of eggs; his fingers slipped a little so the plate clattered, but he didn’t drop it. He got himself a fork from the drawer. “But this isn’t going to work anymore, Ruud. I can’t do this—I can’t settle. If you can’t do that for me, then I can’t…I can’t stay.”
The other man was silent. He stood there at the end of the kitchen’s island while José got out two bowls and portioned the eggs. When José pushed a bowl towards him, Ruud’s eyes flickered but he just lifted his fingers a little from the counter, enough to lip them over the bowl’s rim. He looked sorry and sad and there was a part of him that still wanted to lie, that held his lips parted like he was going to, and there was a part of José that wished he would.
But Ruud didn’t. He just let out a long, slow breath and covered his eyes with his hand, his head bowed. He held the pose for a moment, then lowered his hand and watched José attempt to eat his share.
“Do you have—can your cousin—one of your cousins—” Ruud looked over his shoulder, grimacing “—if they can’t, there’s…I don’t know, the couch…”
“I think I can go stay with Cesc for a few days, while I get things sorted out. I just got a job offer in Portugal, actually…‘Nando’s out of the country till the end of the week,” José said quietly. Oddly enough, it didn’t hurt that much to start talking about it in concrete terms. It was almost like they were talking about their weekend plans. “I’ll be okay. I’m not going to have a breakdown like last time, where you have to come save me.”
The corners of Ruud’s mouth flexed, not knowing whether they wanted to smile or not. Then he sighed and pushed his hands down against the counter. “Still, let me know where you are, all right? Or if that doesn’t work. I can just live out of the office for a while if it’s uncomfortable to be around me—I don’t want you to feel like every time you have a break-up, you’re going to end up on the street.”
“You’re still trying to…” José smiled, then laughed when smiling made his mouth hurt too much. He shook his head, disbelieving. “I’m breaking up with you, Ruud.”
“I know, but I do care,” Ruud snapped. Then he winced and started to apologize, but cut himself off to stare off to the side. After a moment, his eyes moved back to José. “I do, you know.”
José stopped smiling. “I know, but I really love you. So…”
They looked at each other for a while—for long enough for José to stop smelling the eggs, which had probably gone cold. A couple times Ruud breathed in quick, like he was going to say something, but he never did and so it was José who finally came over. He put his hands on Ruud’s belly, then slid them around to either side of Ruud’s waist; above him came a slow inhale-exhale that gently caressed the top of his head. José almost said something, but instead just jerked up his head. He stared at Ruud for a second, then stretched up.
Neither of them moved too far forward, so it wasn’t a deep kiss. But it was enough for José to taste the other man a last time, to enjoy Ruud’s warmth and care and sweetness, and it was just as hard to pull away from that.
“Just…thank you,” José quietly said, looking up at Ruud. “Thank you. And take care.”
Ruud smiled lopsidedly. His hands had come up onto José’s back but they fell away now, only for his right one to rise to touch the side of José’s face. He brushed a hair from José’s brow, then traced a line around José’s temple and down José’s cheek till he ran out of skin. Then he stood back, and after another moment, José turned away from him.
* * *
They didn’t initiate any formal procedures against Alessandro, but they kept him kicking his heels in their office for nearly the whole day. He had his phone and he’d already called Lippi, who was thankfully incensed—Alessandro needed the reminder that not all his colleagues were incompetent—but other than that, he couldn’t do anything. He had no contacts in Portugal and no idea how the system worked, and so he just had to sit and wait.
He couldn’t believe it. All the time he’d spent going after the so-called untouchables, all the obstacles he’d forced himself over in order to do his job instead of selling out like every other government employee, and they were accusing him of trying to set up a hit. All the sacrifices he’d made. Away from work Alessandro was a pathetic specimen of humanity and he knew that, but he’d always believed that he’d justified his failure there with what he did do at work.
Alessandro grimaced and got up from his chair, then walked once around the room to stretch his legs again. Then once more, just because he had nothing to do and it was driving him crazy and goddamn it.
He threw himself back into his chair, then spent a few minutes scrambling to not fall onto the floor as the chair tipped and wobbled wildly on two legs. Finally he managed to salvage some dignity, and then he sprawled in the damn chair and stared at the far wall and stopped running from himself.
The whole mess wouldn’t bother him so much if he really was as innocent as he kept telling them he was. He was innocent in the sense that he had no idea why or how Zlatan had shown up, or even what was going on with Cudicini, but if it came to whether he’d ever crossed the ethical line…well, that was an entirely different story. And he couldn’t blame Zlatan for that—he’d been tangoing back and forth over that line ever since he’d run up against Paolo. Paolo wouldn’t have bothered Alessandro so much if it’d just been about putting away the bad men. But no, it’d been as much about beating Paolo at his own game—not in court—and to a certain extent, about just not being…being good enough. Good enough at illegal methods to win that way, or good enough period so he had the strength to not resort to illegal methods.
Zlatan annoyed Alessandro so damn much because he didn’t try to dress up what he did in hypocrisy like Alessandro, but also because he genuinely was good and he knew it. He probably never had moments of doubt like this.
God, this was bad, Alessandro thought. He was actually wishing Zlatan would call him, and get him upset again so he’d stop getting stuck inside his own head.
“Nesta?”
Alessandro needed a moment to realize that that voice wasn’t coming from his thoughts. He turned around and Cudicini was standing in the doorway.
“I’d—I’d like to apologize,” Cudicini said. “I overreacted, and anyway, you’ve been cleared. I should be—I am thanking you for saving my life, and I hope you’ll forgive the way we’ve treated you for the past few hours.”
“As grateful as I am that you’ve all finally come to your senses, what brought this on?” Alessandro asked, wary.
Cudicini gestured for him to come out into the hall, where someone returned his bag, and then told him that Interpol had arrested somebody who’d confessed to the murder. And Interpol actually wanted Alessandro to come over to their offices, because they needed him to confirm something about their suspect. After a puzzled moment, Alessandro agreed to take Cudicini’s offer of a car and driver, but made sure he was on the phone to Lippi the entire way over.
When they arrived, Alessandro was escorted to a holding cell. A lanky figure was folded into the bunk, but it swung itself out to come up to the bars, and then Zlatan was grinning at Alessandro.
The man with Alessandro asked him a question, and he answered it without really hearing it or even thinking about it. Then he got asked a few more, and it got annoying and he snapped at them and they went out of the room.
“Nice, but they have video on this place, and I wouldn’t put a hidden mike past them either,” Zlatan said, looking elaborately around. He half-turned to put his shoulder against the bars, then flicked his head. “Oh, c’mon, Sandro. I know you’re pissed off because you wanted me all to yourself, but either way I would’ve ended up here. You could at least give me a smile.”
Alessandro touched his temple, then the side of his nose. Then he shook his head. “What—what did you do?”
“Took a job, screwed up.” Zlatan shrugged. “Like I told them, I was booked for Cudicini too, but the other guy got in the way and you can’t get paid twice for the same hit, so I shot him. But you ran up and I didn’t have time to get Cudicini.”
Something twisted hard in Alessandro’s gut. His mind clicked into gear—it was so used to working against pain these days. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t be that stupid. You weren’t there for Cudicini—you were there for that other assassin. You—”
After a frantic look at the ceiling, Zlatan pivoted round to fully face Alessandro, looking as anxious as he was angry. “Look, will you shut up? I’m serious about the sound feeds, and you’re going to fuck this all up when I’ve gone through so much—I’m in a cell, you stubborn fucking idiot.”
“Then what are you doing?” Alessandro hissed, stepping up. He shoved his hand forward and hit the bars, then grabbed one when he couldn’t get his fingers through them. “What’s the idea? Whatever you’re doing, I’ll—”
“You poor paranoid bastard,” Zlatan sighed. He shuffled back from the bars a bit, then tilted his head and smiled with his mouth shut. Knowing, irritating…and strangely pitying. “You always think there’s got to be something wrong. Well, this time it’s you. Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t wait for you to catch up, but you just weren’t going to get to me, and you know something? I’m not such a bastard that I’m going to keep you hanging forever, like your ex. I don’t like just sitting there and watching somebody go down when they don’t deserve it.”
Alessandro opened and closed his mouth a few times. His mind was working now, but too much—he couldn’t keep his thoughts straight and there was so much to think about that he just—he couldn’t understand. He stared at Zlatan and didn’t understand.
“Stop looking like a dead fish,” Zlatan said sharply. Then he snorted. He shook his head again and turned away, and it actually sounded like he was laughing to himself. “For fuck’s sake, Sandro. I do all this and all I want is a nice last memory, but you have to go look like that. You really are hopeless.”
Then Zlatan ducked back into the bunk, and Alessandro stood there with his hand still on the bars. Eventually someone came in and spoke to him, and he took his hand down and went out of the room with them. He had some more conversations, which he didn’t really remember after they’d happened, and then he was being driven to the airport with the assurance that Cudicini would be on the next plane. That extradition he and Cudicini had to wrap up, Alessandro vaguely recalled.
He didn’t understand.
* * *
As they walked out, Freddie briefly put his hand on Larsson’s shoulder, and Jens let out a silent sigh of relief. Since he’d had to put Freddie on Cristiano, he hadn’t had much time to see how Freddie and Larsson were working together and he’d been a little concerned about Freddie’s reaction, given Larsson’s former profession and how defensive Freddie was regarding FC. Then again, Larsson had done the sensible thing and hadn’t tried to hide anything, but instead had brought the necessary people into the loop as soon as possible. It was such a change of pace to work with someone who actually had some sense.
“Well, aren’t they all cuddly,” Robin said, coming up behind Jens. He reached for Jens’ arm just as Jens moved towards the door. After a moment, Robin slouched where he was and watched irritably as Jens did up the locks and then moved across the room to type on his laptop. “You really buy that Cristiano’s turned over a new leaf? Or is this about that no-holds-barred interview with Figo that nobody’s told the brat about yet?”
“Largely the latter, since we need Cristiano to be sensible and see giving Figo a headliner hurts him as much as it hurts us. But it’s also not a matter of ‘buying’ it when the evidence supports the conclusion.” Jens tapped a few more keys, then turned around as the laptop started playing the first cut from Cristiano’s new album. He paused, frowning, before deciding that that unusual flute line actually did work. Worked well—Lahm needed a pay raise, Jens reminded himself. “I don’t doubt that he’ll continue to screw up, but I don’t think it’ll be on this point.”
Robin crossed his arms over his chest and pointedly didn’t move as Jens took off his suit-jacket; usually he’d be over to help with the cuff-links and tie, but he left that to Jens. “Good. Because you know what I’ve been saying about wishing he wouldn’t interrupt sex so much? That includes last-minute plane trips.”
“You sound like you wish I hadn’t taken you along. I didn’t have to,” Jens pointed out. He set his cufflinks on the desk by the computer, but kept his tie.
“Oh, yeah, I know, I’m so grateful,” Robin snorted, finally wandering over. He took his time about that, both because he knew he looked good in that pair of jeans and because he wanted to annoy Jens. “Grateful that I get to be an audience to another Ronaldo mess, right before I get turned down by you because you’ve got to catch up on w—Jesus, Jens.”
Ignoring him, Jens resettled his grip on Robin’s waist and tugged the man a little closer, so they were pressed up against each other. He moved his head so he was resting his cheek against Robin’s temple, then adjusted it again as Robin uncertainly put his arms on Jens’ shoulders. Jens slid his hands down a bit, to the tops of Robin’s hips, and hummed for a few seconds; as sick as he was of hearing Cristiano’s voice at this point, he had to admit that the song had an addictive hook. If the whole album was like that, then it was going to be a moneymaker as well as critically acclaimed.
“We’re dancing,” Robin said after a long moment. “To a Ronaldo song. Jens, I’m about two seconds from flying back to Amsterdam and waiting for Titi to call and say you got the personality transplant reversed.”
“Kahn sent a memo round saying that he’s officially submitted a retirement notice. His send-off party’s in two months,” Jens replied. He didn’t tighten or loosen his grip on Robin, who despite his words wasn’t making any attempt to get away.
The song ended and the next one began. This one wasn’t a ballad but was a fast dance anthem, but Jens didn’t speed up. Robin glanced over his shoulder, then leaned back so he could look up at Jens. He was smiling brilliantly, and his eyes were even brighter. A little gurgle of a laugh started in his throat and then was crushed to death as he grabbed Jens’ head and kissed Jens soundly. Jens pulled Robin even closer, turning them around, then pushed Robin down onto the bed. He was happy—they were happy.
* * *
It was so late that Paolo didn’t bother checking who it was before he opened the door. Once he knew, he almost wished he had.
But then he looked closer, and instead of asking what Sandro was doing, he just stepped out of the way and let the other man in. Ricardo came out of the hall sleepily asking who it was and Sandro’s head whipped up, but Sandro didn’t say anything. He only stood there, his body tensed as if any moment he would bolt.
“Does anyone want some tea?” Ricardo said after a long pause. He didn’t wait for an answer before he went into the kitchen. “It’ll be a few minutes.”
Paolo told himself to take Ricardo out to a decadent dinner at some point in the near future, then shut the door. He tried to do it quietly, but Sandro twitched at the scrapes and clicks. Then he thrust back his shoulders and raked a hand through his hair: his fingers were shaking.
“I hate the fact that you’re still the only one who knows me well enough to understand,” Sandro muttered. “I’m done with you, but if I want to talk about anything, I still have to see you.”
“What happened?” Careful to make noise, Paolo slowly edged around to where he could see Sandro’s face.
Which was gaunt and grey, as if Sandro had spent the past month going without sleep, and set into it, Sandro’s eyes were bleakly dark. He stared at Paolo as if Paolo wasn’t speaking a language he understood, then let out a jagged laugh. “What happened? What happened? You know what happened? I won. I won and now I hate myself even more.”
“Sandro—”
“He’s been arrested,” Sandro said curtly, before turning away. He tousled his hair a few more times before crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He began to pace back and forth. “For murder. I didn’t do it—well, I did, because even though I didn’t make the arrest, it wouldn’t have happened without—Paolo, he let himself be caught to clear my name. For once that bastard is innocent and he’s in jail for something he didn’t do and it’s my fault.”
A high whistling sound came from the kitchen as the kettle came to a boil. Paolo started—Sandro didn’t—then took a deep breath. “He’s guilty of plenty of other crimes, you’ve said.”
“And so this is justified? You would say that.” Then Sandro snorted and threw himself into an armchair. He stared bitterly into space. “Oh, for the love of God, I would say that. I have said that. But you know something? He’s getting what he’s earned and maybe it’s just and maybe it’s not. But the fact is that I just don’t care. I haven’t cared about justice for a long time. I used to, but it’s gotten so mixed up with revenge and with—with being not you that I just don’t know what it is anymore. The only thing I know is that he made me look forward to something in a way that I hadn’t since you, and Paolo, I’m not going to see him again.”
And then Sandro was silent. His arms flopped limply to his sides as he gazed up; his eyes were directed at Paolo but in truth they were somewhere far, far away.
Paolo could have said many things—quite a few things just on Zlatan alone. But they were all more about his opinion than about helping Sandro, and so he said nothing.
Ricardo brought out mugs of tea for them about a minute later. When he offered one to Sandro, Sandro took it but just rested it on his belly. After a look at Ricardo, Paolo went over and sat on the arm of Sandro’s chair, by Sandro’s head. He sipped at his tea and eventually something brushed his arm. Then it pressed hard, hard enough to jostle his arm so he couldn’t keep drinking. He shifted his mug to his other hand, then wrapped his arm around Sandro’s shoulders as the other man buried his face in Paolo’s side.
* * *
“No, I’m not mad,” Jens said. He really didn’t look like it either, since he was fiddling with his pen instead of being absolutely still like he would be if he was just suppressing it. “I’m surprised, I admit. Maldini was in here earlier about the same thing.”
“Why would—oh, Nesta, I bet.” Fredrik shrugged and dismissed that, since that particular man was no longer his problem. Then he took a deep breath, rubbing his hands up and down his legs. “So…”
Jens put down the pen and folded his hands together on his desk. “So I am also puzzled as to why you’re pressing Larsson’s case. I was under the impression that you wanted to keep his past as far from us as possible.”
“I do! No, I completely agree with you on that, and believe me, I had a long talk with him about this,” Fredrik insisted hotly. But then he bit the inside of his mouth, thinking long and hard about how he was going to say the next part. “But…well, I’m asking because he hasn’t been here long enough to ask for this kind of favor. I have. And I’m willing to because he’s a very good assistant and I’d like to—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Freddie. I know you two are fucking—I told you to fuck him,” Jens said dryly.
Heat flooded into Fredrik’s face, and he knew if he tried to answer that, he’d not only lose but he’d also sound like an idiot because his voice would crack. So he massaged his temples for a few seconds, waiting for his throat to loosen up. “Jens, I’m asking because Henke helps me and I want to help him with this. I don’t like that it brings up his past, but I’m not going to pretend he wasn’t what he was, since it’s part of why he’s so good at helping me. And I’m not asking you to put FC at risk, I’m just asking if you can do anything. All right?”
Jens gazed at Fredrik for nearly a minute, unblinking. Then he sighed and pushed himself back from his desk. “I spend entirely too much of my time on extracurricular affairs, frankly. However, there are some future advantages to acting here, and to be honest, you haven’t collected on half my debt to you, so yes, I’ll work on it.”
Fredrik released the breath he’d been holding and slumped hard in his seat. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Jens.” He ran his hand over the top of his head, looking closer at the other man. “Kahn’s really put you in a good mood.”
“Possibly the only time the man ever has,” Jens said. He picked up his pen. “Now get out of my office, and make sure I don’t lose it.”
Grinning, Fredrik did so.
* * *
After he got back to Rome, Alessandro attempted to resign since he wasn’t exactly fit for duty anymore. Instead Lippi gave him two days off, and by the end of the first day, Alessandro was staring bemusedly at his phone when Buffon answered Alberto’s number. He really had no idea what Alberto was doing these days, he was faintly embarrassed to realize.
So Alessandro went back to work. It was what he could do, and he was still competent enough at it to deal with his pending cases. But it wasn’t the same—he knew it wasn’t a habit he could keep up forever, and now it really was nothing more than a habit.
He started watering that plant himself. And every day, when he went home, he laid down on his bed and tried his damnedest to think of a reason to get up from it. He always fell asleep first.
Lippi called Alessandro to his office, and on the way there, Alessandro prepared a gracious thank-you in his head, because Lippi really had put up with a lot from him. And then he walked into Lippi’s office, and he forgot the whole damn thing because Zlatan was sitting there and wearing a suit and sitting there and Alessandro just let the door hit his shoulder on its backswing because he was staring.
“…Sicily…special team…streamlined…organized crime task force…conditional immunity…” said someone. Lippi. “Normally he’d go into the trainee program, but he’s…er…passed out of all the tests, so given the urgency of the situation…”
“Don’t those require knowledge of Italian law?” Alessandro mumbled.
“Yes, well, he seems to have a good theoretical grasp of it. Practical, of course, is lacking, but that’s where you come in. I’ll let you get acquainted while I go get that.” With a clap of the hand on Alessandro’s shoulder, Lippi exited the room to attend to someone’s shouting.
After a couple minutes, Zlatan got up and twisted his chair around, then sat down. “If you’re going to just stand there, I might as well not get a crick in my neck.”
“What—what did you do?” Alessandro reached behind himself, found that Lippi had shut the door on his way out, and thankfully leaned against it.
Zlatan rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course it’s what I did. For fuck’s sake, I’ve been in jail and I just got out three days ago. I haven’t had time to go asking why I got offered a deal. But I guess if I was thinking about it, it’s because they need somebody too good for the Mafia to kill and obviously that’s not you, so I’m coming too.”
“I’ve handled Mafia cases before,” Alessandro said stiffly.
“Yeah, I bet,” Zlatan laughed. He swept one hand back through his hair, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. “Also, I think your ex—” he made a face “—and maybe a friend of mine had something to do with it. Haven’t gotten to call and check that yet, since they want me to work right away and show I’m going to be all good now.”
Alessandro didn’t have anything to say to that, except that that really was predictable of Paolo. He could see that, too. He could see.
After a moment, Zlatan straightened up and peered at Alessandro. He wasn’t smiling now. “Hey…so…they didn’t tell you about this? Just sort of tossed it on you again? Did—look, I didn’t get a lot of say either. Not that you ever seem to care…but if it’s not what you want, you can just say so. It won’t do anything, but if you just stuff it down like usual, you’re going to explode later and then you’re a pain in the ass.”
“You want to know what I want?” Alessandro eventually said. He stepped away from the door, then adjusted his suit-jacket as he walked up to the other man. Then he bent down and looked Zlatan in the eye. “I want…I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you respect the law.”
Zlatan didn’t believe him. The man didn’t even really hear Alessandro at first, that much was clear from the confused look on his face. Then he did, and he thought about it and stared at Alessandro. He finally realized Alessandro wasn’t being sarcastic and the corners of his mouth started to move.
“Because it’ll take at least that long, obviously,” Alessandro added.
“You uptight prick,” Zlatan said, beaming, and then he grabbed Alessandro by the hair.
Alessandro lost his balance and fell on Zlatan. His scalp hurt—strands were tearing out—and he clawed his way up till he could reciprocate by knotting his own fingers in Zlatan’s hair, his mouth glued to Zlatan’s. He still didn’t understand but he knew, knew that this was it and that was enough for him.
* * *
After his talk with José, Ruud…went to work. He didn’t fall apart, and he honestly was surprised at that. Some part of him had never been quite sure if he’d really turned the corner, but apparently he had and of course, he’d find out this way. He couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it—he was better but he still had a lot of sins to make up for—or that he didn’t understand why José was doing it. In fact, he wasn’t surprised at that. Deep down he’d seen this end coming the moment José had agreed to meet him behind Corázon.
When Ruud came home that night, José had moved out his things, but he’d left a note, and then Cesc had left a message on Ruud’s answering machine. Cesc sounded absolutely shell-shocked when he wasn’t sounding oddly sympathetic, and so Ruud ended up actually having a bit of a laugh about it.
He soon sobered up, but it wasn’t—he wasn’t feeling desperately bitter or angry or depressed. Even though he had a hard time falling asleep, but that was because one side of the bed was empty where he was used to it being full. Full, warm, comfortable to lean against, and that was what it was like. He would expect something, a voice, a shuffle of feet, that was no longer there, and when he realized that, it would hurt but then the pain would fade. He missed José, but he didn’t regret the man and he didn’t need him.
Still, he tried to keep in touch. Occasionally they texted each other, and since Cesc no longer ran off whenever he saw Ruud coming, Ruud asked him how José was doing. Fine, apparently, much to his family’s surprise. He had a job coordinating events, and in a few months he was probably relocating to Portugal to pursue that. His experience helping Ruud seemed to be giving him a leg up there, and he really seemed to enjoy it.
Work for Ruud was going fine as well. He tired of Pato’s temper tantrums and finally shoved him off onto another agent, but kept Kun and Denilson, who were both earning enough buzz for Jens to stop acting as if he was merely suffering Ruud. Of course, that might also have had something to do with Kahn’s imminent retirement, but either way, things were improving.
Cristiano came back, of course, and about a week later, released the first single from his new album, which was already being talked up for awards season. They occasionally saw each other—at a distance—in the halls, and once Ruud walked into the reception area for Jens’ office and found Cristiano already there. It wasn’t a comfortable meeting, but it didn’t degenerate into a fistfight either, and…and Cristiano had matured. He no longer seemed to be straining to overachieve, but was comfortable in his already-abundant gifts in a way that Ruud had never seen before.
So all in all, things hadn’t worked out too badly, Ruud thought as he leaned against Premier’s back wall, watching Cristiano’s album launch party swirl before him.
Then he turned around and Cristiano was standing only a few feet away. Ruud started, then tried to smile without showing any of the wistfulness he’d been feeling a moment ago. “Congratulations, Cris. It’s a brilliant album.”
“I know,” Cristiano said, a touch arrogant in its absolute certainty. But then he smiled and that was still strangely guileless. He had his flaws, but he’d never disguised them, or the rest of himself. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long time—the best one I think you’ve ever made,” Ruud replied. He paused, but had nothing else come to mind and glanced awkwardly around.
Cristiano saw and his brows rose slightly. “Gaby’s kicking out some asshole paparazzi who sneaked in.”
That actually hadn’t been what Ruud had been looking for, but he was relieved to hear it. He and Heinze hadn’t interacted since before Cristiano’s Portugal tour and he had the feeling Heinze’s attitude hadn’t changed all that much.
“I hear you and Reyes broke up,” Cristiano said abruptly. He pursed his lips, then snorted and looked off to the side. “You look all right.”
“It wasn’t a bad…yes, we did. I’m fine, thank you.” Ruud handed his half-finished drink to a passing waiter. He briefly wondered how many people were watching them, then decided he didn’t give a shit. It came with the job, and all he could do was just act in a way that he could live with, and never mind their opinions. “You seem to be doing well with your new agent.”
Cristiano blinked, then nodded distractedly. “Ah, yeah, Eusébio knows what he’s doing.”
“It’s amazing he came out of retirement…well, maybe not, if you let him preview your album.” Then Ruud thought he sounded a bit fawning and shook his head. “It really is wonderful, Cris.”
“Thanks.” For some reason Cristiano seemed surprised this second time. He began to speak, but stopped himself and looked around again. Then something struck him as funny and he chuckled, looking back at Ruud. “Listen, don’t overreact, because I do know better now. But you’re the one I wanted the most to hear this album. So I knew it was going to be big when I wrote it, but I’m only really happy now that I know you like it.”
After a moment, Ruud had to admit he could see the humorous side as well. He smiled, then impulsively stopped another waiter and took two champagne flutes from the man’s tray. One he kept for himself, and the other he offered to Cristiano. “I know better too. But I’m still honored, and if you don’t mind, I’d like…I’d like to give you a toast. To a great artist.”
Cristiano slowly took the glass, but then raised it without any hesitation. “To a great prediction,” he corrected. He looked at Ruud with knowledge and memory but no rancor, not now. “Because I did it, but you started it. So in a way, it’s to us.”
“All right,” Ruud said after a moment. He couldn’t help a snort at the irony, but at the same time Cristiano’s words rang true to him, as true as the clink of their glasses together. “To us.”
* * *
Excerpt from Duende’s Exclusive Interview with Cristiano Ronaldo
Figo: So, even after all that, do you think this life’s worth it?
Cristiano: Absolutely. All the struggles, all the difficulties and setbacks I’ve had, they’ve all just made me stronger. I know it sounds like a crazy time and it was, but if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change anything. Not a thing. I think there was a reason for everything that happened to me, and I think that it was to help me make the best music I could make. When I started out, I had a lot of talent, but I didn’t always know how to—what to do with it. It’s hard to sing about what you don’t know about. But now I know about anger and sadness and love and forgiveness, and I can write the best songs in the world about it. That’s what it’s about, at the end of the day—writing something that moves people.
***