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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Ljungberg/H. Larsson. Implied J. A. Reyes/Van Nistelrooy, C. Ronaldo/Van Nistelrooy.
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: This is absolutely fiction and not real and I don’t know these people at all. Any resemblance to any real-life record company is completely accidental.
Notes: Titled after the song by Billy Joel.
Summary: The music industry runs on the sweat, tears and pain of hundreds of unsung assistants.
***
David rolled his whole head. Way too dramatically, since he forgot his bottle of soda was sitting by his arm and then he had to scramble to keep it from falling over and completely emptying out. “No way, man. You are lying. Lying like a…a lying Spaniard. Whatever. Anyway, I don’t believe you.”
“Look, I think I know what a blowjob sounds like. And it was definitely that sound, and Freddie and Larsson definitely came out of that room a couple minutes later and they were the only ones in it. I checked,” Cesc said. He lifted his wrap clear of the spilled soda, then started to put it to his mouth. Then he stopped, since Philippe had leaned over to dab at the puddle with a napkin and was crowding too close to make eating easy. It was doable, but this wrap had a lot of sauce on it and Cesc didn’t have time to make a dry-cleaning run. “They’re fucking. And haven’t you noticed that Freddie’s been a lot more laidback since Larsson showed up?”
“Okay, firstly…oh, thanks.” After taking the smoothie from Michael, David scooted over to make room for the other man. Then he resumed being a case study of denial. “First of all, Freddie could be laidback because Larsson is crazy efficient and keeps him out of trouble with Jens. And since he’s not seeing Jens so often in problem situations, he’s not seeing Jens and Robin making out. Secondly, if it was really a blowjob, there’d be—it wouldn’t just be weird slurpy noises. There’d be moaning. You’d be able to tell it was Freddie’s voice.”
Michael stopped about halfway-down, looking from one person to the other with the panicked face of a mouse dropped into a kitten pen. Then he started to get back up, but right at that moment, Timo arrived to give him a friendly smack on the shoulder so he had to sit the rest of the way. Timo apparently was also here to stare disbelievingly at David.
“Davi, for God’s sake, have you never had a decent blowjob? Slurping?” Timo snorted. He was still shaking his head as he plopped his lunch on the table and then began unwrapping it. “Besides, Ljungberg can actually be pretty quiet. When he wants to. And why are we talking about his sex life? I thought he didn’t have one.”
“Exactly! He’s got one now!” Since Philippe had sat down, Cesc could finally take a big bite of his wrap. And while he was at it, he quickly chewed it and then took another one. It was barely noon, but he’d been up since dawn on nothing but two cups of coffee and his stomach felt like it was a black hole sucking the rest of him into it. “Larsson. Who would know how to give somebody a good blowjob. His cheekbones would look amazing during it, anyway.”
David made a perfect face of incredulous disgust, but ruined it by moving his head back and forth between Cesc and Timo too fast. “Okay, one, I have had excellent ones, thanks. Remind me not to introduce you to my girlfriend, Hildebrand. And secondly…Cesc? Sometimes when I question your gossip, it’s actually because I don’t like thinking about Freddie Ljungberg banging anybody. That doesn’t involve…no, you know, I don’t like thinking about him beating people up either. Because that makes more work for me, and who’s to say that this won’t end up the same way?”
“His medical and legal bills have dropped from second highest in the division to about the same as Lahmi,” Michael mumbled. It seemed like he was listening in spite of the huge deep flush on his face, and the way he was stuffing his mouth and eyeing the door. He looked up at them, then shrugged. “That’s what Torsten says, anyway.”
“Phil’s running a little high this quarter, actually. He got food poisoning from that damn Portuguese take-out Cristiano brought in last week, and then we stretched it an extra day because Cristiano’s such an asshole when he’s in the studio. I swear, every time Cristiano puts out a record, Phil drops a trouser size.” Timo stabbed his chopsticks into his food, then raised them to reveal a shrimp dripping with some sort of brown sauce on the end. He got it about three-fourths of the way to his mouth before it slipped off. “Can we just, like, lock Cristiano in a closet or something?”
Everybody stared at him.
“Oh, don’t even—you’ve all thought about it at some point. Don’t say you haven’t,” Timo grumbled. The second go, he came up with some noodles wrapped around the shrimp so that it was basically tied on. He managed to get it into his mouth that way, tail and all. There was some weird crunching, some cheek bulging, and then he ducked his head to spit out something into a napkin. “Hey. Seriously.”
“No.” Michael pushed himself back from the table and then straightened so his height was for once sort of imposing. “No, no, no. Look, Torsten’s still trying to sort out the holiday receipts, I’m trying to fix five computers shorted out by vomit or…I don’t even want to think about it—”
“—and besides, Gaby Heinze will come after us. And maybe I wasn’t working here when he was with MU, but I’ve seen what the aftermath looks like in Raúl’s waiting room, and…yeah,” Cesc added. Though personally, he was with Timo. Cristiano out on the street was a tabloid cover story waiting to happen, but Cristiano in the studio was a pain in everyone’s ass.
For a moment it looked like Timo was going to argue. His chin was up and jutting and his hair was out of his eyes so he didn’t have that making him look younger than Cesc. But then he sighed and put down his head. “Damn it, I forgot about Heinze. He does know his way around a barstool.”
“He and Cristiano aren’t getting along right now, actually.” Philippe thoughtfully regarded the bite he’d just taken out of his sandwich while everyone else jerked and jumped and otherwise made it obvious they’d kind of forgotten he was there. He had that talent for fading into the wallpaper, despite being really tall and pale and gawky even in Armani. “They had a fight just before Christmas and haven’t really made up since.”
Christmas? Actually, Cristiano had flown home to Portugal for the holidays and hadn’t done anything stupid there, so Cesc couldn’t…wait. There had been that one night Raúl had gone out, and then hadn’t wanted to talk about it in the morning. That always meant it was an off-the-record call and therefore probably a star fucking up, but Cesc hadn’t pushed at the time since he’d been really busy trying to get everything in before he took his holiday that wasn’t really a holiday, thanks to the inevitable family dinner. Besides, he’d figured that he’d just hear about it at work, but for once he hadn’t.
It’d been a couple of minutes and Philippe hadn’t done anything else but eat. He did suddenly wobble, like somebody had kicked him under the table, but somehow he still got his sandwich to his mouth. So Cesc elbowed him. “Hey. You can’t just say something like that and then not explain.”
“You know, come to think of it, Lahmi said he hasn’t seen Heinze much. Cristiano just texts when he wants something, and then Heinze shows up with it, and it used to be Heinze was practically attached to the guy’s hip,” Timo said thoughtfully. He rubbed at his jaw, then pushed the hair out of his eyes. “So…is it possible?”
Philippe produced a mildly anxious expression of confusion. “Is what possible? The closet?”
“No,” Michael hissed. He started to put down his fork, but then noticed along with everyone else that he’d just snapped it. His sheepish look lasted for about three seconds, and then he went back to glaring at them all. He…he’d kind of gotten in touch with his aggressive side since Cesc had last seen much of him. “Look, I will stuff you all in a closet if you try it. I’ve got tons of work to do, and if you all are up to—to mischief, then Jens starts pulling whoever’s still in their office to cover for you. Which is going to be me, because—”
“You have a lot of work, blah blah blah. It’s computer stuff so it’s portable, isn’t it? Why can’t you just hide down on Accounting’s floor with Frings?” Cesc asked, rolling his eyes. Honestly. Never mind about the aggressive side; Michael was turning into a serious drama queen when it came to piddly little propositions of possibly illegal actions. If he really didn’t want to get dragged in, he shouldn’t have gotten himself a reputation for being really good at solving situations with punches. “Stop trying to kill me with your eyes. I die, you’ve got a problem, according to your theory—ow!”
Timo looked totally unrepentant about the kick to Cesc’s shin. “Leave off Micha, Fàbregas. I want that whiny brat to stop driving Lahmi crazy, but not if it makes the whole office implode. Which is what it takes for Jens to go to Micha for help.”
“Anyway, Cristiano’s going to Portugal in two weeks,” Philippe added.
At first Cesc ignored the other man and instead tried to whack Timo in the ankle, but then somebody else’s foot smacked down on top of his and held it to the floor till Cesc finally gave up, pouting. And started thinking about what else he could do, and so remembered Philippe had never properly answered that elbow Cesc had given him. “Wait. About that. Why was it pushed up? And why is Cristiano in the studio all the time now? With that weird memo, the one about not inviting him to any outside functions without Lehmann’s express approval.”
Philippe shrugged and ate his sandwich, so Cesc flicked Philippe’s ear right when the other man was biting down. Flinch, fumble with the sandwich, and a faintly heartwrenching look of dismay as half the contents of said sandwich squirted out onto the table. Then Philippe looked at Cesc. “I thought you’d know.”
“Well, obviously if I’m bugging you, I don’t,” Cesc said.
And right on schedule, David made a nervous noise. When people looked at him, he exchanged a look with Philippe before ducking his head and groaning. “Oh, look, it’s just—it’s complicated, all right? Just leave Cristiano alone. Trust me on that.”
Looking concerned, Michael started to pat David on the shoulder; Timo just skipped straight to glowering at Cesc. Who was not stupid, and who could see perfectly well that he’d have a much easier time getting the story from Raúl. On the other hand, Cesc did smell a chance to…intervene…approaching. “What about Heinze?”
“Don’t—”
“Heinze—Heinze is probably okay.” Philippe still looked vaguely worried, but when David stared at him this time, he just made a what-can-you-do hitch with his shoulders. And winced slightly, and this time it was really obvious Odonkor was doing the kicking. “As long as it’s not violent.”
“Violent? Please. That’s for amateurs,” Cesc said, and bit into his wrap. He chewed thoughtfully for a couple minutes. “Okay. This is what we do…”
* * *
Lahm started to say something, but then spun around so hard that his swivel chair went in a circle and a half. He stopped the spinning with a frantic grab at the counter edge before abruptly ducking between his knees. To sneeze. And okay, the tissue box was under the counter.
Thank God, Cristiano thought. For a moment there he’d been thinking he’d have to ask Gaby to get the medics, and then it would’ve been straight home since goddamn Lehmann wouldn’t let him record without Lahm around. And till he went to Portugal, he couldn’t go anywhere but the studio or his apartment without Ljungberg showing up. Cristiano was willing to put up with a lot when he knew he was right, but…Ljungberg. And his stupid squeaky voice when he was mad. And well, okay, Ljungberg’s assistant was weird. He creeped Cristiano out and frankly, Cristiano was surprised the guy’s eyes weren’t red and glowing like a killer robot’s.
“Sorry,” Lahm wheezed, finally coming back up. He spent another second rubbing a crumpled tissue against his nose. “But anyway, I think this one’s really shaping up. I…I’m not so sure about how we’ll sell it to Jens, but I like the sound.”
“That’s because it’s good, and if Lehmann knows anything about music, he’ll see that. I don’t understand why he’s so stubborn about just letting me write what I want.” Cristiano slouched in his chair, but didn’t kick at things like he usually did when Lehmann came up these days. Part of that was because he was pretty happy, for once, with the sound—Lahm did know his stuff and had managed to take Cristiano’s homemade cut and turn it into exactly what Cristiano had in his head—but part of it also was that he just…he really just didn’t have the energy. He had so much crap coming down on him all the time, from everybody, and he was just so damn tired of being the only one fighting for himself.
Lahm reached under the counter for another tissue, then turned to sneeze. He was kind of wheezing when he wasn’t sneezing, Cristiano absently noted. “Well…it is really different from what you’ve done before. Any decent exec’s going to worry about you alienating your fans.”
“Oh, for…if they don’t like it, they don’t like it. That’s people.” Stupid people, but whatever, Cristiano knew that was how the world was. “Besides, my fans? Look, when I started I was singing to sixteen-year-olds. Now they’re married, at university, whatever—they grew up. They’re not the same people now, so I can’t sing the same shit anyway. And even if they don’t like it, this is good, okay? Enough people are gonna like it to cover Lehmann’s ass. Enough to give me a whole new fanbase.”
“That’s true,” Lahm said slowly, like he was surprised. He’d straightened up to look at Cristiano too. “I didn’t realize you were thinking about planning for the future like that.”
Cristiano stared at him. “Then what the fuck do you think we were doing with all that acoustic shit and the classical instruments? You think I just mess around with a violin because I feel like it?”
Yeah, Lahm had. At least, the way he pursed his lips just before snuffling into a fresh tissue said he had. He did have the grace to look guilty about it. “Sorry. I thought…I thought we were just doing some updating, not coming up with a totally different style. Wow. Okay. Um, I still don’t know if Jens is going to buy it, but—” sniffle “—you know, I really can see…you could build a whole album around what we were doing.”
The last time Cristiano had tried to do something new in the studio, Lahm had fought him every step of the way. In that polite, fake-meek way of his, but he’d been a total stubborn bastard about it. So Cristiano thought a little disbelief was justified. “Are you just saying that because you don’t want to talk about this? Because if you need a break, just say so. I can upload the rest of my samples while you’re getting more tissues or whatever.”
“Oh, sorry. I know, I had the flu and I’m still a little…” The rest faded too much for Cristiano to understand as Lahm turned to throw away his used tissues. Then the other man turned back, with what appeared to be a genuinely distressed expression. “No, really. I really like this one, and if you…I’m just worried about consistency. If you really wanna make this into a whole new change, and not just another single, I’m for it. But I don’t know if Jens…”
“Well, you don’t have to talk Lehmann into it anyway. I do that,” Cristiano muttered. He slumped further into his chair. If he was going to do it, he had to do it pretty soon since he wasn’t stupid now and was definitely getting it in writing. But that meant talking to Deco too, and Deco cared about marketability first—when he wasn’t being all weird about that French gangster. Weirder than usual. Last night Cristiano had been watching a gangster flick and of course the slumlord had gotten shot, and suddenly Deco had turned off the TV. And thrown the remote at the wall, then stomped off when Cristiano had asked what that was for.
Lahm fiddled with his headphones. “So…have you already talked to him about it? Because in a couple weeks—”
“I know, I’m not going to be here. It’s my fucking schedule, so you don’t need to tell me.” Those goddamn French, Cristiano thought. It’d all been Ribéry’s fault, not his, but somehow he still got punished for it.
And actually, he was just too sick of all of it. All of FC, from Lehmann right down to the fucking headphones in Lahm’s hands, with their FC logo on the side. Cristiano jerked away from that, then slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and levered himself up onto his feet.
“I’m going to take a piss,” he told Lahm.
Of course Gaby was right outside the door, talking to Senderos. When he saw Cristiano, he stopped, awkwardly hesitated, and then took a step forward with his shoulders hunched.
“Toilet. I can do that by myself,” Cristiano muttered, shouldering past both men.
The nearest men’s room was just a couple meters down the hall and Senderos wisely chose to stay where he was. Which was good, since the way Cristiano was feeling, he might’ve just punched out the man for trying to follow him in there. Since he was already in trouble.
And it looked like the world was being nice to Cristiano for now, since he had the whole restroom to himself. But he still took the precaution of jamming a trash can under the door before he took out his phone and dialed Figo’s number.
* * *
“Oh, thanks. You’ve got really great timing, since I was just running out,” Philipp said. He took the box from Philippe, then swapped it for his empty one. Then he straightened up, but to his surprise, only Heinze was in the doorway.
Then again, usually Senderos was only passing by on his way to something else. He still always managed to slip in something nice like a replacement box of tissues, which made Philipp feel really bad that the man never seemed to get a break. Even David found a moment or two to just hang out, but Senderos got…one sit-down lunch a week, and Philipp was pretty sure that was because Cesc dragged him to it.
On the other hand, even though Philipp had been home sick, he’d still managed to notice there was something to the rumors about a fight between Cristiano and Heinze. Right now Heinze was leaning against the jamb, hands in his pockets, and staring moodily down the hall like he’d been doing for most of the morning. He’d only come in when Cristiano texted him to do something instead of just opening the door and asking. Philipp didn’t know what had gone on, and even knowing Cristiano, he didn’t want to blame the other man without having the whole story…but that was a little much. And Philipp had seen some unbelievable attitudes.
“Hey, you want a seat?” When Heinze looked up in surprise, Philipp toed Cristiano’s chair towards the other man. “I know there isn’t a chair out there, and…”
And Philipp had to sneeze, so instead of finishing his sentence, he dove down beneath the boards for the new tissues. Unfortunately he’d forgotten to open the box, so he had to do that and by then he’d already covered his hand in snot. He made a face at that, then hurriedly scrubbed at his fingers as he ducked out from under the counter.
Heinze was looking longingly at the chair, but when he noticed that Philipp was watching him, he shook his head. “Nah. I’m okay.”
“You sure? I promise not to tell Cristiano,” Philipp said. “Anyway, it’s not his personal chair. It’s mine, since this is my studio.”
The other man’s face went completely smooth, and for a moment Philipp was afraid he’d crossed the line. But then, slow and quiet, Heinze grinned. He glanced down the hall and the smile died a bit, but it strengthened as he abruptly swiveled about and dropped into the chair. “Oh, why not. I think Cris will be in there a while, anyway.”
“How come?” That came out a bit sharp, and the questioning look Heinze gave Philipp was even sharper. Philipp ducked his head and tossed his used tissue. “Sorry. It’s just…he used to do that, hide in the toilet. Back when he was…you know…using…”
“Oh. Oh…no, no, no. It’s not that,” Heinze quickly said. Maybe a little too quickly, since even he seemed unconvinced. He grimaced, then put one hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes. “Thank God.”
He seemed to mean that, but he also didn’t look like he’d meant for Philipp to have heard him, given the way he suddenly jerked up his head to glance at Philipp. But then Heinze shrugged and smiled ruefully, like it didn’t matter. He scooted towards the door and tipped back in his chair to look down the hall, then dropped forward with a faintly disgusted look.
“He’s just making a phone call.” Heinze arched his brows at Philipp. “I don’t know why he goes into the toilet. He was doing this earlier, when Deco was around, and he just stood there and called. What, this hasn’t gotten around the place yet?”
“Well, it might’ve. But I’m—” Philipp sniffled again, then blinked hard as his fatigue temporarily caught up with him “—I’ve been kind of out, so I have no idea what’s going on. And um, if you don’t wanna talk about it…”
The tiredness seemed to be catching, since Heinze rubbed at both eyes and then looked bleary anyway. His knees sprawled so far apart that he started to fall off the chair and had to hitch himself back up. “Oh, I don’t really c—he’s just calling Luís Figo. You know, the critic?”
Philipp blinked. “Figo? But he hates Cristiano! I mean, he’s given every single album Cristiano’s ever put out a horrific review. What did he say about the last one…something about he’d rather have been forced to dye his hair red and blue and then have to walk around Madrid for an hour…um. Sorry.”
Since Heinze was a bit bug-eyed and looking at Philipp as if he thought any minute Philipp was going to jump out and strangle him. He was still slouching, but his hands had a white-knuckled grip on the chair arms.
“It’s just…I’m the main producer on Cristiano’s albums, so I kinda…I mean, Figo makes some good points but I think he could say it with less dramatic metaphors,” Philipp explained. Lamely. Belatedly.
“Oooh…no, sorry, I should’ve remembered that. Anyway, it’s okay—I’m not that fond of Figo either. He’s just as sarcastic in person. I don’t think he’s even in this for the music, you know? I think he just likes humiliating people.” Some noise came from the hall and Heinze hurriedly shoved himself out of the chair, then popped his head out to look. “Don’t know why Cristiano seems to think he’s…Fàbregas?”
Who slung himself around the side of the door and paused just a second, his eyes searching the room, before he broke into a big smile. “Hey, Gaby. Listen, you know how we were going to go over the touring set-up later? Well, my friend just called me up and said he got reservations to that new Argentine steakhouse, but it’s at the same time. So can we just do it there? Then we can actually eat and everything.”
Philipp liked to think the best of people, but he also wasn’t stupid. And he did get out enough to know that Fàbregas was no mere assistant, even if he generally seemed to be a decent-hearted guy. So he was a little surprised, and from the looks of it, Gaby was just as wary.
“I don’t know…I have to check with Cris and see if he needs me.” On “needs,” Gaby’s voice dropped a little. It wasn’t too clear if he’d noticed, but he did start to turn towards the bathroom, only to jerk his head back to Cesc. “Besides, if your friends are there, don’t you want to hang with them and not do business?”
“Oh, they know me and they won’t mind. And actually, Leo’s coming and he’s kind of asking, too, because Gonzalo’s River Plate and Gago’s Boca, and he could really use another Newell’s Old Boys fan around,” Cesc said. He toned down the grin a little, which seemed to help more than mentioning the football teams did to calm Heinze’s suspicions. And then he pulled a face that was downright concerned. “Or if you really can’t, I can just be late to dinner. Man…doesn’t Cristiano ever give you time off?”
Gaby’s whole face went very smooth and blank. He looked down at the floor, then made a wry twist of his mouth as he pulled himself straight in his seat. Part of his shirt stretched out of his waistband, so he tucked that back in so his head was down as he finally answered. “I’m due for some, actually. I still don’t know, but I’ll ask and text you when I find out, okay?”
“All right, cool!” And off Fàbregas went, as if his own private wind was blowing him forward.
After a moment’s frowning, Philipp felt his forehead. That was a little snarky for him, but…well, Cristiano for the whole morning, and his brow wasn’t clammy or really hot, so it wasn’t the flu coming back.
“He’s up to something.” Gaby arched a brow over his slantwise look, then smiled sardonically as he shrugged back into a slouch. “Oh, well. It’s better to know what it is rather than let him keep doing it, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes,” Philipp neutrally said. He sniffled, then put up his hand to stifle another sneeze. “You know, you could just ask him instead of going and finding out.”
For some reason that seemed to surprise Gaby, and he stared at Philipp for a good minute. Then he shrugged again, snorting in a way that wasn’t quite amused. “Yeah, I could. But the thing is, he’ll probably drop a hint to Cristiano too, and Cristiano’s going to tell me to take the night off. So it’s true, what Cesc says. I might as well get dinner out of it.”
* * *
José pulled his hands from his face, then slid them back to massage at his neck, where the aching seemed to be now. “Sergio? Why are you taking Accounting again?”
“It’s not Accounting, it’s Accounting for non-business majors. And I figured it’d be useful, you know. Figure out how to plan for my future and everything,” Sergio cheerfully said.
The throb in José’s head came back, right between his temples. He put his elbows up on the table and then hunched down so he could press at the sides of his face without having to look at the sheets and sheets of scribbles they’d gone through just for one simple cash-flow problem.
“Okay, fine, I needed a math class and thought I wouldn’t actually have to do any math with this one. How was I supposed to know that it’s hell on earth?” Sergio threw up his hands, then thumped his head down on his notebook. His fingers scrunched and clawed at the air, as if he could somehow drag out the answers from there. Or at least a little commonsense.
“You could’ve asked me. This is what I used to do for Corazòn,” José slowly said. “I mean…you did know to ask me to help you with your studying.”
“Oh, fine, go and call me stupid when I’m already down,” Sergio mumbled into his notebook. His hands went down on the table, and then curled back to pull at his hair. “Shit. Man, José, if this is what you did for years, then no wonder you don’t want to do it anymore. This is absolute shit.”
José laughed and then stopped, a bit startled at himself. He lifted his head and saw that Sergio was looking at him a bit weirdly, too.
“I guess it is funny,” Sergio said after a moment. He made a little awkward shrug with his shoulders, then sighed and stabbed his pencil at his notebook. “Oh…just get me through finals, okay? If you do that, I promise I will never puke on you again.”
“I don’t know if you can promise that sort of thing, but I’ll…hang on, that’s mine.” Frowning, José dug out his cell. He sucked in his breath a bit when he saw the number, then hastily peeked at Sergio.
Fortunately, his cousin was too busy trying to gouge holes in his notebook; Sergio’s thoughtlessness frequently made José wish somebody would just put a GPS tracker on him, but with the way everyone else in the family was hyperaware of every little thing, Sergio could be a relief, too. Though José still swiveled the other way as he put the phone to his ear.
It was Ruud, and it was a short conversation, but not so short that José completely forgot not to smile when he turned back. Sergio’s eyebrows went straight up. “Love-talk?”
José blushed and jammed his cell into his thigh instead of into his jeans pocket. “No. Look, it was Ruud, but it was—he’s just asking if I can go along with Kun to some party Cesc’s throwing and keep an eye on him—”
“Hey, hey. I’m just kidding you, man,” Sergio snorted. He propped his head up on a loose fist, then reached out to bump the knuckles of his other hand against José’s shoulder. “Actually, doesn’t he ever call you just to like, flirt or something? It’s always to ask you to do some errand, like you’re his assistant.”
“He’s really busy and if I can help out, I should since I’m living at his place. Besides, I don’t mind. Really. It’s a lot more interesting than balancing the accounts,” José said. But Sergio didn’t look convinced, and to be honest, José wasn’t either. He brought up his phone again and fiddled with it. “I…I should probably ask Cesc about this, but Ruud says FC sometimes taps the phones. So he doesn’t want to get personal unless he’s using a pay phone.”
If Sergio’s eyebrows went any higher, they were going to get greased up from the gel in his hair. “Seriously? Wow…wait. No. Actually, Miguel said something about that the other day. Not about FC, though. He was talking about Cristiano, and how Cristiano’s agent is all hooked up with gangsters so you gotta be careful what you do around him, or else you might get somebody coming after you.”
Ruud never had explained why somebody had hired an assassin to go after him, José abruptly remembered. Then again, José had been so relieved about just settling into Ruud’s place and—and having Ruud actually turn down Cristiano for him—that he hadn’t really pushed the point. “Was he serious? Is…is Cristiano that jealous?”
“Huh? Oh…no, listen, don’t worry about Ruud. I’m pretty sure FC is that paranoid, and probably Miguel was getting stuff confused. I mean, if Cristiano does have that sort of muscle, then he wouldn’t get into so much shit. And he has, if you believe the rumors…and they’re still mostly rumors, so I guess that means FC’s that good.” Sergio patted José’s shoulder again, then scuffed José’s hair while he was at it. When José batted away his hand, he laughed and threw himself back in his chair so hard it skidded a bit on the floor. “And you’re related to Raúl and Cesc. You’re better connected than Cristiano is, probably.”
“I don’t really like thinking about it that way,” José muttered, flipping open his phone. He absently scrolled through his contacts, then winced. Then he snapped his phone shut so fast he accidentally caught his thumb—he hissed, then glanced up and found Sergio staring at the phone, like he’d seen. “I called him the other day. Left a message. He hasn’t called back.”
“Oh, God,” Sergio snorted, rolling his eyes. Then he straightened up, but still looked just as annoyed. “All right, I haven’t told anybody else yet, but you should know first anyway, probably—I booked a flight right after my exams. I’m sick of this. ‘Nando’s had longer than you did to act like an adult, and he doesn’t even have a good reason. What can he say? He was so pissed off you’re dating Ruud that he’s gonna stop talking to the rest of the family? That’s bullshit. That’s bullshit and I’m going down there and kicking it out of him.”
José felt an odd warming in his chest, but was reluctant to really pay much attention to it, in case he made it disappear that way. “It wasn’t just…it was messy. You weren’t there…”
“Yeah, well, how do you think I feel about that? I just came home one day and everybody’s going crazy, and nobody’s talking to each other so they can’t tell me what happened. I just have to—to sit there and put up with my cousins disappearing on me.” Thump. Papers scattered every which way from the force of Sergio’s falling hand, but he just stared straight in front of himself, looking—he was really upset. And he didn’t get that way too often. “Fuck that, okay? Next Christmas I don’t want a family dinner where ‘Nando’s not there and Raúl is trying not to kill your mom for asking you about Ruud in front of everybody, and Cesc isn’t locked in the bathroom with his PDA. I mean, is that so much to ask?”
“No,” José said after a moment. He looked down at his hands, hearing Sergio make a whistling apologetic noise, and then shook his head. “No, you’re right. I didn’t even think about…I should’ve, but anyway, you’re right. And I hope you can do it, you know. Cesc doesn’t even want to try, and usually he’ll try anything.”
José looked up again when Sergio rubbed his shoulder, then hesitantly returned the other man’s grin. This time Sergio ruffled José’s hair more out of affection than out of trying to be annoying, so José didn’t shove him away.
“That’s because Cesc knows ‘Nando’s too smart to fall for all his plotting. You can’t plot around a smack to the head, though.” Then Sergio cast a depressed look at the table. “But first, you gotta get me through my exam, José. I need to pass this one.”
“You’ll pass,” José said. Then he looked at Sergio’s chicken-scratch notes again and felt his smile fade…but for once it was into determination. “You’ll pass if I have to kick you in the head to make you get this. I promise.”
* * *
*Where are you? I thought we had thirty minutes in my office at seven,* Freddie said. He sounded a touch petulant.
Henrik could sympathize, but unfortunately, the waitress had just arrived at the table across the street and she was carrying enough food for a couple hours. “I’m on a roof across from Thai Five, looking through a rifle scope at Cristiano and Luís Figo.”
A roof with a very uncomfortable layer of gravel on it, and judging from the sharpness of the chunks gouging into Henrik’s knees, he was going to lose at least his trousers. He considered the weather forecast, then carefully shrugged out of his coat and suit-jacket and got the coat beneath himself. Then he put the suit-jacket back on.
Freddie finally took a breath. *You’re aiming a rifle at Figo?*
“No, I’m looking through a rifle scope. I left my binoculars at home and it was the only thing I had in the car,” Henrik said. Speaking of which, he’d bumped the scope so it’d skewed to point at the wrong window. He carefully adjusted it back. “Is Figo important?”
*…you know him by sight, and you don’t know this?* Freddie said weakly. *Oh, never mind. Basics are that Figo is a massive music critic and can make or break albums, FC’s tried to sue him before but he won, and Jens says he’s not to be touched. And he hates Cristiano, so what the fuck are they doing at Thai Five together?*
Just because Henrik had pulled somebody’s vital stats and police records didn’t mean that he actually had much of an idea of their position in the world. Especially when it came to something as nebulous as critical credibility, and Henrik could’ve sworn that he’d explained that to Freddie before. “I don’t know. Deco called me to say that Cristiano had given Gaby the whole afternoon and evening off, saying he was just going to stay in and watch movies, but Cristiano’s security system went offline for about two minutes a half-hour ago. So I tracked him down here.”
*Oh, great. Fucking great. I swear, the moment that shit goes into retirement I am breaking his neck for everything he’s put us through. He is so—doesn’t he understand what Jens means by total lockdown? Because we’re trying to make sure he doesn’t end up in jail on an assault charge?* Breath. Breath. Something creaked hard, like Freddie had just flopped onto it. *Henke? Why do you just happen to have a rifle scope around when you don’t have binoculars? And where’s the rest of the rifle?*
“It’s disassembled as parts of my car. If you don’t know what you’re looking for, you’d just think I have a couple very nice customized touches,” Henrik said. He sensed Freddie grimacing and suppressed a sigh. As comfortable as things seemed to be these days, Freddie still had the occasional panic attack. Why, Henrik didn’t understand, since even Jens had complimented them on the drastic reduction in legal bills. “Freddie, if you think it’s still too much of a risk, I’ll take them out. But…well, for me a rifle is still like an iPod is for you.”
Freddie let out an incredulous snort. It seemed like he’d gotten his initial rant out of his system, which had been a bit shorter than usual, given that they hadn’t had sex in a good day and a half and Freddie had had to deal with Marketing for half the morning. Normally he came out of those meetings and slammed Henrik up against the nearest wall—something about unrepresentative test groups and bad color schemes and never any decent pastries. *Well, if it’s in pieces, I suppose it’s all right. Though you know, the whole point of the iPod is so I can look like I’m working when I’m actually listening to something I want to listen to. I don’t think you have that problem.*
“Not wanting to do my job? If you asked, I’d admit that right now, I’d really rather be having thirty minutes with you than watching Cristiano use a knife like that. He’s mangling that…that’s not how you hold one,” Henrik sighed. To be honest, he never understood why people refused to learn the proper way to use a knife, and it had nothing to do with his background as a professional assassin. It was plain practical sense. You were much less likely to splash meat juices on your ties if you knew how to cut up a steak. “So should I stay here and watch?”
*I didn’t think Figo was your type,* Freddie said dryly. Then he laughed under his breath. And over the sound of typing, so he was in his office. *But seriously, do you have audio on them?*
A waiter came up with a bottle, so Henrik forewent an immediate answer in favor of trying to read the label. Just wine, it appeared, but Figo apparently wanted only a glass and looked a bit…bemused, Henrik decided, when Cristiano had the waiter leave the bottle. Cristiano didn’t pour himself any. “No, unfortunately. It does look like they’re having a full meal, so I could go back to my car and try to get something.”
*Don’t bother. We’ve got contacts in Thai Five and I’m sending a message…sent it. Later we can go back and I’ll show you who to talk to.* Freddie hummed a bit. *And maybe what’s good to eat, if I can get through my meeting with Thierry in an hour.*
“The food does look appealing. They don’t overcook their meat—it still looks quite juicy even from here,” Henrik observed. When Freddie choked, Henrik allowed himself to grin at the scope. “Thank you very much for not making me stay, though. This roof is rough on the knees.”
*Maybe we should have dinner there, then. I like rough on your knees,* Freddie said. His voice broke up a bit, as if something was touching the—he was licking at the phone again.
The gravel was even worse when Henrik shifted about on it; Henrik grimaced and, after watching Cristiano lean over to steal something from Figo’s plate, rolled onto his feet. He slid the scope up one sleeve, then dusted at his trousers as he eased his way towards the stairs. His headset shifted a bit and he reached up to steady it. “So Cristiano aside, the day hasn’t been so bad? Usually you don’t manage to talk about what you like before you’re doing it.”
*Marketing had this proposal that Cristiano should have his own branded coffee. With samples. And whipped cream.* Now Freddie wasn’t just licking at the phone, but downright purring. *Which I swiped, incidentally. How dirty’s your suit? Are you throwing it away anyway?*
Henrik…tripped over a rock. He immediately dropped down, then looked up very cautiously, but there still wasn’t anyone around. Though Freddie had heard, and was snickering, and for a moment Henrik seriously considered just staying put. Then he blinked, reminded himself to be sensible, and went down the stairs. “Probably. I have a couple holes in my trousers.”
*Then get back here already.* Then Freddie sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice was simmering with frustration. *Because I can’t tell Jens that Cristiano’s fucking around with Figo till Jens gets out of the board meeting, and I do not want to think about it till then. Got that?*
“Absolutely, sir,” Henrik said. And he did smile at Freddie’s strangled noise, but he also picked up the pace. Fucking around was the least of it, if Henrik had been reading body language properly.
* * *
Gaby Heinze and Lionel didn’t know each other too well, or at least Cesc thought they hadn’t talked much. They wouldn’t have had a chance to, since Lionel had never done any work on Cristiano’s records and wasn’t likely to—styles were too different. But there Lionel was, laughing like a loon with Gaby’s arm slung over his neck, while Gago and Higuaín looked on in disgust.
“You’re all wrong,” Kun proclaimed. He tossed back some water, dramatically put down his glass, and then smirked over his folded arms. “Independiente all the way, damn it.”
A napkin might’ve been thrown. The table rattled so hard that Cesc, who up till then had been really enjoying his food, snatched up his plate to keep it from falling off. And Lionel, who was dead sober and actually in a bad mood because he and Ronnie were “on a break,” was genuinely trying to climb out of Gaby’s grip to slap Kun in the head.
“You really thought bringing up football was a good idea?” José muttered, slouching down besides Cesc. He was already done eating because he’d only ordered an appetizer—having actual dinner with Ruud later, apparently—but he was clutching his bottle of soda to himself as tightly as Cesc was his plate. “We’re going to get thrown out.”
“Oh, we are not. You’re being paranoid.” Cesc shifted his plate to one hand, snatched another napkin out of the air, and kicked at several ankles till three out of five Argentines were looking wounded. He stared unrepentantly back at them. “Guys, guys, calm down. We haven’t even gotten through the entrée yet.” Pause. “Besides. Barcelona’s going to kick the asses of whoever it is in the Club World Cup.”
Lionel disentangled himself from Gaby, who had been drinking beer and who did look a bit flushed, to glower across the table. “Cesc, I love you, but Barcelona’s a mess this year. They’re going to concentrate on the league and slip up in the CL. Seriously.”
“They will not, and don’t even say it, Leo. You’ll jinx it and then I’ll never forgive you,” Cesc retorted.
Whereupon Lionel was clearly going to make a face, but suddenly Gonzalo jumped and eeped. Everyone looked at Cesc, who silently pointed to the fact that he was now too far from the table to have reached Gonzalo’s legs.
Gonzalo looked down again, then flushed and hit Gago. “Goddamn it, not in public. And especially not when you’re being a twat about football.”
Kun laughed abruptly, looking a bit uncertainly from one man to the other. He probably was just feeling a little outsider-like—he only really knew Lionel and José—but Cesc was downright shocked. “Wait. You two…but what happened to my cousin?” Cesc sputtered.
Something hit Cesc in the side, but when he glanced over, José was checking his cell-phone. That cousin was getting a little better at playing innocent, if not actually lying…and Fernando was looking a little annoyed, so okay, maybe Cesc had deserved that. But then Gago just shrugged and picked up his beer. “I decided I didn’t want to ever again wake up to your uncle banging on my door and demanding a blood sample.”
José made a funny stuttering noise, but when Cesc checked, the other man had his hand over his mouth and looked…actually, he looked amused. It was…that was new, and kind of nice. But still, family honor and—oh, hell, it was Sergio. “Okay, fair enough. Not that I’d know what that’s like, but Raúl can be pretty scary.”
“…screamed like a girl.” Lionel was hunched over and picking at his food, but his eyes were gleaming as he peeked through his bangs. “I’d slept over and was on the couch, and Pintita screaming woke me up.”
“I did not! I—I yelped! Yelped.”
Now Kun was looking a little puzzled, but José leaned over and talked quietly with him, and almost immediately Kun started grinning. So Cesc sat back to enjoy the Gago-Lionel argument, and so happened to glimpse Heinze draining his beer.
That was the man’s…second bottle, and he was already signaling to the waiter to get another one. Nobody else noticed that he was, and Cesc made sure that he looked like he was busy stuffing his mouth when Heinze glanced his way. Heinze wasn’t laughing now, though his eyes flicked about, keeping track of the conversation, and when Lionel leaned towards him on the way to getting the salt shaker, Heinze was careful to move his elbow aside.
His sudden double-teaming with Lionel had been a bit weird anyway, since right up till the Apertura had been mentioned, he’d just been sitting there very quietly. He hadn’t even seemed to have noticed that José was warily watching him—and yeah, that had been a close call. Cesc had figured telling Lionel about inviting Gaby would be enough, but the other man had gone and asked Kun along when anybody with a brain could guess Kun wasn’t coming without an escort. They were just really, really lucky that it’d been José and not Ruud, since then even having Micha on call might not have been enough to keep the peace.
Then again…did Heinze know who José actually was? Cristiano had met José, after all. But since then…well, right off the top of his head, Cesc couldn’t think of a time where they’d run into each other since. One thing Ruud had been doing right had been keeping José away from that shit—Cesc had to give the man that much.
When Heinze popped the top of his latest bottle, he let it slip through his fingers and go flying towards José, who didn’t see it because he was bending over to look at something on Kun’s phone. Cesc jerked up a hand, but Heinze had already darted out an arm and snatched back the lid. And splashed a bit of beer—it mostly hit the table, but a little might’ve gotten on José. At the least, José was startled enough to look up, whereupon Heinze apologized. And looked pretty genuine about it. So…maybe he didn’t recognize José. They’d just shared names, after all, and not jobs or family connections.
And then Gago made some crack about having heard Kun’s Argentina releases, and the ensuing debate distracted pretty much everyone. Kun took the teasing pretty well, but fired back with a lot of pissiness about some of FC’s other acts that had Lionel raising his eyebrows and Cesc, for some reason, having to defend Kahn’s bad taste. Seriously, wasn’t that some other department’s job? Where was Marketing when you actually needed them?
But it kept Cesc too busy to notice Heinze. Right up to when José suddenly shook Cesc’s arm and said, “Um, maybe we should ease up a little…”
Whatever else he’d been going to say got pounded over as Heinze lunged out of his seat, hand over mouth. He must’ve caught José with an arm, since José lurched into Cesc’s lap at the same time, blocking Cesc’s view. Then José sat back up, rubbing at his head and grimacing.
“Oh, crap, is he okay?” Kun asked.
Gago had already jumped up and gone round to grab Heinze’s arm, but just then Heinze jerked downwards so Gago had his hands full trying to keep them on their feet. The restaurant was on the loud side, but gagging noises were still audible.
“He’s had a lot,” Lionel whispered. When Cesc looked over, the other man held up an empty bottle. “Six. And lots of spicy food, too.”
“Shit. Hang on, I’ll get his other side…” Cesc kicked his chair back, then wriggled out of his corner and came up to Heinze’s left. His foot slipped in some—Cesc wrinkled his nose, did not look down, and just started dragging Heinze off.
After a moment, Gago caught on and between the two of them, they managed to maneuver Heinze to the men’s room without attracting too much attention. Some stuffy white-haired man was rinsing his hands and he let out a disgusted sigh as they came in, but he left right afterward so Cesc didn’t have to tell him his haircut said ‘Perve’ and his watch was tacky. Which actually might’ve made things a little better, but then again, it was hard enough trying to get an uncoordinated, nearly-vomiting Heinze into the narrow stall as it was.
“Okay—” Gago paused, looking sympathetically downward as Heinze went from nearly to enthusiastically throwing up. Then he shifted so he could brace his hip against the wall and started rubbing Heinze’s back. “Okay, yeah, just get it out. If it doesn’t want to stay in, it’s no good fighting it.”
Cesc stared at him. “Just how much have you practiced that?”
“Look, your cousin, man. And Conejo, because Conejo can’t hold his liquor worth anything,” Gago snorted. Then Heinze coughed up something that plopped instead of splashed—well, he had just eaten, so it wasn’t like he’d had time to digest—and Gago winced. “Damn. I can smell the chili peppers.”
“And still you aren’t that useful, except for hauling people around. Go back out and get a glass of water, would you? He’s gonna want to rinse his mouth after he’s done,” Cesc sighed. He moved back to support himself against the toilet-paper roll holder, then stuck his hand further under Heinze’s arm since Heinze appeared to be sinking a little.
Gago rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. It probably was better Sergio had hooked up with Torres instead, since Gago was too laidback to give Sergio the kick to the ass that he regularly needed. Not that Cesc was convinced Miguel was a great long-term choice, but…Sergio. Probably they didn’t have to worry about that yet.
“Fuck.”
Cesc looked back down. Heinze had stopped throwing up, but was still holding onto the toilet so his head was inside the rim, and he didn’t look as if he wanted to get back up yet. “You okay?”
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Nothing but a little bit of dripping, like Heinze was letting the spit run out of his mouth. Then he hacked, twitched at the sharp plish inside the toilet, and put up a shaky hand to push back his hair. “Fuck. My mouth’s burning. Fucking peppers came up again.”
“Ow. You…well, you want some paper to wipe your mouth? I sent Gago to grab a glass of water so you can rinse out, but he’s not back yet…” As he spoke, Cesc wriggled around so he could get behind himself and pull out a length of toilet paper.
Heinze took that, then made it vanish under the tangle of brown hair that surrounded his face. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Cesc said. He assessed the situation, then let go of Heinze’s arm, since it looked like the other man could support himself now. “Man, if you’d told me you wanted that kind of night out, I wouldn’t have let them order all that spicy stuff.”
“I didn’t. Don’t. Fuck. Fuck, you’re going to tell Deco about this, aren’t you? And then he’ll have a good reason to have Cris drop me.” The hair moved just enough to let Heinze’s hand minus the toilet paper back out, then fell right back into place. Which seemed to annoy the man, since he shook his head as he hit the lever. Then he sat back a bit to avoid the spray of the flushing water. “Not that Cris really needs one, these days.”
Cesc glanced at the door, idly wondering what was taking Gago so long. “I won’t tell Deco. Come on. You’re not working and everybody is allowed to get drunk once in a while.”
“Really?” Now Heinze looked up. His hand was covering his mouth, but over that his eyes and eyebrows were doing plenty to convey his cynical disbelief. “Fàbregas. I’m not stupid.”
“No, seriously, okay? I’m not Deco’s assistant. I just liaison with him for Thierry.” Going on his gut instinct, Cesc let himself look annoyed instead of pulling an innocent face. When it seemed to work—or at least Heinze was still looking at him instead of throwing up some more—Cesc shrugged and leaned back against the wall. “I mean, if later you get Cristiano into trouble because you’ve been hitting the bottle too much, then of course I’m going to tell somebody. But I’m not going to go causing trouble when I don’t have to.”
Heinze wiped his hand over his mouth, then turned it and ran the back over his lips again. Then he snorted and directed his smile down towards the toilet bowl. “Ah, really. No trouble. Not even with me working for MU?”
“Oh…look, yeah, that weirds me out. But like I said, you haven’t done anything yet.” Christ, Gago was taking forever. And he didn’t know that Cesc had wanted a moment to talk to Heinze…though Cesc had been hoping the man would get a bit drunker before he threw up. As awful as Heinze looked, he still seemed pretty aware of things. “Anyway, it’s not you working for Cristiano that bothers me about that. I used to have to work a lot more with him, back when I was Ruud’s assistant, and…and look, I’m really glad somebody else is taking care of him now.”
“That’s a funny way to put it,” Heinze said, laughing. Not really that nicely. Then he cocked his head at Cesc and waved at…oh, he wanted more toilet paper. When Cesc let him at the roll, Heinze tore off a good long strip and then began to wipe off his hand. “You don’t like him at all, huh.”
Cesc shrugged, then covertly angled himself so he could nudge the door open and see out into the rest of the room. “I…no. No, I don’t. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been a selfish brat. I know nobody’s perfect, and people don’t get how tough this lifestyle can be…but still, he’s a jerk.”
“We were really good friends back at MU.” Heinze tossed the soiled paper into the toilet, then flushed that, too. He was still a bit pale and shaky-looking, but apparently he was done with the vomiting. “Actually, I had a crush on him.” He glanced up at Cesc, eyes way too sharp for somebody in his position. “I’m pretty sure Ruud figured that out, too. Ruud was very…different back then, too.”
Somebody finally came in, but just then Heinze dropped his arm so sharply that when it hit the toilet rim, the cracking sound made Cesc wince off the wall. He started to reach towards Heinze, but then thought about it and pulled back his hand.
“I think I like Ruud better now, to be honest. For all that I can’t talk to him, or else Cris will hate me even more,” Heinze said, quiet and thoughtful. He stared down into the toilet, his arm draped around the rim so its fingers just touched the lever.
“What was Cristiano like back then? It’s really hard for me to see him any other way,” Cesc finally said. His stomach was suddenly all queasy, and not from the food, and he was wondering if maybe he should ditch the plan and just yell for Gago.
And then he looked out the door, and saw José standing there with a glass of water. Cesc blinked hard, then raised a warning hand.
“He was different.” Heinze moved his right shoulder back and forth. “Well, it’s not important. Everything’s different. I just—do you like Ruud?”
“What?” Startled, Cesc jerked back. And just in time, since Heinze looked up again. “Ruud? Um. I don’t really work with him now…”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Fàbregas,” Heinze hissed, eyes suddenly snapping. Then he banged the toilet with his hand; he hurt himself, but didn’t look away as he flapped his hand and grimaced. “If you don’t work with him, then you can give me an actual opinion on him. Can’t you?”
Cesc tried not to look in José’s direction. “He’s a good guy, beneath…beneath everything. But there’s a lot of shit, and…and why, do you have a crush on him too or something?”
“No. Oh, God, that would be so much eas—no,” Heinze said, shaking his head. He was laughing again, humorless and beneath his breath. He started to push himself up, but then dropped down on his elbows, resting them on the toilet like he’d run out of energy. “No, but…well, maybe he really is over Cris. That’d be…Cris isn’t, you know? No matter what he says. I mean, for God’s sake, he’s playing phone-tag with Figo because—because he has some fucked-up idea that it’ll make Ruud respect him more.”
“What?” Well, ‘Figo?’ was the only other thing Cesc could’ve said, and that was just…not any better.
“Or maybe it’s just because Cris is fucking mad Ruud can actually, in public, ignore him because whoever the hell else Ruud is seeing is there. I’ve been wondering who this guy is for weeks now, you know, and finally he’s around where I can get Cris to point him out and that shit happens.” The laughing was getting a little hysterical, and when Heinze shook his head, he also made the toilet rim creak because he was gripping it so hard. “I was just trying to keep him out of jail, goddamn it. I had to call Lehmann. I’m not a lawyer. Cris doesn’t have his own—I was at MU, I know for that kind of shit, you can’t take care of yourself. You need the label to fix it for you, but Cris…oh, man, he was just seething because Ruud wouldn’t look at him. He thinks Figo is the kind of guy Ruud can’t ignore.”
The man was working up to a rant, or maybe even a fit of rage. The signs were obvious, and the stall was very small, and suddenly it occurred to Cesc that he wasn’t prepared for a fight. He could handle himself, but he really, really didn’t want to go that way if he didn’t have to. So he had to—to make Heinze stop, or get distracted, or something. Fast. “Figo’s got an ex-wife,” Cesc blurted out. “I don’t think he’s…”
Heinze stopped, his mouth still open. He blinked a couple times at Cesc, and then, very slowly, his shoulders started shaking. Eventually he had to put down his head, then bring up his hands to cover his face. He wasn’t making any noises so Cesc couldn’t tell if he was laughing again or crying, but either way, it looked…ugly.
After a bit of hard thinking, Cesc quietly slid out of the stall. And then nearly ruined it all when he nearly jumped into the door at the sight of José; he’d forgotten his cousin was there. He took a deep breath, absently patting down his trousers, and then looked up.
“Does he still need water?” José asked.
“Yeah,” Heinze said, making them both jump. A second later, the stall door swung open and Heinze was standing there. Mostly calm, if a little ragged, and when he took the glass from José’s frozen fingers, his hand didn’t shake. He sipped some water before he looked at Cesc. “Listen…can you call me a taxi? I think I’m done for the night. I don’t want to bother your friends…whatever you tell FC, you all did give me a good night out. Thanks.”
“Sure.” Cesc paused, then decided against adding a ‘thank-you.’ He watched Heinze slump, that calm already cracking, against the side of the stall before turning and going out.
José had gone ahead of him, but had stopped in the hall, his hands in his pockets and his eyes strangely distant. Actually, for a moment Cesc almost thought José was going to lose it, too…but then José looked at him, and José’s face was a touch depressed. But just a touch, and more than it was that, it was—sympathetic. Not guilty.
“It’s funny, how you can try and hurt one person but end up hurting another, isn’t it?” he said. He put up one hand and hooked it around the back of his neck, then half-turned as he grimaced. “Is he going to be fine if we just put him in a taxi, or can we call somebody?”
“I’ll get somebody to check in on him.” He did live in Cristiano’s place, so Robin would have videofeeds. Probably Robin would be checking anyway, so it wouldn’t seem too weird. “Are you…you heard…that.”
José pulled at his neck really hard, almost as if that was what was making him turn to Cesc. “Do you have to tell anybody about it? Is Figo going to be…he’s that music critic, right?”
“It’ll be a problem for Cristiano. It sounds like Ruud isn’t involved, if that’s your question,” Cesc said after a moment.
“It was. I…well, I’m sorry about Gaby. He seems too nice to deserve it. But Cristiano…he can do what he wants. Ruud won’t stop him now. And…Cristiano had his chance. He’s not having another one, not if it means I’m going to lose mine.” And when José looked at Cesc, his gaze was solemn but firm in a way Cesc didn’t quite remember seeing on the man before. He held it for a few seconds, too, before he twisted by Cesc. “I’ll go get a taxi, and tell Fernando he can let people back in here again.”
He walked away, his head slightly down and his shoulders hunched up, like he always walked. But he’d meant that. He’d really meant it.
“Wow,” Cesc finally whispered. He rubbed at his hip, staring after José, and then looked back at the men’s room. And grimaced. “Shit. I didn’t have to do anything after all.”
***