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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R
Pairing: Figo/Mutu, Raúl/Casillas/Fàbregas. Implied Raúl/Morientes.
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: Spin-off of Hitverse; prior knowledge of that series may be helpful but is not necessary. Titled after the song by Pat Benatar. Thank you to tall_tree for the Pepe Reina information.
Summary: Figo signs up Morientes, but he misses a couple other signs.
***
“Because I miss this place,” Fernando said, stretching back his shoulders. He threw his arm over the back of his chair for better leverage, using it to pull down till there was a sudden pop in his spine, followed by a relieved flex of the muscles around the spot. Then he sighed and let his body relax, absently watching the passersby on the street before the café. “I haven’t been here in what, a couple of years? Haven’t stayed for more than a week for even longer than that.”
Pepe rolled his eyes. “Because you broke up with FC, which was ugly enough, and then you broke up with González, and then you came back to make some pass at him and got in a fight with his boyfriends. Fernando, those are all perfectly good grounds for never ever setting foot in a city again.”
Fernando looked at him, Pepe looked back, and across the street, the paparazzi snapped a lot more photos. Tomorrow’s tabloid headlines were practically screaming over the sounds of clicking and flashing: Best Friends Split Over Macchiato! Scriptmaster Reina Loses The Plot!
“I think I should punch you, and then you can dump out my beer on my head. It’ll make for a much more dramatic photo than a stupid little macchiato,” Pepe said, blank-faced.
The corners of Fernando’s mouth threatened to twitch so badly that he had to look away. He picked up his cup, which was a nice plain white mug, normal-size, no weird business about not having a handle Asian-style, and then put it down. “There’s nothing wrong with macchiatos, and anyway, we’re Spanish. Just because you’ve been working out of England for a while now doesn’t mean you get to look down on designer coffee.”
Pepe blew it, and without a moment of hesitation as he threw back his head and laughed. He laughed so hard that his shaking was transmitted to the table via the hand he had resting on it, forcing Fernando to pick up his coffee again to save it. It was damn good coffee, and that was something years of long hours in a recording studio had taught Fernando to appreciate.
“But seriously, Mori, why now?” Pepe asked when he’d slightly recovered. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he pulled himself up in his chair and took a good swig of his beer. “And don’t say I brought you here. I offered to have you meet me for the Madrid showing, but—”
“We met there. And Raúl’s still got a ton of family in Madrid. If you want to talk about awkward places, then…” Fernando tipped his head, looking out of the corner of his eye at the other man.
Who nodded in acknowledgement, then promptly stuck in the knife. “But the man himself is here, and Mori, my friend, he will hate you forever if you take this offer out of some cock-eyed idea that you’ll end up sweeping him back into your arms. I still can’t understand why you won’t take a movie role, but this is not the time to start in drama, all right?”
“I’m not! I’m not. I’m not even—I’m not. That part of my life is over and I know that, and I wish him well because he’s happy now. Truly.” On the other hand, coffee just didn’t sit on the tongue right during this sort of discussion. Too thick, too bitter, not cutting enough. Fernando signaled for the waitstaff, then ordered himself a beer and ignored the approving nod from his friend. “I’m not. Look, I tried that two years ago, looked like an ass, barely salvaged a farewell out of it.”
“You got a goodbye kiss out of it that you told me about for a week.” After a last swig of his beer, Pepe put down his bottle and leaned forward over it, propping his elbow up on the table. He rubbed at the side of his face, then settled his cheek into his palm and looked earnestly at Fernando. “Look, I’m trying to be supportive. But I also feel that it’s my duty as an honest man to tell you that I don’t want to spend another week of my life listening to you about how you screwed up with González. And that it’s my duty as your friend, and your occasional business partner, to point out that if you really honestly have to give it another go, there are much less self-destructive ways to go about it than selling your soul to Luís Figo.”
The waiter arrived with Fernando’s beer before Fernando could answer. Just as well; Fernando was probably the better for the moment he spent knocking off the cap and getting a mouthful of cool, crisply sour liquid. He swallowed that and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought you liked Figo.”
“I do. I respect him and his work with Duende, and I like him as a person. He’s got a great sense of humor.” Pepe’s eyes absently drifted to a curvy brunette in a miniskirt sashaying down the street. “But I’ve also seen enough of how he works to know that he’s already calculated in how much you’ll benefit, and that he’ll have no fucking mercy if you stray from it. You left FC because you couldn’t stand that kind of environment, Mori. So I’m having a hard time understanding why you suddenly want to walk back in.”
Fernando thought about that as he drank more beer. Across the street, the imaginary headlines stopped being about feuding and started being about alcoholism and secret trips to rehab. “And I’ve moved on from two years ago.”
“What, you mean the guy you kissed at Eurovision?” Pepe asked. His tone was already setting up his disbelief. “The short, cute, innocent yet commonsensical journalist who was dedicated to his work and who turned down your offer because he took a good look at what he already had and decided to stick with it? You know how good a friend I am? I’m such a good friend that I have wasted hours online trying to find a screen-shot of that moment so I can see if he’s got a high-bridged pointy nose too.”
“What?” They were both creative-minded people so generally Fernando could follow Pepe’s flights of fancy fairly well, but Fernando had no idea from where that one had come. Or to where it was going.
Pepe struggled very hard not to roll his eyes. Instead he settled for leaning on his hand and looking exasperated. “’Nando, you have a type, and that type is short and dark-haired and has enough backbone to tell you to take a hike when you should. If you’re doing this for—wait, why are you getting the guilty face? I knew you were leaving out something! Knew it! You told me about everything down to the piñata, but why the hell would David Villa get mad at you on sight? He’s nuts, but he’s not that nuts.”
“I’m not doing this because of David, either. David Silva, the one I kissed. I just brought him up to show that—look, if I’m kissing somebody else, I’m not obsessing over Raúl,” Fernando said after a moment. He’d intended to come off firm, but instead sounded like he was weaseling out of something. Well, he was. One of the reasons he’d never fit in at FC was because he’d never been good at lying or at half-truths. “But I’m not obsessing over David either, and anyway, I refuse to believe that Figo doesn’t know David was the mystery Eurovision guy.”
“Why would Figo kno—ooooh. Oooh, Lord.” Shaking his head, Pepe threw himself back in his chair. He pressed both hands over the top of his scalp, then stared at Fernando. “David Silva doesn’t happen to work for Duende, does he? Mori?”
“But Figo would’ve known, and he was the one who made the offer—”
Pepe was still staring at Fernando as if Fernando had just told him that he’d trashed the master print for Pepe’s latest movie. The muscles in his forearms were so tense that if he moved too suddenly, he was in very real danger of pulling off his own head.
Fernando closed his eyes and slouched in his chair. “So Silva does work there. I still have to point out that I didn’t go looking for him.”
“But you’re going to say yes to working where he works. Ahhhh, Mori, this is so bad in so many ways that I don’t even know where to start,” Pepe muttered, taking down his arms. He pressed his palms flat on the table, then dragged them off and looked uncomfortably round. “Figo knows. Yeah, I agree with you there. So you think he’s helping you out or something? So I think you’re being delusional.”
“I don’t think he’s helping me out, and I’m not—listen, I am not thinking about this because of David Silva, or Raúl, or…or anything remotely to do with getting me laid,” Fernando said sharply. “I have lots of projects going that I want to keep working on, I have good friends, a wonderful family. This is not the kind of man who jumps off a cliff here.”
Now Pepe did roll his eyes. “Who ever said anything about cliffs? I was thinking about bullfighting and escaping off balconies and—” he stuck out his arm, hand curled into a fist around an imaginary rod, and swished it through the air a couple times “—duels of honor like Zorro. You fucking romantic.”
Fernando looked at him.
“Look,” Pepe sighed, sobering up. He leaned forward again, staring hard into Fernando’s eyes. “Look at me, and while you’re doing that, give me the real reason why you want to do this.”
“Because I have a lot of projects but they’re nothing I haven’t done before, and I want to do something new. I’ve never written a column before and okay, it’s flattering that Figo would let my first try be in Duende. You remember his review of my first single? What was that line?”
“‘As well-polished and glammed-up as a Barbie’s painted-on makeup. The only real thing about Morientes is the awful spiked ‘do,’” Pepe obliged Fernando after a couple moments’ thought. “But this doesn’t mean Figo’s apologizing, you know.”
It was Fernando’s turn to glance heavenward. “I know, and anyway, he was right about that one. Which has always gotten on my nerves, even before Raúl and I…you know. Not because he was right, but because I let that kind of crap go out. Ever since I left FC I’ve been trying to do things the way I should have, help get the kind of music I think should be heard out into the world. And this is a big chance for me to do that. Working with Figo and learning how he does what he does…and also I do miss this place.” Fernando turned away and looked out on the street. “I really do. Not just because of Raúl—I liked living here. But I didn’t like working here, and I never figured that out. This is also a chance for me to do that.”
“So it’s still about you fixing your past,” Pepe finally said, but he wasn’t protesting anymore. He wasn’t happy either—the dominant emotion in his voice was resigned—but if he really thought it was the wrong thing to do, he would’ve kept arguing. “Just as long as you’re clear on what you’re trying to do, Mori.”
Fernando nodded tightly as he signaled for the bill. He looked across the street at the paparazzi, then across the table at his friend. Then he sighed. Or started to, but broke into a rueful laugh instead when he looked again at Pepe’s expression. “Well, you know me.”
Pepe rolled his eyes again. “Yes, unfortunately. No, put your wallet away, you moron. You’re here to help promote me, so I pick up the drinks. You get to pay for them when you fall in love with the wrong one again.”
“Not going to happen. If nothing else, I’ve learned that lesson,” Fernando said.
* * *
Luís was just hanging up on Marketing when his door swung open. He looked up, blinked, composed himself and reached for the lever to put his chair back into an upright position. “I could’ve sworn I locked that.”
“I got Victor to give me a key,” Adrian said curtly. He came into the office and shut the door by leaning against it. Behind his back, he was probably clutching the handle with white knuckles. He opened his mouth, but then shook away whatever he was going to say. Then he tried again and failed, and finally he just screwed up his face and gave in. “Why does Victor have a key?”
“For the same reason that he gets to crash on my couch after a bar-crawl,” Luís replied after a moment. Yes, he was stalling. He wasn’t blindsided often these days, but this was one of those times, and if he kept on trying to work out how in God’s name Adrian had gotten Valdés to give him the office key, he wasn’t going to handle this right. Whatever this was. “Can I help you?”
For a couple seconds Adrian just stared at Luís with those liquidly dark eyes of his, all soul and pain. Adrian’s arms twitched as he fidgeted with something behind him, probably the door handle. He dipped his head, took a deep breath, and then crossed the room via a reasonably firm stalking pace that made Luís notice the other man wasn’t wearing a suit, though it was a work-day. No, t-shirt and jeans, and proving that simple lines had a lot going for them if they were cut correctly. This was not, Luís reminded himself, the time to be staring at Adrian’s thighs either.
“Why aren’t you over at Pep’s?” Luís asked just as Adrian arrived before him.
He managed to put off Adrian’s stride. Just a fraction, but it was enough to make Adrian stumble and grab for the desk, enough to shake that eerily solemn expression of his so Luís could see how paper-thin it really was. But Adrian pulled himself back up and looked intensely down at Luís while putting his hands back behind him. “Because when I came in, he looked at me and said I was upset and I probably needed the day off. I said I didn’t and he asked if he should call you, and I said no, so he told me you’re the kind of person where if I didn’t go off and relax and think for a bit, I’d end up talking to plants about the meaning of the universe. He said if I needed proof, we could go see—”
“I get the point.” In retrospect, Luís should’ve thought of that. But even if he had, it wasn’t like he could have kept Adrian home without then having to make excuses to Pep, and Pep would never have believed him. And then they would’ve ended up doing this with Pep as a referee and ah, so Luís had been considering it somewhere in the back of his mind. Good to know.
“So I thought about it, and I still didn’t get it,” Adrian continued after a moment. He still had his eyes fixed on Luís, but his hips were beginning to wiggle from the fidgeting he was trying to hide behind his back. “Everything else that came up before, and a lot of it was worse than my band dumping me without telling me, you didn’t have a problem with. It didn’t seem like you to just drop me this time.”
Luís sighed and finally put the back of his chair up. “I am not dropping you.”
“I know. I figured that out, after having one of the worst nights of my life. And you would know that, wouldn’t you? You know all about this, so you’d have to.” There was just the slightest hint of wistfulness in Adrian’s voice as he stabbed an accusing finger at Luís’ nose. “You did that on purpose.”
“Yep,” Luís said. By now he was too old to be hesitating or taking breaths beforehand, but he still had that wince afterwards, when he saw the hope in the other man’s eyes die.
But Adrian didn’t storm out, or crumple to the ground, or do anything more melodramatic than shiver once. His lips pressed together and then he looked down, his shoulders pulling up tight. Then he looked up again. “Because you wanted to make me see that I don’t have to wait for you to figure out what to do. I’m recovering, but I’m not a child. I have to make my own decisions about…at least about who to have relationships with, and that’s why you did it.”
That…that was a lot faster than Luís had figured on Adrian working things out. For a moment Luís just sat there and was highly impressed—and after that, he noticed Adrian still had that tense, seething look to him. Of course Luís had known the other man wouldn’t be happy about it, but when Adrian was unhappy he tended to get even clingier than usual, even if the thing about which he was unhappy was Luís. He did that because his mindset was that he was the root of all problems, and so if Luís upset him, he immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was because he’d upset Luís first. Usually.
“I understand,” Adrian finally said. His voice had constricted so much it seemed to pain him to talk, and to go on he had to take several deep breaths. Then he shook his head and stood back, leaning against Luís’ desk. He put his hand up to his temple, then against the side of his nose. “No, I do. I get it. I had to…I had to talk to Victor about it, because Pep couldn’t stay to do and I couldn’t wait for him, and…but I get it. And I think you’re right, too. It was my band, not yours. You shouldn’t be telling me what to do with them.”
“Oh—”
“But I’m still upset. I’m—I think this is the first time I actually dislike you, that’s how goddamn upset I am,” Adrian interrupted, whirling back on Luís. He went on in Romanian, caught himself and jerked his hands in frustration as he made a visible effort to switch back to Italian. “I understand but you know what? It still hurt a lot—it scared me a lot, and I don’t really see why you had to scare me like that to make me understand. I know I’m a mess but I’m not stupid. And I don’t think that if you say you’re not going to tell me what to do but I need to tell you what to do and then you’ll help, and if I listen to that, then I’m being a robot. I still have to go and think for myself, and maybe I’d do that faster because I’m not first thinking about you suddenly not wanting to put up with me.”
It was a good point, so Luís did nod. “But as far as I knew, you would’ve just sat there and asked me what I thought, if I had any advice. And Adi, I’m sorry but I’m not perfect. If I’d done it that way, I probably would have ended up telling you what to do because I can’t resist giving my opinion.”
“But you could have tried that way first! You could have—if it didn’t work, then you could’ve done it the other way, and at least I wouldn’t have gotten so upset!” Adrian was indeed that, gesturing so violently with his hand that he knocked himself off-balance. He had to grab at Luís’ desk to keep from falling.
“If I’d tried it the other way, then you also would’ve known from the beginning that I wanted to help you, and I think you would’ve just kept pushing me to do it all for you,” Luís snapped. No, he didn’t like seeing Adrian this upset, and no, he hadn’t gotten a kick out of suddenly going back to being a lonely, grumpy workaholic after having a couple weeks of genuinely enjoyable company. But he also didn’t appreciate being yelled at, and especially not when he had considered every damn thing Adrian was bringing up. “Right before this all started, you didn’t want to go to a damn party because you were worried people would look at you and only see all the scandals. Well, I know how that feels and I can sympathize but it’s still hiding behind me, Adi.”
Adrian jerked back, then dropped his head as if Luís had slapped him. The way Adrian’s cheek flushed up, Luís might as well have, and done something fully worth the unfamiliar pang of guilt that rose in Luís’ breast.
At first Adrian tried to reply, but he couldn’t really do it. He knew Luís was right and his pride wasn’t so healed that he could just use it to ride roughshod over the truth. Then he shut his eyes and shook his head, but he wasn’t drugged-up so he couldn’t shut it out. That anger of his slowly flaked off as he chewed his lip, opened his eyes. Stared at the floor as he brought around his hands and began to fidget with them, wrapping one around the wrist of the other.
“I’m sorry it hurt, but it worked and you needed it to work,” Luís said quietly.
The dejected look froze onto Adrian’s face. For nearly a minute he held perfectly still, not even blinking, and then he straightened up and looked at Luís so suddenly that Luís actually started.
“Yes, it did. And I’m…I think I’ll be grateful. Later. But I know I’m still angry with you right now. You might have figured out my head fine, but you didn’t get the rest of me right. Fine, I’m better now, but you know what? You didn’t let me ask you to do that for me. You just did it,” Adrian told him. Deliberate and thoughtful, and boiling mad beneath that. “That’s almost as bad as what you were trying to avoid. And you know something, I think you knew that but I think you did it anyway. Because you wanted to make things work for me, but we don’t just work together, you bastard.”
Luís had half-stood before he realized. “Adi—”
“I’m going home. Pep was giving me a ride there when I said I needed to talk to you, and he said I had a good idea—but I’m going home now. He’s still waiting outside.” Now that the speech was over, Adrian’s composure was falling apart again. His voice was wavering and he turned into the desk, slamming his hand against the edge, before remembering how to get around it and out into the center of the room. It didn’t help that he kept his eyes on Luís. “I almost went and shot up again, goddamn you. I thought—I thought if you didn’t want—then why should—but I didn’t. I didn’t and I should feel good about that but I don’t because this isn’t how I wanted to know! It’s not!”
At that point Luís shut his mouth. Anything he said, even if it was the most beautiful apology in the world, wasn’t going to do any good. There was a certain way Adrian wanted to do it and all right, Luís would let him do that.
“You can come home when you’ve got this all wrapped up, like usual,” Adrian threw over his shoulder. Then he turned around barely in time to keep from walking into the wall next to the door. He caught himself with a sharp jerk, then flung open the door and stormed out.
It was on the late side, but not so much so that Luís was the only one still working at the office. When Luís wandered out about five minutes later, several heads hurriedly bent back down. One head didn’t.
“Shut up, Victor,” Luís said.
“No, and you know why? Because he showed up at my place. How does he know where I live?” Victor snapped.
That was a good quest—Luís stopped and stared into space. “Pep really likes him. Well, or Pep’s incredibly angry with me, but I haven’t done much to him lately. Besides Villa, but he’s constant trouble.”
“And Villa showed up! He wanted a mop!” Victor kept shaking his finger for a couple more seconds, then grabbed Luís’ shoulder. “And I gave him one because I didn’t want trouble, but if they find Fernando Morientes impaled on it tomorrow morning, I am blaming you.”
“Because that’ll work, when it’s your mop that’s the murder weapon. Victor, for God’s sake, Villa is not going to kill Morientes. If nothing else, Silva would never sleep with him again,” Luís sighed, going back into his office. He turned off his computer and collected his work for the night, then side-stepped Victor on his way out. “Thank you for giving him the key, Victor. No, I will not be revenging myself on you for that because it was the right thing to do. For once. I will, however, give you decaf coffee for your next hangover if you don’t stop having stupid conspiracy theories about Villa…Iker? Some commonsense?”
Iker came to an awkward stop before Luís, then promptly doubled over to lean on his knees as he caught his breath. Then he straightened up and presented Luís with a wild-eyed expression. “You said nothing would happen! You jinxed it! That’s rule number—”
“That’s for horror movies. Nobody’s died yet, unless that’s why you’re here.” And it better be, because Luís really didn’t need to be reminded that he knew exactly which rule of the Movie Cliché Playbook Iker was referencing. Or that he knew about Iker’s geeky magnum opus in the first place. “Iker?”
“Fernando Morientes left a message on Raúl’s answering machine that he’s in town and he wants to talk, and wherever Raúl feels comfortable is fine.” It came out in a frantic, terrified rush, and then Iker bent over again, out of breath. “Do you know what this means?” he wheezed to his knees. “I mean, besides that I have to be supportive of Raúl’s decision and not act like a jealous asshole, because that always ends in them running off with their old flame. It means—”
“He’s going to say yes to the offer,” Luís said.
* * *
“Sorry, I was in the—oh.” After a moment, Fernando gave himself a good shake and stepped back from the door. It promptly began to swing in towards him and he reached towards it, then pulled back his hand. Instead he reached for his coat, thrown over a nearby chair. “Wait a moment. We can go down to the lobby, or…”
The door continued to move, but more slowly, till a hand wrapped around its edge, stopping it. Both the door and the hand remained motionless as the person on the other side took a long, deep breath. Then a face slowly moved out from behind it: nose, then chin and brow. Dark wavy hair. Raúl turned and looked at Fernando, who’d gone still with his hand still only on his coat.
“Did you want to go down to the lobby?” Raúl asked after a moment.
“No.” Fernando grimaced and picked up the coat. “Well, to be honest I don’t really care. But I thought…it might be more comfortable…for you…”
Raúl looked Fernando over, as if he’d expected more changes, or something like that. He himself didn’t seem much different. Hair a little longer, maybe. The bags under his eyes weren’t as bad as last time, so maybe Fernando had caught him on a slow week. He still looked wonderful.
“Half the cast of It’s Not Me is staying here,” Raúl finally said. “If we went downstairs, we’d have to put up with the press—”
“I know, I know, Pepe’s staying here too. I’m one of the producers, for God’s sake,” Fernando muttered, rubbing his face. Then he lowered his hand, which he didn’t remember bringing up. He gave himself another shake, glanced over to see Raúl giving him that look, and put his hand back on his face. If he was going to look like a fool, he might as well go the whole way. “Damn it, I forgot. Okay, well, then…then where did you want to go?”
The creaking made Fernando take his face out of his hand, so he saw Raúl just nudging the door back into the frame. The other man looked at him, then half-smiled almost ruefully. “This is fine. I don’t think you’ll get me into trouble.”
“That sure, are you?” Before he could help himself, Fernando had grinned and lifted his brows.
For a moment the air between them was still and awkward. But then Raúl smiled again, a whole one but small and mostly directed at the floor. And affectionate, and nothing else. “’Nando.”
“Well, for one last time,” Fernando said, finally moving away from the chair. “Did—do you want anything? A glass of water?”
“No, thank you. No, I’d just like…I’d like to know why you called.” Raúl drew in another deep breath, and by the end of it, he was no longer smiling. He absently flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes. “I’m on my way back from a house call, actually, and…”
“Oh. Oh. It wasn’t an emergency—I’m sorry if you got that impression. If it’s that bad of a time for you, we can do—”
A flicker of irritation came into Raúl’s voice and unexpectedly roughened it. “No, now’s fine. I’d just like to get to it.”
It came off too demanding and rushed, and too much like their last few months together. Fernando had to look away, and when he looked back, Raúl had his eyes closed as if he was in severe pain, or as if he was about to crumple in on himself. That was a little too familiar as well, but thankfully Raúl opened his eyes only a second later. Now he did look tired. Exhausted and disappointed with himself, and still grimly determined.
“I’m sorry,” Raúl said. “But I have to—this is a little hard. Iker and Cesc don’t know I’m here. I did tell them I’d see you, but I think they think I’m going to do it later.”
For a while, and a while that still wasn’t that long ago, Fernando had had silly daydreams of Raúl saying something like that. Of course the context had been different, and so had the ending, and nowadays Fernando truly didn’t want that kind of dream. But he could still remember what it’d been like when he had, and that made it more than awkward. “I didn’t come to cause more trouble for you. Honestly. That’s why I left the voice-mail. I wanted them to know…I was hoping if I was just open about it all, this would go better than—than last time.”
Raúl winced, but then nodded, a twist to his mouth that could’ve equally been amusement or approval. He pulled at his nose, then looked up and straight into Fernando’s eyes. “That’s what I thought, and…and thank you, Fernando. But I’ll deal with whatever they have to say. Whatever you have to say isn’t necessarily their business, and anyway, I’d like to hear it.”
“I’m in town to promote the movie, and I ran into Luís Figo,” Fernando said in a rush. He had to pause for breath and somewhere in the middle of that, he seemed to forget how to continue.
Things really had changed, he suddenly realized. The last time he’d come, he’d had no problem speaking to Raúl; their ending had still been raw and live between them, and the words had poured out like blood from a fresh wound. But this time it was almost like they were meeting for the first time. He didn’t know Raúl half so well, because what he knew stopped at where they’d said goodbye, and even though Raúl had only been in the room a few minutes, Fernando could already see that this man wasn’t the same as that one. He didn’t quite know how to talk to this one.
“I came because I thought if you’re calling me, it has to be important,” Raúl eventually said into the gaping silence. He seemed to be on much surer footing than Fernando, or at least could act like he did. But Fernando would bet that that certainty was the real thing, from the way Raúl could gaze at him without flinching, whereas Fernando was staring all over the place, embarrassed by his hesitation. “I thought you’d been doing well, with the producing—music and now movies, too.” Raúl grinned, a flash of his old self under all those guarded layers. “We saw your Eurovision commentary.”
“I didn’t—” mean to kiss him, Fernando almost finished. His commonsense intervened just in the nick of time. He covered, badly, by clearing his throat. “Yes. I’m fine, as far as work goes. Actually, that’s it. Figo made me an offer to be a guest columnist for Duende and I’m thinking of taking it. I’m still going to be out of town a lot, but I was thinking of getting a place here again. I…you know I liked living here, and…”
Raúl nodded his understanding, but as Fernando let the silence creep in again, confusion began to spread over the other man’s face. He started to ask a question, then stopped himself, looking closely at Fernando. Then he nodded once. “Well, congratulations. An offer from Figo’s…it should be interesting, anyway. With the reviews he wrote about you.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about bringing them up during the contract negotiations,” Fernando offered. Then he chuckled, and surprised himself with how genuine it actually came out. And Raúl smiled as well, and Fernando relaxed a little bit. “But anyway, I wanted to let you know so you didn’t get a nasty surprise.”
“That’s all?” Raúl asked after a long moment. He blinked, then put up a hand. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to belittle it or anything. But I don’t—Fernando, you don’t have to think about me anymore, you know. I can’t tell you, and I wouldn’t have the right to tell you, what to do and what not to do.”
And Fernando nearly told the man he was wrong, and then Fernando had to laugh because God, old habits did die hard. Nearly as hard as old loves. “Oh, I know, but I like to be a nice person, Raúl. And if you can’t tell me what to do, then I’d at least like to know that you won’t dislike me any more than you do for this.”
“’Nando, I never can dislike you,” Raúl said warmly. Almost immediately afterward, he grimaced as if thinking he’d overstepped. But then he shook his head, a wry curl to his mouth. He came forward a step, then held out a hand. “But no, honestly, I wish you well. I had no idea you were interested in writing, but I’m sure you’ll be good at it. And I do remember how much you liked it here.”
After a long moment, Fernando just shook off his uncertainties and took the other man’s hand. Whether it was proper or not, it was something Raúl apparently wanted to do, and wasn’t something Fernando minded doing, and they were the only ones there. If it came out badly later, then they could deal with it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Raúl replied. His fingers wrapped around Fernando’s, firm and slightly rough, then released. He moved backwards, then adjusted himself as he realized he wasn’t quite heading for the door.
Fernando remembered his manners and came over to get the door for the other man. They had some idle chitchat before saying goodbye, when Fernando held the door and Raúl walked out, and Fernando watched the other man move up the hall for a few steps before shutting the door. Not hard, just pushing it back into its frame like he would for anybody else. He turned around and went a couple steps, then exhaled sharply and put up his hand to his face. For a moment he pressed his knuckles hard into his cheek, almost as hard as the pressure in his chest.
Then he exhaled. He looked around the room, snorted at himself and went into the bathroom.
Two minutes later Fernando came out. There wasn’t really any point in pretending he didn’t need to go talk to somebody, and anyway, Pepe had shot part of the film on a giant composting heap. He probably wasn’t going to mind if Fernando put off showering for a couple more hours.
* * *
Luís told Victor to go finish that article on Scandinavian cinema, then sat Iker down in his office and talked the man into calming down. Casillas still disagreed with the whole situation, and clearly wanted to kill Luís on several levels, but by the end of it, he understood. He probably even was ready to go home and deal with the fact that González didn’t need nearly as much protection as Iker thought he did.
If only everything was as easy as quoting Jarmusch, Luís thought as he opened the door to his apartment.
He paused, just peering through the slit he had. For a moment he actually thought about running, God help him. Then Luís sighed and went inside.
Adrian had been at the cleaning supplies again: the furniture gleamed in a way Luís had previously only seen after special lighting systems and generous usage of photoshopping software. All else aside, and if Luís could do that sort of thing after this, they had to find him a new hobby. Between the cleaning and whatever Pep had him doing, he was going to wear off the skin on his hands.
He wasn’t actually in the room, but the kitchen lights were on and there were delicious smells coming from it. The cooking, too, Luís noted as he crossed the room.
But the kitchen was empty as well. The dishwasher was full of damp pots and dishes, and on the counter a full dinner had been served up, but the food was actually quite cold to touch. It’d been out at least an hour and none of it had been eaten, although it’d been divided into two portions. One of the beers alongside it had had its cap popped off, but it didn’t appear as if any of it had been drunk. When Luís rocked the bottle, he found that all the fizz was gone.
Luís was in the middle of wrapping it all up in plastic to put in the fridge when he heard somebody fumbling with the doorknob. He picked up the plate he was working on and carried it into the living room so he could watch Adrian half-shoulder open the front door, then stalk in with head held high and body hunched in on itself.
Adrian got off his coat and tossed that and his keys on the couch. Then he stopped and looked blindly around the room before abruptly, viciously kicking out at the floor. Part of his shoe caught on something and got wrenched off during his leg’s follow-through, making him stumble backwards till he caught himself against the wall. He started to angrily push himself off that, but stopped halfway through and just stood in that awkward pose. Then he exhaled like someone had punched him in the gut and fell back against the wall, staring blankly out again.
Well, until he saw Luís. Then his eyes went wide and he jumped, and if he hadn’t been leaning against a wall, he would have fallen over.
“Sorry,” Luís said.
About half a no-my-fault got out of Adrian’s mouth before he suddenly clammed up. He wasn’t that comfortable with it, despite the renewed hurt in his eyes; his hands started to pluck at his clothes. Then he noticed and shoved them behind his back, a humiliated flush starting up in his cheeks. He still kept his eyes on Luís.
“No, I am,” Luís added. He started forward, then looked at the dish in his hand. With a sigh, Luís tore the plastic wrap off its roll, then tucked the free end under the plate as he went back into the kitchen. The plastic wrap went onto the counter and the plate into the fridge, and then Luís turned around to find Adrian sticking the plastic wrap in a drawer.
Adrian jerked back his hand as if he’d burned himself, then mumbled irritably to himself as he shut the drawer. “Well, what? Glad to see I still act like you think?” he asked, half under his breath.
“You’re really mad.” Luís reached behind himself and nudged shut the fridge door.
For nearly a minute Adrian stared at him. Then the other man pivoted hard around, cursing to himself. He threw himself into a furious pace, smacking the kitchen counter with the heel of his hand, and went the whole length of the kitchen before coming back. When he stopped, he was nearly toe-to-toe with Luís. “Why—why wouldn’t I be?” Adrian grated out. “Why does that surprise you?”
“I don’t know. I’d think you would be—I would be if I was in your position,” Luís admitted. “I suppose—”
“Oh, I guess you do.” Adrian threw his whole head into the eye-roll, and if he’d been Luís’ age, he would’ve pulled a few muscles with the force of it. Then he brought his chin down and glowered at Luís. “You know what? I think you’re not surprised I’m mad. I think you’re surprised I’m still here.”
“I didn’t think you’d go out and find a dealer—” Luís started.
The most fantastic noise emerged from Adrian, sort of a bull’s snort combined with a widow’s sigh. His hands went up and back into his hair, and as if they were on the same string, his eyes shut hard. Then he inhaled a bit more calmly and dragged his hands round to his face, where he rubbed at the shadows under his eyes. “No, because I think you would’ve told Pep to watch for that, or have somebody watch for that. That’s not an old relationship and you can do something about that. You’re surprised I stayed here for you.”
Well, it was clear now that the other man thought he had the story, so far be it from Luís to interrupt. He waited for Adrian to go on.
“I don’t get it,” Adrian said, dropping his hands. “I really don’t. With the kind of person you are, how could I even walk out on you? You’d know and do something—”
The muscle in Luís’ cheek twitched before he could help it.
“—or ooooh, you wouldn’t. That’s why. You wouldn’t do a thing because what, you want me to go? I thought you said you weren’t dropping me.” A trace of fear shook Adrian’s voice, but then his eyes narrowed. He was considerably quicker than most of the recovering junkies Luís had known, admittedly. “You did. You weren’t lying then. But you do want me to walk out on you, and you know, I knew you were an asshole and I don’t care about that. But you’re a coward, too. That’s different.”
“Yes, it is,” Luís finally said. He glanced at the fridge before remembering he’d already shut it, then moved away from it. The kitchen was a little small, with how Adrian kept shuffling his feet like he wanted to lunge at something. Maybe the living room would be better. “You’re probably up to walking out on me, though. You might not think so, but if you can yell at me like this, then—”
“Oh, no no no. This is not another one of your fucking tests!” Before Luís could so much as look towards the doorway, Adrian had slid in front of him to block the way. “You think you get it, but you don’t. I’m not going. I told you at the beginning, I’ll sit outside your door. You want me to go, you have to drop me.”
When Adrian shut his mouth, the force of it clicked up his chin. He didn’t level it, but kept staring at Luís from a slight upwards angle, as if he was shorter and not the same height as Luís. A slight tremble was going through him, and as they stared at each other, it got worse and worse, to the point where Adrian finally had to jerk down his head and grab his nose to steady himself. He tried to cover it up by pretending he had an itch on the bridge of his nose, but when Luís reached out and touched his cheek, Adrian nearly threw himself into the fridge. Then he froze, eyes unblinking but far from certain, as Luís went ahead and laid his hand against the side of Adrian’s face.
“I’m not going to drop you,” Luís told him. Then he put his other hand on the opposite side of Adrian’s face and Adrian moved a little so Luís’ thumbs slipped down to the man’s jaw. Luís began to move them back up, then circled them around the hollows of Adrian’s cheeks instead, rubbing the stubble there. Adrian hadn’t shaved in the morning.
Adrian sucked in air like his head had just cleared the surface of the ocean. His eyes were dark with pain and with a naked yearning so intense that it hurt the most to see. He breathed in again, slower and shallower as Luís brushed his thumbs over the man’s cheeks again. He was starting to tilt forward, his shoulders turning into Luís.
Then he took a sharp breath and grabbed Luís’ wrists. “Then why?”
“Because I’m bad at helping people,” Luís said after a long moment. He looked down between them and his mouth twitched when he saw Adrian’s feet, one with a shoe on it and one without. But only one twitch. Then he looked back up, directly at Adrian. “No, really. I know I’ve seemed like a genius so far, and I am when it comes to what I know, but that’s as far as it goes. It’s good enough to run a magazine, so I don’t get called on it often. But you’re not a magazine.”
The corners of Adrian’s mouth pulled down. Then they split as Adrian let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. His grip loosened and his hands slid over Luís’ wrists almost caressingly, but then his fingers clenched again. “Why are you bad at it?”
It must have been the fact that he’d just come out of rehab, and before that had spent most of his time as a big star coked out of his mind. Nobody Adrian’s age who was in the music industry should be able to have that kind of guileless curiosity in his eyes. “I don’t try too much.”
Adrian’s brows pinched together. “Don’t do that. That—sarcastic thing of yours. I still don’t understand, and I’m still mad.”
“No, I’m telling the truth,” Luís said. He let his hands flow down Adrian’s neck till they were seated about its base, his thumb-tips just grazing the underside of Adrian’s jaw. “The way I do it now, it doesn’t require a lot of effort. I just make a few decisions and other people do the work. Which is not the same thing as easy—I’m head editor for a good reason—but it’s also not the same as trying.”
The other man bit his lip, sucked on it and then let it slip out from his teeth. He was doing it because he was thinking hard, not as an invitation, but since this was not one of Iker’s beloved classics and Luís wasn’t one of those rakes with a heart of gold, Luís had to remind himself not to stare. Then, thankfully, Adrian started talking again. “Well, then why don’t you try?”
“Because I did once and it didn’t work out. I almost ruined the life of a…of a very good friend of mine, because I thought I knew what I was doing but I didn’t. And I mean life. It’s not the same thing as ruining a career.” Even after all these years, Luís still had to grimace. “When you try, you start putting things at risk that hurt a lot more to lose than a recording contract.”
“So…you didn’t try, and I almost walked out on you. And you thought I was going to. You were surprised,” Adrian said, accusation lending an acidic tone to his voice. But then he pressed his lips together and ducked his head. His hands slipped off Luís’ arms. “Well, then, you never did say I was much to you. I can’t put that on you. You just let me stay.”
“That’s not it. That’s not—” Luís exhaled irritably, the words not coming to him. He shook Adrian, but the other man’s head didn’t come up so Luís had to stoop to press his mouth to Adrian’s lips.
He did it hard, inconsiderate. He was trying to make a point, not be nice. Nice could come later, if he hadn’t fucked this up too badly; first he had to make his case and God, Pep was going to throw files at Luís’ head again when he heard about this one. Luís wasn’t even going to think about Victor’s reaction.
At first Adrian struggled, pushing at Luís and trying to speak. He was probably saying something like don’t pity me—Luís twisted them so Adrian was pinned up against the fridge. Adrian’s knee glanced off Luís’ thigh and Adrian staggered as his shoed foot unexpectedly slid on the tile, while his bare one stayed put. He ended up corkscrewing into Luís, straddling Luís’ leg and it was an accident at first, but then he was pressing himself forward, one arm around Luís’ neck, his mouth hungry and desperate to believe.
It was hard, and Luís was weak enough to wait till they needed air, but he broke them back apart. Then he gasped a few times so he could get out the damn words. “No, I guessed wrong. I thought you’d do something different and I made a mistake, and Adi, I’m sorry.”
Adrian stared at Luís, still panting for breath. His eyes flicked back and forth over Luís: fast at first, but more and more slowly as he began to believe Luís wasn’t being sarcastic. He shifted his arms against the back of Luís’ neck, glancing down and to the side, and then back at Luís. He pulled at Luís, paused, and then sucked in a determined breath as he dragged Luís back onto him.
Fingers clawed down Luís’ back, then urgently scraped up the hem of his shirt as he buried himself in Adrian’s mouth. He yanked at Adrian’s jeans till they gave a little, but then they got stuck again; Adrian grunted in pain and Luís vaguely thought about undoing the fly. Which he forgot about when Adrian heaved himself up the fridge—the thing tilted, then slammed back down with enough force to shake the floor—and pressed his whole torso against Luís, hot tongue flicking around and around Luís’ right ear. For a moment Luís couldn’t even move.
When he did again, his hands were lapping onto bare skin, bare thighs and hips: Adrian had skinned himself out of his own jeans while Luís had held onto the belt-loops. Had to have rubbed the man raw, at least, and Adrian acted like it, whipping his body at the slightest touch. Graze of a fingertip over his groin, a knuckle against his prick and Adrian was groaning, digging his nails through Luís’ shirt to tear off the skin of Luís’ back. Fair turnabout, probably.
They weren’t going to make it to the bedroom. Thankfully there were still a lot of bottles of artisan olive oil from the Eurovision gift baskets—too damn many, and why did they had to stuff them with things like chile peppers, which Luís noticed only after getting it on his fingers. Before getting his fingers into Adrian, at least, but he had to switch hands for the new bottle and then the first one kept tingling and then burning. At first Luís tried to wipe off the oil on his trousers, but Adrian, too impatient, shoved and nudged them down with a combination of toes and one half-flailing hand. So Luís just twisted up his burning fingers in Adrian’s shirt, bit Adrian’s shoulder to cut the pain, and fucked the man against the fridge till he could feel Adrian’s pulse stuttering against his own.
Adrian wouldn’t let go afterward. Slack-kneed, he hung onto Luís’ shoulder and rubbed his face into the side of Luís’ neck as Luís hauled them over to the sink. The cool water momentarily cooled Luís’ fingers, but then, like a bad TV jingle, the burning came back. Hissing through his teeth, Luís scrubbed furiously at his hand with some dishwashing detergent.
“Careful with your shirt,” he said when he felt Adrian shifting. “I got some on you. Chile—”
The other man paused. Then he unwound himself from Luís. His hands were shaking but he was cautious with them as he pulled his shirt over his head, keeping it away from his eyes. Then he tossed the shirt into the sink, sagging back against the counter. He looked at Luís with swollen mouth and thoughtful eyes.
“I am sorry,” Luís said after a while.
“Even if I’m mad at you, it’s not like I would be leaving.” Adrian absently pushed at his jeans, stuck halfway down his thighs. His forearm bumped his prick. “I don’t think you can fix that.”
Luís lifted his hands free of the sink and watched the water run off them for a few seconds. “I know, but—”
“I’m not an idiot,” Adrian said patiently. “I know you’re not a saint. But I know what real devils look like too, and you’re not one. I’m fine with it, even if it pisses me off sometimes.”
“When I say Zidane broke my heart, I’m not being sarcastic,” Luís said.
It was very, very quiet for the next thirty seconds. Then Adrian awkwardly cleared his throat. “But—but I thought he’s—”
“He is straight. It’s…it was complicated.” After a moment, Luís snorted and shook his head. He finally turned off the tap and then twisted about to face Adrian. “He’s the most complicated straight man you’ll ever meet. I’m not looking at you to replace him, by the way. That’s not and never will be possible. But he…he is a very, very long story.”
“Well, I’m not leaving,” Adrian said. He smiled at Luís. It was relieved and hesitant and curious, with a bit of a plea thrown in for good measure. “I mean, if you want to…”
“Not tonight.” Luís looked around the kitchen, idly noting the spilled oils, the fallen bottles. Amazingly there wasn’t any broken glass, but it was a mess and Luís grabbed Adrian just as the other man started reaching towards a dishrag. He pulled Adrian up against him, pressing his face to the back of Adrian’s head. “You just should know, for the next time I try something stupid. Anyway, about your band—”
Adrian’s shoulders hitched sharply, then slowly sank back down. He touched the back of Luís’ hand. “I think I just want to move on. We had some good times, but that was way before…maybe I was the only one who ended up in rehab, but I wasn’t the only one who needed it, believe me. I just don’t want to…I talked to Pep a little bit. He said some things about seeking compensation, contract breaches, and I guess I’ll think about it.”
Pep. That was not going to be a comfortable conversation tomorrow morning, even if it’d all turned out fine after all.
“He said he wasn’t going to land you in jail again,” Adrian said, reading Luís’ mind. He turned around and leaned his arm against Luís’ chest. “But he wouldn’t really talk much about you. He just said to ask you, and it’d serve you right if I pestered you to death. I thought you were friends.”
“We are,” Luís grinned. “That kind of friend.”
The other man didn’t get it, but he seemed to like just having Luís looking amused again. He turned further around and put his hands on Luís’ forearms, then leaned in so Luís could kiss him.
* * *
Halfway through the photo-shoot, Fernando spotted a pair of snazzy high-tops sticking out from under a reflector screen. Then the photographer told him to raise his chin a little and he couldn’t look at them anymore, but he kept them in mind.
When the shoot was over and Fernando had had his make-up scrubbed off, he went to go grab his jacket from the closet, only to spot those high-tops sticking out from a corner. So instead he went around the turn in the hall and surprise, surprise, David Villa was standing there with his hands jammed into his jeans pockets and a murderous scowl on his face.
“So you’re part of the magazine now,” Villa said abruptly, as if he was throwing down a challenge. He jerked up his chin, then pivoted on one heel like he was leaving. “Well, good luck.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Fernando retorted on instinct. An hour and a half, a bottle of red wine and Pepe’s sense of humor had gotten him over Raúl’s visit, and even put him in the mood to apologize to David Silva about the whole nightclub mess, should they run into each other. But fifteen seconds with David Villa and suddenly Fernando was dangerously close to saying to hell with cool, calm and professional. After all, he’d turned this town upside-down long before Villa had gotten his start with Duende. “Looking forward to working with all my new colleagues.”
Villa snapped to a halt, waited a beat and then stalked right back up to Fernando. He didn’t seem to notice that he had to tip his head back to glower at Fernando, but Fernando did and Fernando couldn’t say he was all that ashamed about being amused by it.
“You stick to your fucking work and I’ll stick to mine, and nobody gets hurt. I’ll give you a truce, all right?” If that was Villa’s idea of an apology—and from the strangled way he spoke, it was—then he just about deserved a smack.
But Fernando knew better. “Oh, don’t go out of the way on my account. I don’t want any special treatment. Never have. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with that idea, but it’s how I work, anyway. If people think I’m worth anything, it’s because I’ve earned it.”
Villa stiffened, clamped his jaw shut and ratcheted up the intensity of his glare. His nostrils flared, then pinched nearly shut as he inhaled sharply. Then he shook his head and half-turned away, throwing up his hand in a dismissive gesture.
“I’ll stick to my work, but I can’t speak for other people. And I can’t speak for what might happen outside of work,” Fernando added. A tiny part of him was pointing out what a terrifically bad idea this was, and especially when this job was supposed to be the first step in starting over in this town. But a much louder and more forceful part was recalling what Villa had accused him of doing to Raúl, and Villa had never even attempted to apologize for that. Just like FC, seeing what they wanted to see and doing what they wanted to do. Fernando had never put up with that either, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“What the hell does that mean?” Villa finally grated out. He took a step back towards Fernando. His hands were in fists.
Fernando just smiled pleasantly. “Oh, only that I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone. I know David Silva a little bit, of course, but we didn’t talk—”
The way Villa thrust up his head, he gave the impression that he was going nose-to-nose with Fernando, even though there were still several centimeters separating them. He held that pose for a few seconds, breathing harshly, before abruptly whirling and storming off. “Motherfucking bastard,” whipped back over his shoulder. “Don’t even fucking…”
Well, but Fernando had clearly just done so. Though Fernando knew better. He knew better.
Villa was gone, and so was the smile on Fernando’s face. He looked belatedly around, but miraculously, the whole confrontation seemed to have gone unnoticed. So maybe it’d just…Fernando shook his head, then shrugged his shoulders a few times. He knew better, all right, but something about Villa just made it too easy. The man rubbed him the wrong way, and in fact Fernando still could feel the rawness of the nerves Villa had frayed.
Fernando stood there for about another minute, then took a deep breath and got his coat. He’d just have to learn to deal with it. After all, he’d just signed the employment contract, and he was old enough to pay out on whatever he’d signed.
***