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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Xavi/Iniesta, Figo/Mutu. Implied Silva/Villa, Raúl/Morientes, Silva/Morientes.
Disclaimer: This is absolutely fiction and not real and I don’t know these people at all. Any resemblance to any real-life magazine is completely accidental.
Notes: Titled after the song by Depeche Mode.
Summary: Pudding and rumors. A typical day at Duende. Also, Fernando fights writer’s block.
***
“Yum,” Bojan said. Then he realized people were actually looking at him and quickly ducked under a desk. “Oops, lost my spoon…”
Everyone shrugged and went back to looking at the boxes and boxes of little plastic containers spread over the mail table. Victor tilted one over to mumble the label to himself, while Iker tentatively poked into another. Then he frowned at it. “Mint. Mint?”
“Ew,” David Silva said. “Gimme some of the caramel instead. That doesn’t sound like it’s going to make me throw up just thinking about it.”
“Give him the caramel,” David Villa promptly ordered, taking a box away from Albelda. Ignoring the killing stare he got, he passed it to Silva, who took out a container, got off the lid and peeled off the foil covering beneath it before Villa could even put down the box. Then Villa froze in place and watched as Silva used a finger to swipe up some of the pudding.
Silva sucked it off, then looked meditatively at his sticky finger. “Hmmm. Not bad.”
“That’s unsanitary and heathenish, Silva. There are spoons in the coffeeroom and you know it,” Gutí sniffed. He’d also helped himself to a pudding and was pointedly using his spoon to scrape around the rim for the last bits.
Villa hefted his box in a vaguely menacing way; Silva looked up sharply, then grimaced and slotted himself between Villa and Gutí just as Victor let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, my God,” Victor said. “Neurotic yes, but thieving? We have standards, people.”
They all regarded him for a moment. Then Albelda rolled his eyes. “Not bad, but there’s a little something…”
“Luís does more of a nasal thing with his drawl,” Iker agreed. “And he has more emphatic shoulder movements.”
Victor’s eyes started to bulge. “I’m not imitating Figo! I’m saying—”
“Oh, good, you’re all at it already,” Figo said, strolling in with a body over his shoulder. He slowed to heft it, snagged some pudding for himself and stuffed that into his coat-pocket as he strolled on to his office. “Our new sponsor’s going to be thrilled the staff’s so wholeheartedly behind its product.”
Blink, head-tilt and hand to face from Victor. “What? What are these?”
“Free samples! Go ahead, eat up. One of you’ll have to take one for the team and get seen eating them in public anyway.” The body on Figo’s shoulder briefly got in his way as he tried to open his office door, dangling its feet in front of the knob. They evaded all attempts by Figo to nudge or swing them out of the way with an elbow, and finally he had to prop the body against the jamb while he got the knob. Then he pivoted into the room, turning sideways as he did to avoid hitting the body’s head against the wall. “Oh, and Bojan, go get the first-aid kit. Villa, no killing Gutí till he’s turned in his bit on London’s Fashion Week.”
The door shut behind him. Villa made a face at it, flicked a disgusted look at Gutí and then shoved his box back on the table. “Pudding. Whatever, it’s not my turn to shill for our sponsors.”
“First-aid kit? Somebody’s hurt?” Bojan said, popping his head over the table’s edge.
“I think that that was Andrés,” Iker said slowly, horror dawning in his eyes.
Just then, Figo’s door banged open. “Before you all panic and call the police,” Figo drawled, “Andrés is fine. Probably. A bike messenger rammed into him. Now one of you give up your hangover stash and donate some aspirin to the poor kid.”
The door shut again. Bojan cursed to himself and scrambled out between Iker’s and Albelda’s knees for the first-aid kit. A couple of the others awkwardly dropped their puddings; Villa stuck his hand out under Silva’s and caught it, then gave it back to Silva, whose expression twitched through various shades of pleased and embarrassed.
“I’ll go get the aspirin,” Victor muttered.
Albiol walked in from the street door, glanced around and then put his hands on his hips. “What the fuck is everyone standing around for? Haven’t you heard? Zidane’s doing a comeback concert! Even the bike messengers are losing it!”
Victor turned around, and Iker grabbed his arm and spun him right back. “No. Get more aspirin,” Iker ordered.
The group groan that arose seconded the wisdom of that bit of advice. Shaking his head, Victor went off at a trot. As if that’d been a signal, phones started ringing, PDAs started beeping, and staff began leaping desks to get back to work. In an instant, only Albiol was left by the table.
He nodded approvingly, then glanced at the table. With a puzzled frown, he pulled one box towards him. “Pudding?”
“Get the fuck off that and get to work, like everybody else,” Albelda said, coming back. He made a snatch at Albiol, didn’t take well to being slapped away, and tackled Albiol into the midst of the buzzing, bustling newsroom. They were immediately swallowed up by the others.
* * *
“I don’t know,” Fernando said.
Pepe rolled his eyes behind his newspaper. “Yes, you do.”
“It’s a nice location.” Fernando drummed his fingers across the table, then slouched further under it. He glanced at the piles of papers in front of Pepe, then reached out and used a fingertip to lift the top one.
“It was a nice location when you were living here years ago, and needed to get over to FC’s shindigs every night. Now it’s five blocks without a good tapas place. I liked the other one.” After slapping down the paper, Pepe took it from Fernando and briskly unfolded it, only to dump it after only a short glance. He picked up the next one. “It had a good view and I think the lady at the dry-cleaner’s was eyeing your ass.”
“I’m not going to be eating out all the time. I can cook now,” Fernando said, faintly reprimanding. “And I’m not going to decide based on who’s staring at my rear end.”
The other man looked at him.
“Okay, fine. Not that one.” Sighing, Fernando reached down beside himself. He pulled out a real estate listing, turned it back and forth and then tossed it onto Pepe’s discarded paper. “But not the dry-cleaner one either. That one’s seven blocks without a park. Where am I going to go jogging?”
“Every time a paparazzi spots you?” Pepe suggested. Then he grinned, half-heartedly fending off Fernando’s equally half-hearted smack with the listing. “All right, all right. But Mori, I do have better things to do than prod you into buying a damn apartment, you know.”
Fernando raised his brows. “You’ve only been reading the sports pages for the last fifteen minutes. For golf. You hate golf. Look, how are we do—”
“Shhh!” Pepe hissed so forcibly that his eyes bulged. At a table behind them, a little boy began to cry. Grimacing, Pepe ducked his head, then drew a deep breath and lifted his head again. He blew out his cheeks and the boy giggled. A relieved man turned back to Fernando. “Opening week’s not over yet! You know better than to jinx the numbers for me! And don’t start about superstitions. You know what you used to do before every concert.”
After a moment, Fernando shrugged and looked out across the tables. It was a sunny day, slow with only a few shoppers walking around what was a very fashionable neighborhood. On the other side of the street, a tiny shoebox of an art-house movie theater was just letting out an audience in twos and threes. “Speaking of, I need a subject for my first column. Figo suggested something about returning to your roots, but all I can come up with is how annoying it is that they still can’t find enough work to keep the personal assistants out of trouble.”
“I’ve been wondering if you saw Fàbregas, or if we were actually going to get out of here without you noticing your little stalker,” Pepe said. He sounded far too amused for Fernando’s taste. And then he went and actually waved at the spiky fringe of hair studiously examining the theater’s playbill rack. It hunched down behind the rack and Pepe laughed. “Awww, he’s really making an effort.”
“Always did, the little menace. Did his best to kneecap me. If he hadn’t been related to Raúl, I would’ve dropped him in a sewer long ago,” Fernando muttered. Thankfully he was able to hail the waiter and get their bill. “Isn’t there something going on in town?”
“For you or for him? No, I kid, I kid.” When the bill arrived, Pepe snatched it up before Fernando could get to it, pretended to examine the total and then presented it to Fernando with exaggerated ceremony. He grinned as Fernando rolled his eyes and dug out a credit card. “Actually, there’s a rumor that Zidane’s been talked into doing a cameo performance at that charity thing next week. You hear anything about this?”
Zidane? For a moment Fernando stared at the bill without seeing it. Then he blinked sharply as the numbers came into focus. Pepe had been sneaking beers on him ag—no, wait, that wasn’t beer. That was for the little sweet cakes to which they’d both been hopelessly addicted. Oh, well. He got out his wallet. “No, that’s news to me. I just talked to him a week ago and it didn’t sound like he was getting ready for anything like that.”
“Maybe it’s just a rumor, then,” Pepe shrugged.
“Probably,” Fernando agreed, and put it out of his head. He still needed a place and a column idea.
* * *
Andrés squeezed his eyes back shut, then slowly put his hands up to his head. He felt around till he was sure everything was still attached, breathed a sigh of relief, and opened his eyes.
“Icepack?” Xavi said, looking gravely down at him.
“You’re up!” Iker said, looking down from the other side. He patted Andrés on the shoulder—ah, that was where it hurt—then got distracted by something at the side. His voice got distinctly frostier. “Huh? No, I haven’t seen Villa. I’m not dating him or trying to kill him, so why should I know where he is?”
“Because he’s a coworker?” Figo drifted into view, inquired how Andrés was, and when told, gave Andrés half a day off with the proviso that Andrés avoid bike messengers from now on. Then he and Iker went off before Andrés could ask just what bike messengers had to do with anything, anyway.
Wait. Actually, Andrés was beginning to remember now. He’d been crossing the street…and had seen Figo coming down the other way, so he’d stopped to wait for the other man and…he slapped his hand over his mouth. Then he hissed and pressed even harder, so that the painful ringing in his teeth would stop.
“I think it’s still unconfirmed rumor at this point,” Xavi said. He still had that icepack in his hand.
After Andrés had applied it to his shoulder, he started to ask what was unconfirmed rumor, only to be interrupted by the door banging open. Villa stood there, fists pressed into his hips, breath seething through his teeth.
Then he turned around. “Oh. That’s where you went.”
Figo raised his brows. “My…desk? Yes, I occasionally go there.”
“Whatever. Listen, I just heard that Zidane’s gonna show at Pepe Reina’s party later and say hi to Morientes, so I’m going to be home working up the mid-summer picks article,” Villa said.
“That…made no sense,” Iker said. Then he ducked out from behind Figo. He pointed at some invisible thing with his right hand, another invisible thing with his left, and then pushed the two together with his index fingers. “See, you have one fact: where Zidane will be. And then you have this other fact: where you’ll be. And they don’t relate to each other, because where Zidane will be will be a movie party and you wouldn’t be going to that anyway.”
It was pretty simple logic, which made for a strong point. A normal person would’ve been taken aback. Villa, however, glowered his way right through Iker’s logic. “The point is that Zidane’s a huge music story, maybe, but since Morientes is already going, I don’t need to go to check it out. You don’t need us both there and I have more import—”
“Villa, you cause me no end of heartburn, but I admire your dedication to your work. At least, I did,” Figo said slowly, disbelief richly enveloping every word. “But—Fernando Morientes is a guest columnist. He is not a reporter, and even if he was, I’d hope your sense of self-respect wouldn’t let you give up your job to him so easily. Or else why don’t I fire you?”
“He didn’t think of that,” Andrés muttered. Then he winced and looked hurriedly around, but the only one who seemed to have heard him was Xavi. And Xavi just blinked at him before going back to checking email on a PDA.
“Don’t even—that was rhetorical. Rhetorical. Anyway, Zidane’s a rumor and I thought I’d trained you lot to not get worked up over unsubstantiated bullshit. Now get out of here. Go…seethe at your computer. Something.” With a dismissive wave of the hand, Figo somehow got Villa to leave the room. Then he turned around, checked Iker’s expression and sighed. “Just trust me on this one, all right? Zizou’s not having a comeback concert.”
Iker started to object, then abruptly shut his mouth. He put his chin in his hand and thought hard about something before shaking his head. “Okay. Lecturing you on your personal life’s Victor’s job anyway. I bug you about how you treat us.”
Figo blinked. “I’m close friends with the man. I just talked to him a week ago. Why on earth wouldn’t I know if he’s decided to lose his mind and start touring again?”
“Like I said, not my job,” Iker said, his voice rising sharply. He was almost sing-songing with an odd mixture of relief and sudden hurry as he backed his way out of the room. A glance over his shoulder, and then he dashed off.
Figo frowned and stared after the other man. Then he snorted and rolled back his shoulders, turning around. He stopped when he saw Xavi, who promptly handed him some folders and scooted out the door. After another frown, Figo flipped open one folder and began to leaf through its contents. “You all right to get home?” he asked.
It took a moment for Andrés to figure out that Figo was talking to him. “Huh? No, I’m fine. I’m—I don’t think I need to go home, actually…”
“No, you’re right. You got knocked out, you should go to the doctor’s.” The stuff in the folder apparently wasn’t a big deal, since Figo tossed it onto the table by Andrés’ feet. “Or at least a clinic. God forbid you turn out to have an aneurysm or something like that.”
“No, really, I feel okay. And I don’t think you can get an aneurysm from getting hit by a…a bike! It was a bike!” Then Andrés winced and wished he could retroactively crank down the volume on his voice. “Um, that hit me. Right?”
“Nasty ten-speed with the kind of wheels I thought you had to be in the military to score,” Figo agreed, fiddling with his phone. He put that against his ear and drummed his fingers against the table a few times, then made an exasperated face at the ceiling. “Zizou. It’s me. People are trying to convince me that you’ve gone crazy and are headlining some concert. Call me back and reassure me of your sanity when you’ve got a chance.”
Andrés blinked a few times. He rubbed his shoulder under the icepack and looked around, then put his hand to the side of his head. “Maybe I should go to the doctor.”
Figo looked sharply at him. “Andrés, Zizou is not going on tour.”
“I know, but even you’re calling him,” Andrés blurted out. “Er. You know, I’ll get a taxi. Thanks for the day off and…”
“Taxi’s here,” Xavi said from the door. He didn’t bat an eye at how Andrés gratefully leaped at him, but just calmly got out of the way.
Two minutes later, when they were in the elevator, he also gave a dizzy Andrés a hand with the topsy-turvy world. Andrés normally would’ve felt embarrassed about how tightly he was clutching the other man’s shoulder, but at the moment holding onto the icepack seemed hard enough. He just concentrated on breathing.
“So I don’t know yet if Figo wants to go after that bike messenger, but just in case, I think you should probably write down what happened. Not right now,” Xavi said. He alternated between mumbling and speed-talking, like a car that revved up in between stoplights. Or maybe that was Andrés’ head. “Just, you know, sometime after the doctor looks at you.”
“I’m fine, really. I just didn’t want to get in between Figo and his Zidane…thing…issues…you know. Whoa.” Raising one’s head too quickly was a bad idea, and made even worse by the way the elevator clunked to a stop in the lobby. That grip Andrés had on Xavi’s shoulder wasn’t going to come off any time soon. “You do know, right? Guardiola’s told you or something…right? Oops.”
Xavi pushed Andrés back onto his feet, on the outside of the elevator doors. The other man looked at Andrés, who mustered up one last moment’s resistance before hanging his head. Then Xavi’s faintly incredulous expression bent enough for a sympathetic smile. “If it makes you feel better, you’ve got to have the doctor’s appointment or else you’ll get Duende in trouble with the healthcare system. And everybody who works for Pep gets briefed about the Zidane matter.”
At this point, Andrés was leaning much more towards seeing the necessity of a doctor’s visit—he had the rest of the day off anyway—but his work ethic was still putting up a fight, so he sounded a little cranky. “Is there a memo?”
“Yes,” Xavi said. He glanced at Andrés, then grinned again as they gingerly made their way out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk. “No, not really. Pep wouldn’t write something like that down.”
“I don’t think you could write it down, really. Not unless you wanted a ten-volume set,” Andrés muttered. The taxi was waiting right there and as he stuck his leg in the door, the driver asked his destination in a rough hurry-it-up tone. Flustered, Andrés stammered nonsense till Xavi leaned down and gave the address, and then Andrés shut up.
The other man started to shut the door, then ducked down and squeezed out a last word. “By the way, I hope you’re not holding that kiss against me. Sorry about that,” Xavi said.
Then he shut the door, the taxi peeled away from the curb, and Andrés was too busy trying to keep his rattled head on his neck to really think much about it. He’d forgotten it anyway, what with work and Figo and the bike messenger and maybe Zidane problems, and wow, he thought. Xavi really was good.
It was just too bad the man didn’t work at the magazine. Sure, Andrés had the day off, but tomorrow he’d have to come back and figure out just what seismic event had rearranged things this time. And he wouldn’t have a concussion to blame it on.
* * *
The realtor showed Fernando three more places and then wisely gave up, with the gentle suggestion that maybe he sit down and figure out exactly what he was looking for before he went looking again. It was good advice and Fernando did have every intention of taking it. He even went back to his hotel room and sat down with the complimentary stationery pad so he could brainstorm a list.
It was just that things kept interrupting. There was a newspaper next to the stationery on the desk, so he just checked really quick how the movie was doing at the box office—stellar, Pepe was so paranoid sometimes—and then he got himself some coffee to go with the paper. Except he was out of filters, so he went down the hall till he found one of Pepe’s team in their room and borrowed some from her. She and two of the actresses were debating dresses to wear to a party later that night, and they dragged him into giving an opinion.
So a good hour and a half later, Fernando finally made his way back up the hall. And he really, honestly did mean to go straight to his room and think about it, but he saw scruffy black hair belatedly dart behind a plant and he just couldn’t take it anymore. He went right up to the plant, moved the leaves and then stood there till Cesc realized he couldn’t Blackberry his way out of the corner.
“Oh, hi!” Cesc said cheerily, looking up as if they’d just stumbled over each other. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Raúl told you and you came to make sure I wasn’t really here to kidnap him and hold him hostage in my swanky room till he fell in love with me again,” Fernando replied dryly. It was hard not to roll his eyes at the way Cesc twitched, but damn it, Fernando was an adult. More importantly, he was being an adult about this. “Did he mention that he came to visit me? I just called to see if I could get a—”
Cesc blinked. Then his eyes snapped into angry slits and his index finger came up to wave in Fernando’s face. “Don’t you blame him again! He didn’t—”
“Okay, wrong way to do this,” Fernando said. He spoke fast to cut off the oncoming rant—too fast to give himself time to think of what to say next, so there was an awkward lag. Then he sighed and raised his hand, interrupting whatever Cesc had to say next. “Look. I understand that no means no. I’m not here to pester him, all right? Unless it’s to tell him to please keep you home because you’re annoying.”
“I am not!” Then Cesc had his own lag, as his relief about Fernando’s admission ran right into his offended dignity. His eyebrows did some frantic pinching and wiggling as he tried to straighten out his expression. In the end he settled for a vaguely astonished pout. “Man, you’re mean these days.”
“No, I’m not. It’s just that since I’m not trying to date Raúl anymore, I can say what I really think about you. And you were one irritating little shit.” Fernando paused and thought about what he’d just said. Then he shrugged and nodded. “Anything else?”
The pout went away, and for a few moments Cesc just stared at him. Then the other man gave himself a sharp shake. He opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he took a step back. Then he shut his mouth and half-turned around. He gave Fernando another shocked look, then rather hesitantly headed for the elevator.
Well, that had worked a lot better than Fernando had thought. Though he didn’t really feel great about it, because he did generally like to be a nice person.
But he didn’t really feel bad about it either, he thought as he went back into his room. Frankly, he thought Cesc had had it coming, and he could have been a lot nastier about it but he hadn’t been. He’d just gotten the job over and done with, and there.
Something stirred on the edge of Fernando’s vision as he walked across the room. He jerked around, then went back and stopped in front of the mirror that hung on the wall across from the bed. He looked into it, letting his gaze slowly drift down his reflection till it landed on a white square. Then he moved it from the reflected sheet to the actual sheet, lying on the desk under the mirror. And he sighed.
Yes, he could get some things done. Other things still seemed to elude him, even in maturity.
* * *
“Oh, that smells nice,” Adrian said.
Luís pushed a couple of the cartons over to the other man, then dug back into the bag for the packets of sauce. Then he looked up and watched, bemused, as two of Pep’s paralegals crowded over Adrian’s shoulders to poke and sniff at the food. Adrian did a manful job of batting their hands away and defending the boxes till he realized Luís was watching, and then he stopped to grimace at Luís. Of course, Yaya and Gerard immediately seized the opportunity to snatch a few boxes.
“These are totally ours anyway,” Gerard said to Adrian’s protest. “He always gets us some, ‘cause he knows we’ll grab the first few.”
“Doesn’t mean you should start relying on that.” After tossing down the sauce packets, Luís handed Adrian a bottle of beer and then set his own down so he could pull out a chair. “Even if it’s true, you parasites.”
Pep popped his head in the doorway. “Parasites that help me help you keep your ass out of trouble. Now stop scolding them and talk to your boyfriend about your morning already.”
“Ahem,” Luís said.
Gerard nodded briskly, then tripped himself up on a second-guess. He glanced at Yaya, who frowned and began some mental calculation in his head. Thankfully, Xavi came in out of nowhere and grabbed a carton, then pivoted it and deposited it in Pep’s hand. Pep reflexively caught it, then opened his mouth, but Xavi was already gone.
“If you’re going to lecture me on my relationships, then I’m going to make you eat lunch.” Then Luís sat down, jerked his arms a few times to get the sleeves of his jacket to stop riding up, and looked up at Gerard and Yaya. “What the hell do I bring you food for, if not to make up for dealing with him?”
“Sorry, sir, we’ll get him next time,” Yaya promised, sneaking himself and Gerard out the door.
Pep started to snipe at them too, but between the food and the usual zillion other things he had in his arms, he started to lose control of his arms. He spent a moment resettling it all, and when he looked up, the chance was gone. He looked irritated about that for about thirty seconds, and then he turned a put-upon face on Luís. “I take siesta like everybody else.”
“You mean you go home and snuggle your gorgeous kids or smooch your even more gorgeous wife, and duck their questions about whether you ate. Now get out so I can make stupid faces at Adi already,” Luís snorted. “And eat the food! Or I’ll get a libel suit just to tick you off!”
Rolling his eyes, Pep saw himself out. At the table, Adrian belatedly looked up with half a forkful of noodles stuffed into his mouth. He looked startled and embarrassed and guilty, and it was almost annoying how good he looked that way.
“Or we can talk about how my morning was. But I think that’s still going to involve me making stupid faces, because…words cannot adequately express human idiocy at times,” Luís added. He pulled over the nearest carton and opened it up to find dessert. Sighing, he pushed that away and got over the next one. That one had what he wanted.
Adrian hurriedly gulped down his forkful, then started to reply. It still came out a garbled mumble, because there just was no way one could slurp down properly-made, oily peanutty sticky Thai noodles without mumbling, and he blushed and picked up his beer.
“Thanks, but I exaggerate. It actually hasn’t been too bad so far. Villa’s only picked three fights, Victor wasn’t hung-over this morning and the fashionistas are so busy digesting London’s shows that they have no time to squabble.” Good noodles, Luís thought, chewing his way through a bundle. Then he frowned and chewed a little more slowly. Good, but definitely not as good as last year. Damn it, he had to find a new noodle joint again. “Why are you so hungry? Pep didn’t make you chase down contractors again, did he?”
“No, I was working on the bills for this month,” Adrian finally managed to get intelligibly out. He took another swig of beer. His brow furrowed a little. “I did have to get on the phone with Xavi and yell at the computer repair people for their receipts. Or I yelled, and Xavi translated.”
Luís nodded. “How’d that work out?”
“Um, okay. We got what we wanted.” After another moment, Adrian shrugged a touch too diffidently. He prodded his fork into his noodles and sneaked a look at Luís. “Xavi’s a little calm. I think Gerard might’ve been better, but I have problems with his accent.”
“I thought Victor would’ve gotten you used to that.”
Adrian made a face. “It only looks like we’re talking because he never shuts up, Luís. And he’s been over enough now so that I know what he’s saying without having to know…what he’s saying. You know?”
“Yes, I do. He’s actually a very bright man. When he’s not drunk or getting over being drunk.” A chunk of bean sprout got caught in Luís’ teeth and he took a moment to pry it out with the tip of his fork tine. “No, he’s not alcoholic. He’s just single and under thirty. When he hits thirty and he’s still doing this, then I’ll see about rehab.”
The other man looked unconvinced, but returned to working noodles into his mouth. As he sucked on them, one whiplashed hard into his chin and he started. Then he ducked his head and wiped his chin with his hand, eyes flicking to Luís. Luís grinned unashamedly and a smile began to spread over Adrian’s face as well. Adrian straightened up and adjusted something with his hair.
“So,” he started. His brows pinched together and his eyes briefly dropped. “Xavi said you um, that there might be some thing with Zidane.”
“Oh.” They still hadn’t filled in Adrian about that. That was a little tardy of Pep, Luís thought. Then Luís really thought about it and had to drink beer to hide his eye-rolling. No, that was definitely on purpose, and Pep was definitely still mad at Luís for his and Adrian’s last fight. “Yeah. Somebody’s saying Zizou’s performing in public again. This kind of rumor goes around every couple of months, because somebody will tell Zinedine he should start again and he’s polite and just nods, and then it starts up.”
Adrian didn’t blink the whole time that Luís was talking, so intently was he listening. His fork stayed in his noodles and he didn’t even have a reaction to Luís’ words because he wanted to make that sure that he got every single one of them. It was a little unnerving.
Then Luís finished and Adrian was still staring like that. A few moments passed. Finally Adrian realized that that was it. He didn’t seem to know what to do, and looked from Luís to his food back to Luís, fiddling with his fork. Then he awkwardly moved a shoulder and opened his mouth, changed that to a breath and began to sit back.
“I don’t believe it, but I did call Zinedine just in case and he hasn’t gotten back to me yet. That’s a little unusual, but it’s no emergency yet,” Luís felt compelled to add. He didn’t feel guilty about Adrian and he shouldn’t because he hadn’t even done a damn thing. He just wished they weren’t having this conversation in Pep’s office, where even when Pep wasn’t in the room, his books and computers and other things all silently emanated his opinion at Luís.
“You two talk a lot?” Adrian eventually asked, trying far too hard to be casual about it.
Maybe he’d heard some things, even if Pep hadn’t filled him in on all the details. Xavi didn’t seem like he’d spill the beans, and probably Pep’s other staff wouldn’t either—he wouldn’t hire anybody that careless, or malicious—but Luís didn’t think they were all as close-bolted and seamless as Xavi. “Not really these days. Well, it depends. We’re still good friends, but he doesn’t really like doing the ‘scene.’ I don’t either, but I have to for my job.”
“Oh.” Adrian nodded like he got it, but twirled his fork around in his noodles instead of eating. He intently watched them spool up around the handle till the noodles were almost overlapping his fingers. Then he frowned and shook them down. “Because…I’ve been thinking, and I’ve never seen you talk—”
“Well, we’re not really the kind of friends who constantly call each other,” Luís said.
“Oh,” Adrian repeated.
A few seconds passed. Luís ate a mouthful, drank some beer. His phone went off and he checked it, but stopped reading after he saw Victor’s number attached to the text. If it was really important, Victor would call.
He looked up and Adrian was still struggling with whether to push it, and as much as Luís’ instincts were telling him to just let the other man struggle, watching that was too frustrating. “Adi, if Zizou showed up drunk tonight and told me he wanted us to live happily ever after in some Madrid flat, I’d close the door in his face and go back to bed. With you.”
Adrian looked immensely relieved. Then he coughed uncomfortably and scratched the side of his neck. “Er.”
“I know you were thinking that, and no, it’s nothing to worry about. It’s not like that between me and Zinedine,” Luís said heavily. He picked up his beer, then put it back down as Adrian was wincing. “Not that you’re wrong to worry about it at least once. Just…don’t keep worrying about it.”
Once again the other man’s shoulders lifted as if Luís had just taken a double sackful of rocks off them. He glanced at Luís, his lips parting, and then abruptly ducked his head. A noodle flicked up from his fork and slapped onto the table; Adrian grimaced and fussed around for a napkin. He wiped carefully at the grease-spot, making sure to get under the plate to get all of it.
Then Adrian leaned back to pitch the napkin, and as he did, his gaze rose to Luís’ face. It was surprisingly unflinching. “You don’t have to tell me all about it now,” he said. “But it…I just wanted to know if you were upset about it.”
“You’re not feeling insecure about him again?” Luís asked.
“No, I am. Er.” Adrian flushed and pressed his fingers into the side of his nose. They slipped a bit as his expression segued to something a little more thoughtful, and then he looked up again. “Well, look, yes. But I believe you when you say I don’t have to worry about him. And I do—you know, want to know that you’re not worrying about him. Because I think you do.”
A flash of irritation went through Luís, and it must have showed because Adrian’s eyes widened. Luís shook his head, then snorted and slouched back in his chair. “It’s that obvious?”
“Er, well…” Adrian rocked his head from side to side “…and I understand that, you know. It’s not like I think I get you all to me. Or that I should get that. But you had a life before I showed up—I did too, even if half the time you’re helping me get rid of it…”
“Oh, I’m sure eventually something will show up from there that you’ll want to keep, and then I’ll have to worry,” Luís said lightly. He grinned at Adrian’s disbelieving face. “Trust me. Something always does. I’ve met people who’ve screwed up far worse than you, and they still had something left. And that kind of thing, you should hold onto. You shouldn’t be embarrassed about it.”
“But I don’t think you’ll have to worry,” Adrian replied, finally cracking a smile. “You?”
“If it’s worth keeping, I’ll have to. I’m not so big-headed that I think I’m somebody’s whole world. Unless they work for me.” Then Luís laughed. He swigged some beer and then reached for the few unopened cartons, trying to remember what he’d bought for dessert. “It’s a good thing I made you do your accounting magic for Pep instead of for Duende, otherwise what’s left of my moral compass wouldn’t stand for this.”
Adrian nodded and smiled, but he still seemed a little distracted. He kept playing with his fork, till he finally dropped that with a tiny disgusted sigh. Then he started tugging at his tie. “So does that mean you’re not going to fuck me now?” he asked diffidently.
Luís went very still to avoid choking on the food he’d just put into his mouth. Then he closed his mouth and swallowed, and looked hard at Adrian.
“Because I’m insecure and it’d help with that?” Big, pretty, innocently questioning eyes. It worked for about two seconds and then Adrian ruined it by letting a smirk sneak onto his face, but for those two seconds it was ridiculously effective. “But we always do during lunch!”
“I didn’t take you out today. This is Pep’s office,” Luís managed after a moment, blinking rapidly.
Adrian rolled his eyes, then propped one elbow up on the table. He tipped the side of his head into his hand and looked at Luís, all bored, exasperated GQ-model. And, still looking at Luís, reached up with his other hand and pulled his tie right out. He let the ends dangle suggestively for a moment, then twisted his hand around to wrap the tie up about his fingers. Then he started working at the buttons of his shirt. “From what I know so far, it’s nothing he’s not used to.”
“What happened to your insecurity? You were cute like that.” Luís did manage to stay in his seat, even if his fingers started curling up towards the skin Adrian was baring. He looked around, letting their surroundings remind him of Pep’s disapproving…Luís glanced down, then shifted to the side so Adrian’s foot slid off his calf. “Adi, seriously.”
“I am. Being serious. And I am also very frustrated, because I spent the morning sorting out Pep’s bills, and I don’t really speak Spanish, and also worrying about you and you don’t object to this. Not really,” Adrian said, slow and deliberate and with just a touch of languid confidence. He got himself out of his chair and onto Luís’ knee in a couple smooth, sinuous moves, and his hands came off his now-open collar and went onto Luís’ waistband. “You might have crazy work ethics, but I know you don’t have moral issues about—”
The door banged open. Pep stood there, eyes wild and wide, one arm thrown out accusingly. “Aha!” he said.
Adrian stiffened, flushed bright red and then dumped his head on Luís’ shoulder. He groaned in frustration as Luís sympathetically patted his back.
“Luís,” Pep said dangerously.
“But I wasn’t—he was doing it to me, and it’s still my fault, I know, and okay, okay, we were almost done eating anyway. Mother of God, Pep. You never let me have fun these days,” Luís sighed. He gave Adrian a last stroke over the shoulders, then reluctantly pushed the other man back. “I’ll go back to work and sort out this Zinedine rumor, and then we’ll find a nice restaurant for dinner and desecrate their tablecloths, how’s that sound?”
* * *
“It sounds like an awful, awful idea,” Pepe said with the straightest of straight faces. An architect could have used his expression to mark out plats for a carbon-copy development.
Fernando…exhaled and flopped back on the couch. He stared at the ceiling. “You’re right. But damn it, I need to get something done today. You can’t sign an apartment lease that quickly, even if I knew whether I wanted a loft or a split-level or just something with two beds and two baths, so I’m writing my damn article. And you have pencils stuck up here.”
“Do I?” Pepe craned his head around, then cursed. “I knew that that really happened. Listen, Mori, I’m honestly, truly invested in helping you solve your problems, but I need five minutes to go yell at my second AD for ruining my hotel ceiling.”
“Go for it. I’ll still be here, coming up with shitty column ideas,” Fernando said, depressed.
His friend gave him a squeeze on the shoulder on the way out, but still just left Fernando there. Even if it was perfectly justified, it still wasn’t helpful. At this rate, Fernando was going to have to hire somebody to write his column for him. It would be the celebrity thing to do, getting a ghostwriter…but that wasn’t his style. More importantly, that would completely undermine the point of signing onto Figo’s idea and giving Fernando something to do in this town that had nothing to do with Raúl. If he couldn’t even do a simple column, then he might as well move somewhere else.
His phone rang. Frowning, Fernando picked it up. He didn’t recognize the number and that made him pull himself into a sitting position so he could see the phone better; the light from the window was giving the screen an odd glare. But he moved a little sluggishly and the phone stopped ringing just as he got fully upright. He’d lost the call—and they called right back.
After another moment’s staring, Fernando finally flipped open the phone. But he just held it to his ear and listened, on the off-chance that somebody had hacked his private number again.
*…you’re there, aren’t you?* Villa’s irritated voice said. *You picked up.*
“So that’s why I don’t know the number,” Fernando blurted out. Then he sighed and leaned back, throwing one arm over the top of the couch. If he got really annoyed, he could bend some of the iron curlicues that decorated it. “Villa? It is you, right?”
*Who else does it sound like? Just how dense are you? Did your assistant not get your coffee this morning?*
He wasn’t going to throw the phone into the wall, Fernando told himself. He liked his phone. And he wasn’t going to give Villa the satisfaction. “For your information, I don’t have a personal assistant. I like to do things myself, including hanging up on rude callers if I have to.”
*I’d just call back. Look, I don’t want to do this either, so let’s just get it over with,* Villa muttered. *What do you know about Zidane?*
For a moment Fernando watched the pencils hanging from the ceiling. They’d been tossed up with such force that their nibs were stuck in the plaster, but not so much so that the pencils weren’t wriggling slightly in the breeze from the air-conditioning. Eventually maybe they’d even work themselves free and fall on Fernando.
He turned over on his side and craned his head around to get a view of the door, which was slightly ajar so Fernando could see Pepe standing in the next room and angrily gesturing at somebody. “Villa, I’m hanging up now.”
*You bastard, we work on the same mag—*
Villa’s outraged voice suddenly cut off, to be replaced by a cacophony of hissing, bangs and ripping paper. Somebody yelped that his hand had gotten bitten, and to check for rabies. Then there was a series of eardrum-abusing bursts of static, which put Fernando on the verge of flipping his phone shut when suddenly, like a sunbeam through storm clouds, a voice emerged. *Uh, hi? Listen, I’m so, so sorry that he called.*
Fernando put the phone back to his ear. “David?”
A moment of silence. Then, considerably more embarrassed: *Yeah. Shit, I didn’t know he was calling you. I’m really sorry.*
“That’s all right. I didn’t know either,” Fernando said. He wasn’t really thinking about it, honestly; he was just glad to have someone besides Villa on the phone, making his day even more frustrating than it already was. “Why is that, by the way?”
*I hope he wasn’t bothering you, but anyway, he won’t call again and—and what, sorry? Oh, um. I don’t…I don’t really know,* Silva stammered. Words had been racing out of him at the rate of several dozen a second, but then they abruptly piled up on each other and stopped. He took a deep breath and in the background, somebody said something to him about too much biting, hurry it up already. *But anyway, he wasn’t supposed to.*
“Is this about the Zidane rumor?” Fernando checked on Pepe again. No gesturing now, but Pepe clearly didn’t believe whatever he was being told. “That he’s doing concerts again? Because I’m pretty sure that he isn’t.”
Silva started to say something, but there was a weird clattering noise. Then somebody growled into the phone. *Listen, you piece of shit,* Villa said. *Don’t talk to—*
“You called me,” Fernando pointed out. “And about Zidane? Why would you—even if I knew, why would you think I’ll tell you? I write a column for your magazine. It’s a thing on the side, you know. My life doesn’t depend on keeping Figo amused with my temper tantrums.”
Okay, that last bit was mean-spirited of Fernando, since Villa did have genuine credibility as a no-holds-barred music reviewer. But Fernando also wasn’t exactly getting paid huge amounts of money for his column, and while the mutual marketing advantage would definitely be helpful, it still wasn’t enough to compensate him for putting up with Duende’s internal hijinks.
*Why don’t you wait to brag till you actually turn something in?* Villa snapped. *You’re calling yourself something you haven’t even done yet, Mr. I-Don’t-Need-Help.*
Then Villa hung up on Fernando. The beep signaling the end of the call was far too low and unobtrusive to really do its job, and so Fernando ended up telling a dead line that name-calling was exceptionally immature, only to wince as the dial tone loudly informed him that he’d lost his audience. Not that he’d wanted it anyway, but since he’d had it…Fernando exhaled irritably and yanked his phone from his ear, glowering at it.
Pepe came back in, then stopped and cocked his head. “Fàbregas prank-call?”
“No, I just got told that I’m a hypocritical prima donna by David Villa.” Then Fernando switched his glower to the other man. “No, he’s right. That…that…”
“Spiky little asshole?” Pepe suggested, sobering up. A last chuckle squeezed out of him as he sat down, but then he folded his arms over his knees and looked appropriately serious. “Right about what?”
“Right about the fact that I’m saying I’m a columnist now, but I can’t even wr—goddamn it, I’m here to get over Raúl and get on with that part of my life, but I can’t even do that. It’s been years and I’m really, honestly ready to get over it.” Fernando threw himself onto his back. His arm went up so his hand glanced off the wall, making the pencils stuck into the ceiling quaver threateningly. He reflexively shut his eyes, only to open them again when he realized he was getting antsy over pencils. Jesus. “But I have this column to do, and every time I sit down and try to write it, I just keep thinking about how…how I don’t even know where to start. It’s not like I’m trying to hold on, but it’s just all my memories of this place go back to when I was with Raúl.”
“So write about it. Get it out of your system,” Pepe said. He raised his brows at the look Fernando gave him, then shrugged and threw himself back in his chair. That made the pencils shake even more than when Fernando had hit the wall. “If nothing else, I don’t think Villa can get ticked off at you for that.”
After another disbelieving look at the man, Fernando pulled himself up into a sitting position and stared at the blank notebook on the table between them. “I’m not going to tailor my column to make David Villa happy. I don’t even want to take phone calls from him, for God’s sake.”
“I didn’t say you were! Just, it’d be a side-benefit if you cared about side-benefits, but really it’s all about what works for you. It’s a first column, you have to have some personal introduction even if it’s going to be all about your business.” Pepe leaned forward and grabbed the notebook. Then he got up and carried it across the room to dump it on a cabinet. He got Fernando’s laptop and took that back with him, setting it down on the table with the screen pointed towards Fernando. “And it’ll be cathartic. You need to talk about this with somebody besides me, since all I do is poke holes in your ego.”
All Fernando had to do to that was flick a glance at Pepe. But he rolled over as well, and gave the computer a considering look. He was getting pretty damn desperate. “I don’t think Raúl’s going to appreciate me airing our dirty laundry in public. And I’d still like to—”
“Oh, my God, nobody ever said you had to make Raúl hate you to get over him. You don’t have to use names, Fernando. It’s called descriptive writing for a reason. Just talk about your feelings and that kind of thing,” Pepe said, exasperated. Then he gave the computer a little push towards Fernando, like a mother urging a toddler to walk towards his father. “C’mon. Try it.”
Fernando looked at him again, then at the computer. Then he sighed and sat up, and of course a pencil would fall on him right then. He batted it away and felt another one ping into his head, and at that point he just grabbed the computer while Pepe shouted at the door to the AD’s room.
Eventually Fernando got the computer settled in another corner of the suite. Pepe was still having a fit at his AD, but by now Fernando was used to that kind of background noise. It was almost comforting to try to work by it—familiarity was a strange thing. And not a bad opening line, Fernando thought.
About ten minutes later, Pepe came over and stood behind Fernando’s shoulder. He read for a couple seconds, then nodded approvingly when Fernando finally turned around. “Not bad,” he said. “Of course your copy editor’s going to tear up your grammar when he gets it. If his angry punk boyfriend doesn’t get to it first.”
“I don’t think Figo’s going to give Silva to me as a copy editor,” Fernando replied after a moment. A moment in which he admittedly found the idea appealing, but he knew better than to do more than that. Or to put it into the column, even though that would fit in nicely with the paragraph he was currently on…or maybe he could actually write about it? He did have more columns to write, and if this one passed muster, then he’d have some time to think about how to frame the Silva debacle in a non-identity-revealing way.
“I don’t know, Figo seems to be having some crazy ideas lately. I mean, hiring you…” Pepe dodged the paper ball Fernando threw at him “…and dating some Romanian rock singer. And Zidane coming back from the dead.”
Fernando took his hands off the keyboard and put them on the table. “What is it with Zidane today? That’s what Villa was calling about. And I thought we agreed earlier that it’s just a bunch of bullshit, like all the other times.”
“Yeah, I thought so, but now Zidane’s apparently coming to my party, or so my AD said. He thinks Zidane might be using it as a chance to promote his nonexistent comeback. Maybe that’s why Villa was calling? He thought…I don’t know, you owe him for hitting on his boyfriend, so you should get the scoop for him?”
“I have no idea how Villa’s twisted little mind works, and I don’t want to even guess,” Fernando muttered. He put his hands back on the keyboard, determined not to lose his sudden groove. “Zinedine’s not a hermit, you know. Maybe somebody just told him you made a good movie, and he wants to see it and hang out with fun people at the same time.”
It took a couple seconds more than usual, but Pepe was fresh from trying to tangle with Villa’s motivations. Pepe hit Fernando on the shoulder, then ruffled Fernando’s hair as a laugh bellowed out of him, half-joyous and half-incredulous. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“But I felt like it. If you don’t have the balls to check the box-office, you can at least check off the celebrity endorsements,” Fernando said, grinning. “Besides, you and I can’t both be having a neurotic issue at the same time.”
“Shut up and write your column, so I can read it and point out your obsessions.” Pepe already had his phone out and was texting frantically, but he paused to nudge his elbow into the back of Fernando’s head.
Shaking him off, Fernando turned back to the computer. For a moment nothing came to mind and Fernando was afraid that he’d lost it. But then one fingertip sank down and a letter appeared on the screen. It happened again and again, and he had a whole word up there. He was writing.
* * *
“So false alarm, Zidane’s just doing Morientes a favor and helping to up the cool-factor for Reina’s movie,” Cesc said, wiggling in his seat. He would thump his butt down a few times, frown, move sideways and frown again, and then repeat the whole process over again. “Sorry but I don’t think you have a story.”
“It’s okay.” Iker tried to take a bite of his pudding, only to have to grab for his notepad as it went sliding off his knees. He managed to get that, but his hand flipped off the clip-on light and sent it crashing somewhere on the floor. Biting down a curse, Iker juggled pad, pen and pudding till he had a hand free to search for the light. “That means I don’t have to look into that at the party and I’m fine with that. I’m terrible at undercover work.”
Cesc batted Iker’s hand out of the way, then dove precipitously down under the seats. A moment later, he emerged unharmed but slightly dusty, with Iker’s clip-on light held triumphantly aloft. It even still worked. “You could take me.”
“No,” Iker said firmly. He slid the light back onto his notepad, then checked the movie screen. Normally he insisted on going to the movies alone when he was reviewing in-theater, but it was one of those American gross-out comedies so it wasn’t like he was missing important plot points. Maybe he was missing a major gag sequence, but if so, he could always look it up on the Internet later. “Conflict of interest.”
“Is what makes a party fun,” Cesc pouted. Then he wiggled in place again. “There’s something sticking into my thigh.”
Thankfully, the theater was nearly empty and the nearest people were way down in front, too far to hear them. Iker sighed and pressed himself back in his seat, gesturing to his other side; with a sunny smile, Cesc promptly popped himself into Iker’s lap.
He left it after Iker hit him with the notepad a couple times and hissed about not being able to see, but didn’t look very sorry about it at all. In fact, the moment he was settled on Iker’s other side, he put his head on Iker’s shoulder and his hand on Iker’s knee. “Okay, okay. You’re right. I don’t know that I’d be any good at that one either. I’d probably throw a margarita at Morientes’ head, that asshole.”
“You drink margaritas?” Iker said after a moment.
“Well, I’m not gonna waste a good drink on him.” Chuckling made Cesc’s head shake against Iker, and his hair tickle the side of Iker’s neck. He resettled his head on Iker’s shoulder and patted Iker’s knee. “I still can’t believe he called me a shit.”
“You’re not a shit,” Iker automatically replied. He scribbled a note on his pad. “But I don’t think stalking him’s a good idea.”
Cesc sighed and squeezed Iker’s knee. “Yeah, I know, I already got yelled at by Raúl. But in my defense, Lehmann wanted somebody to check up on Morientes and see if he had any plans about getting back at the label. I just…maybe was over-enthusiastic about volunteering? But you’re supposed to be enthusiastic about volunteering. Or else you’re not a volunteer, you’re just co-opted.”
Iker looked at him.
“Okay. Not stalking him now,” Cesc muttered. His fingers ran idly along the inseam of Iker’s jeans. “Well, so what are you going to do?”
On the screen, the heroine had her big speech denouncing the foolish, feckless ways of her hero and repudiating their love. Iker checked his watch, then grimaced when he saw that they were still only halfway into the movie. “I…I don’t know. I’m a little afraid I’ll throw a margarita at him, actually. I know Raúl seems to be fine with it all, but it’s still…it’s all complicated when it didn’t have to be if Morientes would’ve just stayed away.”
“Exactly,” said Villa from behind them.
A minute later, Iker had finally found his pen again, while Cesc was stuffing tissues at Villa’s face to keep him from complaining about the pudding on it. Then Villa smacked Cesc’s hand, Cesc recoiled and Villa swiped the pudding off his cheek, glowering at them both.
“He’s just here to cause trouble,” Villa said. He waited a beat, then shook his head at their denseness. “Morientes. He pretends he’s not, but we all know the truth. And the sooner we get him to admit it, the sooner he’ll leave.”
“Um…hi. I’m Cesc. You might remember me from when you tried to break my other boyfriend’s TV over Eurovision?” Cesc smiled smarmily and waved his hand, then put it down to give Iker a hand off the floor. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Villa’s eyes flicked sideways to Cesc, then did this little twitch that completely dismissed him. “Casillas, listen. I know you think I’m annoying, but I—”
“Get out of this movie right now! I’m trying to write a review here, you fucking—” Except Iker had just fallen off his seat two seconds ago, and hadn’t really gotten his breath back enough for screaming at people. He gasped in air and slumped against his seat, then raised his head.
Then he frowned and looked around. Eventually Cesc tapped him on the shoulder and nodded towards the door. “He ran out there, but I think he’s still waiting. Man, Iker. You’re scary about your job. Not that I didn’t know that, but…yeah.” Cesc’s eyes were sparkling. “That was awesome.”
“Thanks,” Iker said, probably blushing already, if the heat in his face was any clue. He turned around and faced the movie, and for a few seconds actually tried to concentrate on it. Then he sighed. “He was offering to work with me on some scheme to run Morientes out of town, wasn’t he?”
Curiously, Cesc didn’t immediately answer. Instead he sat there and stared distantly at the screen. Occasionally he rubbed at his chin or pulled his hair. “I wouldn’t,” he finally said, slow and thoughtful. “I mean, I can see why it sounds…but I don’t know, I don’t feel good about it, and not just because Raúl would be really mad we’re messing with his thing. Which is partly our thing too at this point, but…anyway, I think you should just go to the party and get drunk really fast so you can call me to drive you home. I’ve got the night off.”
“Mmm.” Iker squinted at the screen, then marked off another vomiting joke and testicle joke. Then he glanced over his shoulder, but a sudden weight on that shoulder made him look down.
Cesc had put his head back on Iker’s shoulder and appeared to be dozing. Maybe he was, maybe he was just trying to keep Iker in place—well, he didn’t need to worry. As irritating as having Morientes in town was, Iker hadn’t lost his mind over it yet. Villa could just sit in the lobby and wait for them.
***