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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R.
Pairing: Raúl/Iker/Cesc, Van Nistelrooy/J.A. Reyes, C. Ronaldo/V. Nistelrooy. Implied D. Villa/D. Silva, C. Ronaldo/G. Heinze.
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 Jefferson Airplane.
Summary: Cristiano pulls his head out of the sand, and Ruud has a little talk with Raúl.
***
When the second wad of paper went by his door, Iker got up and walked over to see what was going on, only to have Albelda nearly shove him back into his office. “Don’t say anything!” Albelda hissed. “We’re up to five!”
“Five what—oh.” Iker stared till Gutí flicked another wad at Villa’s head. Then he snapped out of it, since the shock of Villa’s non-reaction was way, way greater than the shock Iker felt that anybody would be that stupid. “What…”
“You know those lollipops Andrés brought in yesterday? Silva’s been sucking on one and going through the mail, and Villa hasn’t moved since.” Albelda pointed past Villa, who indeed was standing stock-still in the middle of the room, his feet surrounded by balls of crumpled paper, to Silva, who was about another two yards beyond and slowly going through the gigantic box of mail that’d been delivered in the morning.
Usually it was Bojan’s job to sort through that and deliver it all to the proper people, but he had the day off and when that happened, people were supposed to get their own mail. Predictably, nobody had and it looked like Silva had gotten fed up with the box sitting around and was sorting the mail. While sucking on an enormous pink lollipop, and all right, Iker was happily having sex with Cesc and Raúl, but even he could see why Villa might be frozen in place. He hadn’t known Silva’s tongue was that long, or twisty, or…right.
Iker frowned, then gave himself a shake. He pushed his hands over his eyes, thought about Cesc’s morning blow-job, and then dropped his hands. “Stop that right now. That’s—”
Silva looked up. His brows scrunched, then rose as he yanked his lollipop out of his mouth. “Hey! Don’t do that!”
Too late. Gutí had already pitched the paper wad, and, finally startled out of his daze, Villa had turned around just in time for it to catch him squarely between the eyes. By now Iker knew to get back in his office fast, and he did so, yanking the door shut in Albelda’s face. He hung onto the knob, ignoring the other man’s cursing and pleas till the door stopped rattling. Then he stood back, and after a moment, he turned around and went back to his desk, also ignoring all the screams and crashes that were now coming from outside. Iker sat down, rummaged around in his drawers till he found his earplugs, and was putting them in when his phone rang. He sighed and dug that out, then answered it when he saw the caller ID. “Cesc?”
*Hey, sorry I’m calling you at work, but…* Cesc paused, then coughed delicately *…is somebody dying?*
“Huh? No, I think that’s just Villa trying to pour soda on Gutí,” Iker said automatically. Then he had the thought that that didn’t sound too normal and slouched embarrassedly in his chair. “Um, I’m sure they’ll be fine. Figo’s in right now, and he usually doesn’t let things—”
“Let go of his neck right now! Villa, kill Gutí and I’m making you write his fashion column! For God’s sake, can I take one damn phone-call without you all going homicidal on me?”
“See, that’s Figo. So everything’s fine,” Iker told Cesc.
The other man was silent for a moment. *Oh…kay. If you…say so. But anyway, I made reservations for you and Raúl at—*
Iker bolted upright. “What? When? Did I miss something? Was it an anniversary? I didn’t know we were—”
*Shit. No, calm down, you didn’t miss anything, we didn’t have plans before. Except we do now, because I’m gonna be late and Raúl’s had—he’s having a really bad day. So you should really, really take him out to dinner and I made reservations and everything and please don’t be busy. Because he really needs this,* Cesc hastily said.
“Okay. Yeah, sure,” Iker automatically replied, his anxiety ratcheting up about another ten notches. He started to get up, then sat down when he saw the time and realized it wasn’t anywhere near dinner. “But what happened? Did somebody…um, do I have to pretend to Figo that I don’t know what you’re doing?”
Cesc sniffed, offended. *Iker, I’m never doing anything important. You know that. And I’m obviously not the one needing a nice dinner, so it’s not me, okay? Speaking of, I booked a private room so you can feel Raúl up and everything. Don’t worry about somebody noticing, because the owner’s a family friend and he’ll keep his mouth shut.*
“But what happened?”
* * *
“No,” Raúl said, just as Márquez loudly repeated that the press conference was over. Raúl grimaced, kicking himself for not just having waited for that, but didn’t glance at the other man. He’d been through enough painful media events to know that the only thing worse than making a slip was looking like you’d made one.
Instead Raúl slowly scooted his chair backwards as Márquez and some other FC official stepped up to the table, letting himself slide behind the other two. Once he was mostly hidden, he quickly swiveled the chair around and made a lunge for the door. It opened just enough to allow him into the hall, then shut so he was left facing Lehmann. For a moment, Raúl wondered whether he should’ve just stayed in the other room.
Then he sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Did my voicemail not get through?”
“No, I got it. And I heard what you said to them, too. Nice job,” Jens said. The muscle in his jaw wasn’t twitching, and he was looking at Raúl instead of slightly over Raúl’s shoulder, so Van Persie probably wasn’t around. So Lehmann was, indeed, abnormally relaxed. “In a few days we’ll make the announcement about Deco voluntarily resigning, and after that it won’t be your responsibility to know about his status.”
By now Raúl knew better than to breathe a sigh of relief, and instead just waited for the rest of it.
“But there’s apparently an issue with Cristiano now,” Jens added. He needed a moment to work his facial muscles out of his expression of utter disgust, and then another to dig a ringing phone out of his pocket. It wasn’t his, since he produced that and answered it while handing the first phone to Raúl. “Freddie can tell you about it. You will not be flying out, and I’ve told him that and you can tell him that again. But calm him down, all right?”
“I think it’d be easier to fax a tranquilizer prescription to his personal assistant, if Freddie’s actually the issue,” Raúl muttered. But he took the phone and, suppressing a sigh, put it to his ear. “Freddie, I can’t do anything about his personality. Those drugs aren’t legal unless you get him declared clinically insane and dangerous.”
*That can’t be that hard, can it?* Just then someone interrupted and Freddie nearly broke Raúl’s eardrum when he slapped his phone against something hard. He went on for a few seconds with the other person—probably Larsson, given the calm tone—before coming back. *Look, I think he’s on drugs again anyway. He’s acting weird.*
Raúl stared down the hall. Lehmann had gone round the corner, though Raúl could still hear the man as he dressed down some press-person for letting in a blackballed reporter, but otherwise the hall was empty. So he could get away with punching something, but then he’d have to deal with the broken bones and if nothing else, he was tired of talking about medicine today. “Can you be more specific?”
*He’s…all right, he’s lazy anyway, but this is beyond lazy. When we get somewhere he just lies down till somebody makes him work, and then he goes back to sitting around and not doing anything. And he has this glassy stare, like he doesn’t know what’s going on.*
“If you talk to him, is he coherent?” Raúl asked, rubbing the side of his face. If Cristiano was back on the drugs, then he’d need an intervention as soon as possible—Raúl highly disliked the man, but he’d never deny him any needed treatment. On the other hand, Lehmann had specified that Raúl didn’t need to go over, and while Lehmann was coldblooded enough to write Cristiano off after a relapse, he would still take something like that seriously. If only because it’d prick his pride that he clearly couldn’t control Cristiano at all. “Does he have mood swings?”
*Oh, he’s still mouthy, believe me. Nothing wrong there. But even with that, he’s…* Freddie rumbled something at whoever was with him *…quieter. It’s almost like he doesn’t mean it, but he’s just going through the motions. And at night he just goes to his room and locks everyone out. I still keep an eye on him but so far he hasn’t done much besides stomp around and watch a lot of bad movies.*
Raúl started to ask another question, but then leaned against the wall to reluctantly review what he knew about the events leading up to Cristiano’s abrupt departure. He’d stayed out of it as much as he could, since he still didn’t think José and Ruud were a good match even if he’d resigned himself to letting José manage that, but it was hard to avoid when everyone ended up calling him for the icepacks and ointment. “Freddie, have you considered the idea that Cristiano’s depressed?”
The line was silent. Then, slowly at first but with increasing speed and volume, came a series of squeaky snorts, like Freddie was trying to squeeze his laughter back into his nose. Trying and failing badly. *Cristiano? Are you kidding me? Look, there are plenty of mirrors around, so I don’t think that—*
It was very rude of him, and was probably going to make things uncomfortable whenever Ljungberg came back from Portugal, but Raúl just hung up. He’d already given one press conference pretending he knew all about a patient he’d never actually treated, and he wasn’t in the mood to do another long-distance diagnosis. Especially since it’d become very clear over the years that Freddie just suffered from a terminal hatred of Cristiano, and while Raúl could muster some sympathy for that, he couldn’t actually do anything about it. Not and still adhere to his Hippocratic Oath.
The phone didn’t immediately ring again, which was surprising, but not so much so that Raúl didn’t immediately head for Lehmann. He caught the other man just wrapping up his dressing-down and handed the phone over while the hapless press officer was trying to babble out an apology. “Cristiano’s just depressed,” Raúl said as he turned on his heel. “Possibly it might lead to self-destructive behavior again, but—”
“He’s got Freddie, Henrik and Heinze with him. If he still manages to fuck himself over, then I think the sheer effort he’d have to put into it should be respected,” Lehmann casually replied. He pocketed the phone, then eyed the press officer as if daring her to gossip about that, and so Raúl figured he could leave.
Well, not quite. Márquez wanted to see him for a moment to get a detail straight for someone’s paperwork, but the delay turned out to be rather beneficial, since it kept him till most of the others had left. He was able to get from the press room to the elevator to the parking garage without running into any curious secretaries, agents, hangers-on or personal assistants…Raúl hit the ‘down’ button, then paused to reconsider that. Normally he didn’t like mixing his work with Cesc’s work—things were complicated enough without adding that—but Cesc should already know about this one, and sometimes Raúl just wanted to complain to someone who’d understand without a lengthy explanation. Iker did his best, but…
Raúl grimaced and put his hand over his face. Then he pressed his fingers over his ear, and then he sighed and took out his phone. “Yes?”
*Hello,* Ruud said, somewhat tentatively. *I’m sorry—is this a good time?*
On second thought, Raúl was going to his car. If it was a problem with José, then getting Cesc would only make it worse. And if it wasn’t that bad, then Raúl still figured he’d do better to go home and yank weeds in his garden. Occasionally things just went beyond complaining. “That doesn’t really matter. What is it?”
*Well, I wouldn’t want to distract you while you’re working on a patient or something like that.* A little bit of an edge crept into Ruud’s voice, then whisked away as he coughed awkwardly. *Seriously, if it’s a bad time—*
“How long has it been and have you called an ambulance yet?” Raúl sighed. Then he started at a sudden chiming, but that was only the elevator arriving. After a moment of blank staring, he just got in and hit the button for his parking level. “It’s not José, right? Otherwise I should have panicky relatives phoning, too.”
Ruud made a noise that was a cross between a sigh and a laugh, and the part of it that was amused seemed genuine enough. Although that didn’t stop him from being faintly acerbic when he went on. *It’s not José. I’d think I wouldn’t sound this calm.*
“Good, since…oh, never mind. So who is it?” The elevator came to a stop, but opened on the wrong floor. The man waiting outside inquiringly pointed upwards with his thumb, then cursed as Raúl shook his head and pressed the ‘doors close’ button. “What is it?”
*Aguero, and I think it might just be a touch of food poisoning. He’s vomited twice in eight hours and says his stomach is cramping, but he’s not running much of a fever and he can still think. Well, as much as he could before.* That last bit came in a mutter, Ruud’s voice fading in and out as he probably turned his head to watch something. *Also, he went out to a steakhouse last night and I asked José about the place and he wouldn’t calm down till I swore I hadn’t eaten anything from there. Look, do you want to talk to José? He is here.*
“No, just tell me where ‘here’ is, and I’ll be over.” Raúl listened as Ruud gave the address, and then directions, apparently taking Raúl’s lack of reply as confusion. It wasn’t, but Raúl was just too resigned now to bother explaining that to the other man. “I need to get my bag, but I’ll be over in probably twenty minutes to a half-hour, depending on traffic. Keep him warm and make him drink water if he can keep it down.”
Once Ruud got off the phone, Raúl texted Cesc and then Lehmann. By the time he got to his car, Lehmann had replied with a curt ‘OK,’ which Raúl was going to take at face-value and assume he wasn’t needed till he got the emergency call. After he was done with Aguero, he was going straight home and calling himself in sick if he had to.
* * *
Cristiano blinked, then rubbed his upper lip and struggled not to look at the clock on the wall. “What?”
“Er…” Whichever interviewer it was glanced at his notepad, then looked up past Cristiano’s left shoulder. Then he coughed and tapped his pen against the pad. He took a deep breath, then repeated his question, his enthusiasm as fake as a wrinkle-less movie star over fifty. “Cristiano. So, since you’re returning to your roots, do you consider this new tour a fresh start?”
“Why would I need a fresh start?” Cristiano snorted. He dragged himself up the couch, then slouched into the opposite corner. Then he grimaced and just sat forward, resting his arms on his knees, since he couldn’t seem to avoid the rocks in the cushion. “I don’t need an excuse to do a goddamn tour in my home country. Especially since last I checked, I was still FC’s top-selling act.”
An minor explosion of strangulated noises came from above Cristiano’s left shoulder. It seemed to bother the interviewer a lot, but after having to sit through multiple Lehmann-rages, Cristiano had no problem ignoring it. Instead he took the chance to check the clock while the interviewer was distracted—fuck, another ten minutes.
“Well, yes, but…” the interviewer cautiously looked to Cristiano’s left again, then pretended to write something down “…we heard you’ve been having arguments with your management again.”
“Hey,” said somebody to Cristiano’s left.
“What, because I let my agent go? He was in the hospital. It wasn’t like he could work anymore, so it just made sense,” Cristiano snorted. That somebody started to object again and Cristiano cleared his throat over that nonsense, then waved his hand to get the interviewer’s attention. “Look, I’m here and fulfilling my obligations to FC—”
The interviewer’s eyes lit up. “Obligations? Don’t you want to be here?”
“All right, I think that’s enough—”
“I like touring and I like seeing my fans. I know how much they support me and I want to give back, I really do. But honestly I would have liked to have finished my upcoming album first. I maybe needed another week on it, but FC disagreed.” Cristiano shouldered off the tap he felt and scooted to the end of the cushion, raising his voice over the protests going on behind him. “So all right, I can’t do anything about that and I’m going to do my tour, and make it fantastic. But if you’re going to ask—”
“We’re done,” Ljungberg hissed, stalking out from behind the chair. Then he made a stupid grab for the interviewer’s tape recorder, only to end up getting yanked back by his own assistant, who was a little bit better at figuring out what bad press was, apparently. “That—that was all off the fucking record, got that? Or else you’ll be hearing from our legal department.”
“Thank you very much, it was a pleasure and I hope you have fun,” the interview said insincerely. He stuck out his hand, but he and Cristiano had barely touched fingers before he had to dodge another lunge by Ljungberg.
This time the man took the hint and scurried out of the room, leaving Ljungberg screaming about repercussions and pre-interview agreements. Rolling his eyes, Cristiano smoothed his hand over his head. “Freddie? You realize he doesn’t fucking understand English? Or did you not notice that we’ve been talking in Portuguese for a half-hour?”
Ljungberg stopped mid-screech, his eyes bulging, his arms thrown out to either side. An angry red flush spread up his neck, making it look like it was swelling up—he looked a lot like a turkey that way, with the red and the bald head, and Cristiano couldn’t help a snort.
He probably should’ve at least tried to stifle it, but he didn’t and so he got Ljungberg whirling sharply on him, neck puffed out even more. “You goddamn little shit! You think this is—”
“Freddie,” Larsson said, tone low and cool but stern enough. He didn’t need more than two fingertips to draw Ljungberg to the side, where he promptly began to whisper calmly about interceptions and phone calls and Lehmann.
And just like that, Cristiano’s interest vanished and he was utterly bored again. For a moment he considered walking out and maybe hitting the hotel gym, but Larsson somehow caught his eye. It wasn’t that Cristiano was that scared of the man—not after everything he’d done and seen—but Larsson had already “retrieved” him once and while it hadn’t involved drugs or hitting Cristiano, it’d still been pretty damn unpleasant. Cristiano wasn’t quite that bored yet.
“Do you want any water?”
Then again…Cristiano just barely hid his wince, and had to put up his hand over his mouth and pretend to think to keep his expression hidden. Then he moved his hand down, under his chin, which he rocked against his palm. He didn’t even want to answer, but he could feel Gaby hovering and Gaby would do that, and—and God, Cristiano couldn’t even think about a little thing like that without wondering just why the other man was doing it. If it was the whole job thing, or…Cristiano choked down an irritated noise, then got up. “No, I’m fine. Hey, Ljungberg. Any more?”
“No. Not until you learn to stick to a goddamn script, you—”
“Whatever, I’ll be in my room. Working, so leave me alone,” Cristiano said, turning on his heel. Then he swerved away, before he could get a good look at Gaby, and ducked into his room.
As soon as he was inside, he locked the door, and then braced a chair under the knob for good measure. By this point, even Ljungberg knew better than to come barging in, but sometimes the man would anyway, for no reason that Cristiano could tell. Unless he was thinking he’d find something he could nail on Cristiano and if that was it, then fuck him and hopefully he’d break a shoulder against the door soon. Because Cristiano might be fed up and agent-less and stuck in Portugal while Lahm did God knew what to the first album Cristiano really could call his, but he wasn’t fucking gone yet. They’d have to do a lot more to him to see that.
Even if he spent a lot of time wondering just what he was doing, being so dead-set on staying. Cristiano grimaced and pushed that thought away, sitting down at the desk. He flipped up his laptop and stroked his finger across the touchpad to wake it up, then checked his email. Family, family, somebody he vaguely remembered from an FC launch, Lahm—Cristiano backtracked and opened up the message, then let out a deep breath when he realized Lahm was just sending him another finished song. He did actually believe that Lahm would fight hard for the album, but like Lehmann would give a shit about that.
Cristiano dug out his headphones and plugged them into the laptop, then sat back. And stared at the cursor hovering over the link to the song file, till finally he got too disgusted with himself and yanked off the headphones. He kicked back from the desk, then got up and stalked across the room to flop on the bed.
He still cared about his music, that was why he stayed. If it was about showing up Lehmann and pissing him off, Cristiano would’ve left a long time ago, because he knew by now that Lehmann lived off anger. If the man was ever happy, he’d probably drop dead on the spot. So Cristiano put up with him and with the rest of FC for the sake of the music, because God knew what Lehmann would do with it if Cristiano gave up. Cristiano didn’t think Lehmann actually liked pop, to be honest.
After a moment, Cristiano rolled over and looked at the ceiling. His hand snaked down and got out his cell, and hit a couple of buttons. When he noticed, he frowned and started to shut the phone, but then got curious and instead put it to his ear just in time to hear a soft click.
“Hello, this is the voicemail of Ruud van—”
Cristiano slapped the phone against the bed. The plastic creaked and he glanced down, then shut up the cell and rolled over to bury his face in the mattress. Some days he actually did hate himself.
* * *
“No, you can’t. He’s throwing up,” Ruud said, exhaling under extreme control. He put his hand against his forehead, then leaned forward to rest that against the wall, closing his eyes. “Well, all right, I suppose you could talk to him, but FC isn’t paying for your dry-cleaning.”
*He’s throwing up. God, have I heard that a lot…* Figo paused as, in the bathroom, Kun loudly made use of the toilet again *…so. Food poisoning?*
Ruud pushed himself off the wall and turned around. At first he headed towards the bathroom, but through the ajar door, he saw José’s back in there and so instead he kept on walking till he hit the living room. He stopped by the couch and started taking off his coat and tie; he wouldn’t be making that afternoon meeting with the legal department, either. “Yes, food poisoning. He made the mistake of trying out El Porco last night and…I see from your snorting that you’ve heard of it.”
*Oh, that poor…all right, all right, I believe you now.* Though Figo needed a good minute to actually compose himself. *Fine, we’ll reschedule. But we are having this interview at some point. This is a quid pro quo arrangement, not some act of generosity on your part. At least, as I understand it.*
That was a little puzzling, but then Ruud remembered Lehmann had told him about this interview instead of letting the marketing people give him the information. At the time Ruud had thought it was a little strange, but he hadn’t asked any questions. He regretted that now. “All right. But the doctor’s not even come yet, so I don’t know…I’ll call you back as soon as I have an idea of when Kun will be fit. You have my word.”
*Not just your word,* Figo said mysteriously, and then made a curt farewell.
Ruud irritably thumbed off his phone, barely noticing that he’d missed a call while talking to Figo, then gazed out into the room for a few moments. He really didn’t understand Lehmann sometimes: he had straightened out his life, gotten several promising acts on the roster, and yet he still was getting dumped into this sort of backroom fuck-up, without a word of explanation. And if he called Jens, he would get that explanation but he certainly wouldn’t get any sort of apology. While Ruud would hold up his hand and admit to having deserved that in the past, he honestly believed he’d done enough at this point to deserve a little respect.
A distant rattle jarred Ruud out of his thoughts, and after putting away his phone, he hung up his coat and tie in the hall-closet. Then he went into the kitchen to see if the water had boiled yet. He had a sick starlet in his bathroom. His issues with Lehmann would have to wait.
When José knocked against the wall, Ruud was just pouring the tea into cups. The other man waited till Ruud had set down the teapot, then awkwardly cleared his throat. “So, I think Kun’s…well, out of stuff to throw up.”
“Oh, good. He can have this one,” Ruud said, picking up two of the cups. He sipped from one as he went around José into the hall.
“Um, do you think that’s a good idea? I mean, he just stopped,” José replied, sounding somewhat panicky. He whirled after Ruud, then backed up as he inadvertently ended up in front of Ruud. “Are you sure it won’t upset his stomach again?”
Ruud swigged the tea, then grimaced as he realized what he’d just done. It was good tea, and anyway…anyway, he was going to call Raúl as soon as he got the tea into Kun. It’d been forty damn minutes already, and the traffic today wasn’t that bad. “Right now he’s just uncomfortable. I don’t want to end up having to haul him to the ER for dehydration, too, so he’ll have to drink something, and tea’s probably as good as anything. My grandmother used to swear by it.”
“So did mine. I guess it’s worth a try.” José shrugged, somehow embarrassed. He walked beside Ruud for a few steps, then cut in to take the untasted cup from Ruud. One of his sleeves, which were rolled up past the elbow, began to fall down and he shoved it back up, then looked up at Ruud. “Here, I’ll…” he tried hard not to show his distaste “…I’ll do it. You’ve got phone calls to make.”
“I just made the last one, I think. Canceled everything else for today,” Ruud sighed. He drank the rest of his tea, at a decent pace, and then tried to take back the other cup. “Look, you’ve been seeing to him for the past hour and a half—”
“I know, and I’m probably better at it than you. Probably one of what, two things that I am?” In the middle of his laugh, José cut himself off and ducked his head. He scratched the back of his neck and looked away. “You know, with my cousins…I’ve done this a lot. I should’ve remembered about the dehydration, actually.”
Ruud reached for the other man’s shoulder, then changed his mind and touched José’s cheek. He smiled ruefully, and in return José seemed to relax a little. “So aren’t you sick of it? I can imagine, between…no, Cesc never seemed like the type—”
“Yeah, you would think so, but you were his boss back then,” José snorted knowingly. Then he shrugged, stepping closer to Ruud. He put his hand on Ruud’s chest and tilted his head so Ruud’s fingertips ran into his hair. “I don’t mind this time. Just, if your clients are going to make a habit of this…”
“God, I hope—” somebody knocked at the door and Ruud glanced over his shoulder “—hope not. All right, go ahead but I’m going to get that—”
“That’s Raúl, I think. Good, because I was really hoping you wouldn’t have to cancel on me, at least,” José said, half under his breath.
He started to withdraw, but Ruud grabbed his shoulder and held him still long enough to kiss his temple. Then Ruud released the other man and turned about. “No, I remember I’m cooking.”
“Actually, if you’re too busy catching up on—”
“I’m cooking,” Ruud repeated as he walked towards the front door. “It’ll give me a nice break from rescheduling everything and God.”
José started to laugh, but a groan from the bathroom sent him scurrying in that direction, and a second, harder knock made Ruud pick up his pace. He glanced through the peephole, then opened the door to let in Raúl. The other man frowned as he looked around the room. “Where’s—”
“Don’t talk about food,” Kun pleaded.
Both Ruud and Raúl looked towards the bathroom, and then Ruud moved behind Raúl to lock the door. “I made him drink some water, but he threw most of it back up just now, I think. José’s giving him some tea now.”
“What kind of tea?” Raúl asked sharply. His phone beeped and he shifted his bag to under his arm, then looked at the text message as he started towards the hall.
“Just some I had around. Black tea. Anyway, I didn’t brew it that strongly…since I would like him to keep it down, too,” Ruud added, lowering his voice. For a moment he watched Raúl turn his back on him, as if he was—Ruud swallowed that, and just followed him. As irritating as it was to always find himself on the defensive, now wasn’t the time to be picking a fight with José’s uncle. Among several other reasons, it sounded like Kun might be spitting in the toilet again.
* * *
Cristiano came out of the bathroom, then flung himself back inside. His hand slipped against the edge of the sink and his feet started to skid out from under him, but just in time, he managed to drag himself back up. He kicked shut the door, then threw himself at it and slapped the lock on just as Gaby cursed on the other side.
Things were quiet for a few seconds, letting Cristiano catch his breath. He absently pushed at his hair, then noticed there was a mirror hanging on the back of the door and fixed a couple wayward strands. Then he stuck his elbows back against the sink counter and slumped down. “Gaby. What the fuck—how did you—did you fucking rappel off the roof again?”
“No,” Gaby said after a long moment. He tested the knob, then moved his feet around. “This is the penthouse suite, Cris. I just had to jump down to the balcony.”
“And then you broke in, and scared the shit out of me,” Cristiano accused, shoving himself up. He stared about the bathroom, which wasn’t that bad, but which definitely wasn’t where he wanted to be spending the night. “Gaby, what the hell.”
Somebody from the outer room called out at that point, and Gaby didn’t say—well, he couldn’t say anything, because he wasn’t supposed to be in the fucking room. And given that the outer door wasn’t being rattled, the other one probably was Larsson, and technically Cristiano could solve this whole problem by calling back and telling him Gaby had lost his mind. Like everyone else Cristiano even remotely liked…Cristiano grimaced and pushed his hand up the side of his face.
“Fuck off, Larsson!” he finally yelled. “I’m taking a shower.”
After about a minute, Cristiano just barely heard Larsson walking away. He rubbed his face again, then looked up at the door. At the mirror on the door, actually.
It wasn’t a pretty picture after the hair, Cristiano had to admit to his disgust. He looked tired, with some puffiness under his eyes and weird hollows starting in his cheeks, and there even was…was that a…no, it wasn’t a pimple on his jaw, thank God. He hadn’t regressed that far. But even so, he was starting to look ugly and he almost wanted to break the mirror just for that.
“Cris?”
“I’m not opening the door,” Cristiano muttered. Then he repeated it louder, settling himself back against the sink. “Look, I just don’t want them in my stuff any more than they already are. That doesn’t mean I’m not…not still…”
Cristiano shut his mouth and slumped back against the sink, but looked up again when the door creaked. It moved slightly inward, like Gaby was pressing or leaning against it. “I sort of figured that out, Cris. And you don’t have to open the door, but we need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we—Cris, for God’s sake, you’re paying me to be your assistant but you won’t give me anything to do. If I was running errands, then I’d at least be away from you so it wouldn’t be so damn uncomfortable all the time,” Gaby suddenly snapped. Near the end his voice started to drop, like he was backing off, but he got it all out. And he sounded like he’d been wanting to get it all out for a while. “I mean…fuck it. I just said what I mean. This is—this is just stupid, Cris. Whatever else is—I don’t even know if you’re mad at me or scared at me or what. If nothing else, we need to get all that straight.”
“Why?” Cristiano asked. Then he snorted and kicked at the floor, overriding Gaby’s frustrated noise. “Okay, no, don’t fucking answer that. I know…I know this is stupid. But you—you have shit timing, Gaby.”
The door creaked again, and then Gaby sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, all right? I was the moment I said that. I…can we talk about that now, or are you just going to keep pretending it didn’t happen? You’re terrible at that, by the way. Cris, I lo—you’re my friend, but seriously.”
Cristiano pressed his hands over his nose, then dragged them down his face, twisting his head to the side. He looked at the wallpaper, then jerked himself off the sink and walked around in a tight circle, one hand clasped over the back of his neck. A growl coiled up in his throat, till he couldn’t breathe for the tightness, and then suddenly snapped away when he tried to cough it out.
“Yeah,” he said under his breath. He raised his head and found himself right up against the door, and then put his head against the door. “Yeah, you told me you loved me. Which was just what I needed, right after Figo embarrassed me and Ruud’s little whore had punched you and Deco had gone insane and Lehmann had had me practically kidnapped and dumped on a plane for Portugal.”
“I said I was sorry,” Gaby retorted, slightly annoyed. Then he coughed, and started to say something only to cough over that, too. He finally just kicked at the floor right by the door. “Look…I can’t exactly excuse myself, but if you care about an explanation, I was—I was in fucking shock, too. I never saw any of that coming. And I just wanted to…to let you know not everybody out there’s around to screw you over.”
Because if somebody did love him, then the problem couldn’t be with him. But then what the fuck was the problem, when he tried as hard as he could but still couldn’t get anywhere? And how wasn’t it him? Because he did think highly of himself, because he was fucking good and it wasn’t a crime to recognize that, but over and over again, people would choose something else. Someone else. Someone else who wasn’t nearly as good, and who couldn’t offer nearly as much, so what the hell did they have that he didn’t? That was what he wanted to know, and Gaby couldn’t tell him that for all the love in the world.
Which, Cristiano mentally sighed to himself, wasn’t Gaby’s fault. Not to mention Gaby had actually stood with him through a lot of messes, and was a good friend. Cristiano did appreciate things like that. He just didn’t seem to get them that often.
“Yeah,” Cristiano said, and reached for the doorknob. He unlocked it and pulled open the door, then averted his eyes from Gaby’s surprised expression; he was going to deal with it now, but that didn’t mean he had to be okay with it yet. “You know I don’t—that’s never going to happen with us.”
“Yeah, I know. I blurted that out because I was panicking, not because I thought I was gonna write us into a romcom or anything.” Gaby stayed by the bathroom door as Cristiano flopped into a nearby armchair. After a moment, he flicked off the bathroom light. “And I’m fine with it. I…I can be a professional. I can still work for you without that being a problem. I swear, and if it ever does become a problem, I’ll fire myself.”
Cristiano snorted, smiling tight-lipped at the balcony door, which was still partly open. “Well, don’t do that any time soon, okay? I just had Deco do that to me.”
The other man winced, and in doing so turned himself so that he was facing the balcony. His eyes narrowed, and then he walked over and began to fix whatever he’d done to the balcony door. “I’ll try not to. Just what was going on with Deco anyway? Do you have any idea? I’m still trying to figure out how he got in the hospital in the first place.”
“No idea, and honestly, I’m still trying to decide if I care enough to find out,” Cristiano muttered, stretching out his legs. He glanced at Gaby, who was looking a little stunned, then shrugged. “I’m still mad that he just—went and did it like that, but look, he’s gone. I need another agent, and I think Lehmann’s going to want to pick this one for me. Of course, the last time he did that, it didn’t turn out so well, but it’s not like Lehmann learns well from experience.”
“Is that why Ljungberg’s here? Is this some kind of trial period?”
After he’d finished laughing, Cristiano cleared his throat and pulled himself back into a sitting position. “Oh, God, no. Lehmann actually likes Ljungberg—which, come to think of it, must mean Ljungberg really fucked up to get me. Because he hates me. If he ended up my agent for good, he’d die of a heart attack in about two days, even with Larsson around to help out. No, Lehmann’s gonna pick some robot he thinks he can control. It’s how he figured Ruud would be all right, in the beginning.”
“As a robot?” Gaby said incredulously. He started to dust off his hands, then noticed the greasy streak on one and went over to get a tissue from the table. “Ruud? He’s got problems, but I never—”
“Yeah,” Cristiano curtly interrupted.
Gaby looked at him, then wiped at that grease. The man’s shoulders twitched around a couple times before Gaby looked up again, his eyes saying he wanted to shut up but the tilt of his jaw saying he was going to talk. “You’re not really over Ruud, are you?”
“Do you want me to start ignoring you again?” Cristiano said after a long moment.
“No. No, I don’t, but—it’s hard to ignore that, Cris.” Though Gaby kind of looked like he wished he had. He swallowed awkwardly on the last word, and his hands completely missed each other when he tried to swipe the tissue over his fingers again. He looked down, then abruptly balled up the tissue and tossed it away. “Sorry. I won’t mention it again.”
“Well, you don’t really have to. It is pretty fucking obvious, when he’s already got somebody else and I still can’t help stare at him.” Cristiano pushed down on his feet, then flopped back. Then he sighed and put his head on the back of the armchair. “You know, I actually have tried to get over him? At least, to—to hate him? I hate his fucking new boyfriend, no problem. But him…I just can’t.”
The other man didn’t say anything. Maybe he showed something in his face, but by the time Cristiano rolled his head over to look, Gaby had gotten rid of it. All Gaby looked was genuinely sorry and sympathetic, and not condemning or disbelieving at all.
“So all I did was embarrass myself with Figo, who’s got his own damn whore, and give Lehmann a chance to put me back in the box,” Cristiano muttered, turning his head back. He idly scratched the chair arms as he stared upward. “Well, fine. I love Ruud. I’m probably always going to. So I’ll just have to get used to it—you got any advice about that?”
He looked at Gaby again, who blinked and jerked his chin down a bit. Then the other man shook his head, glancing to the side. The corner of Gaby’s mouth curled up ironically before he shook his head again. “Cris, well, you never do change. There’s that much comfort, anyway.”
“It doesn’t seem that helpful to me. The whole problem’s that I can’t change. I can’t keep up with…” Cristiano flapped his hand around him.
“It just takes a while,” Gaby said. “Sorry, that’s about all I can do there. I’m better with the new-agent problem.”
Frowning, Cristiano raised his brows. “Really?”
“I…” Gaby paused, then nodded “…maybe. It’s been a while, and we’re in Portugal, so I don’t know for sure if…”
“They’re watching me, not you. If I keep ignoring you, you can probably do whatever you want,” Cristiano said, sitting up. He arched his brows again and after a moment, Gaby started to smile.
* * *
“I’m really sorry about that, uncle,” José stammered, futilely moving about a towel without really doing much good. He backed up as Raúl bent down to splash water on his neck and chest, then tried to dab at the brownish spots on Raúl’s chest again. “Um, if you need a shirt, I can dig one up for you…”
When Ruud took the towel from him, José nearly started straight back into Ruud. Then he managed to steady himself against the counter, but not without a vivid flush staining his cheeks and a bowed head. He started to say something, but stopped when Ruud got hold of his elbow.
“Here, let me get out of the way,” Ruud said, and pulled José out from between him and Raúl. Then he let José go and hefted the towel in his hand, using it to block the drops flying from Raúl’s direction. “I can do this while you’re getting the shirt.”
For one moment, José looked so grateful that Ruud almost wished they were alone. But then José looked at Raúl, and back at Ruud, and Ruud could watch how the worry crept into the man’s face. Though it took a moment for José to actually say anything about it, since slick excuses were decidedly not his forte, and frankly, Ruud was grateful himself that José wasn’t Cesc. It made it easier to ease José towards the door.
“Can you get another towel while you’re out?” Ruud asked, giving José a gentle push in the back. “Thanks.”
José shut his open mouth, though he clearly wanted to protest. But Ruud turned around, and Raúl had never looked up in the first place, and after a moment, Ruud heard José slowly walking away.
“I’m used to it.” Raúl began to lift his head from the sink, then lowered it again. He put his hand on the rim for balance and pushed down on it as he stood up, apparently trying to keep the water dripping off him going into the sink and not onto the floor. “Throwing up is part of the job.”
“Does he not see you at work very often?” Ruud asked idly, holding out the towel.
The other man started sharply, then turned very slowly towards him. Raúl’s eyes went to Ruud first, then the towel, and then it was another few seconds before Raúl finally took the towel with clear reluctance. He did make good use of it to wipe at his face and soiled, soggy shirt, but it didn’t serve quite so well in hiding how he was looking around Ruud.
“He went to get you a fresh shirt, like he said.” Ruud stood back to give Raúl some room, then considered leaving. After all, Kun had stopped throwing up but he was certainly not going to be moving from Ruud’s spare bedroom any time soon, and he probably could use a look-in. And Ruud still had to figure out exactly what Figo and Lehmann had going on, to make sure he didn’t get caught in the middle again. “Look, I know you don’t like me but I damn well do care about him. It’s not like I force him to stay with me.”
Well, none of the other things Ruud could be doing really were that appealing, but it was still debatable whether they were better than picking a fight with Raúl over the man’s consistent cold-shouldering of Ruud. Actually, it wasn’t debatable: Ruud had just done it.
Raúl stopped patting at himself, but just looked at himself in the mirror. His mouth tightened and he drew in a breath, then began to rub the towel over his jaw like he hadn’t heard. Which was nothing new.
“And I am sorry that I caused so much grief in your family. But I am--trying, as best as I can, to make up for it, and I would like at least a little recognition of that,” Ruud added after a moment. He exhaled irritably and half-turned to brace his hip against the sink. “Or if not that, some recognition that he’s happy with me. You can’t do anything about that.”
“I was feeling a little guilty right up till the end there,” Raúl abruptly said. He pulled the towel down and glanced at the mirror, then turned to look at Ruud. “I do see how he is with you, and that you are treating him well. And I never laid all the blame on you in the first place. My family has to take some of it.”
“Then why act like I’m still the—”
“It’s not you.” Raúl snapped the towel down on the counter, then looked at it as if someone else had done that, and he was just as surprised as Ruud. Then he grimaced and pushed at the damp strands stuck to his forehead. “It’s…look, I’m never going to think you’re perfect for José, but you’re his choice and I respect that. What I still have a problem with is that you work for FC.”
After a long moment, Ruud had to admit defeat in figuring out what Raúl meant by that. He did have an intuitive sense of it, but if he was going to get into this argument, he wanted a clear result. “So do you.”
“I know, and that’s why I worry when I see him helping you. He had enough problems in the restaurant business and my family knows a lot of people in that. And also it’s not nearly as…” The other man glanced away, then sighed. He turned back to the mirror and grimaced, plucking at his stained shirt. It was mostly tea, but that shirt probably should just be thrown away. “With my job, I see people when they get broken, all right? And I’ve already seen José break once. I don’t want to see that again.”
“Neither do I.” When Raúl shot him a startled look, Ruud tried to swallow down his frustration. Tried and failed. “I never wanted him to break the first time. I—I did let him, but that was neglect, not a deliberate act. And I know what this life can do to you. I know better than you, I’d think—you see people when they break, but I know what that’s like. It’s not going to happen to José.”
Raúl turned and stared at him, and at first the man was silently incredulous but at the end, Ruud thought he saw some grudging acceptance in there. Not that Raúl gave any outward sign of it; instead, he just started to unbutton his shirt. As he did, he stuffed the towel under it so no skin ever actually showed.
Taking the hint, Ruud twisted around to face the door. He drummed his fingers against the counter, then inhaled deeply. “You know, it’s not like I’m that happy about it either. I told him he doesn’t need to, but he wants to help, and…and he enjoys what he’s doing. I don’t like it but I don’t want to take that from him unless I have to. It’s the first time I’ve seen him enjoy what he does.”
“I know,” Raúl muttered.
Ruud looked over his shoulder and found the other man looking back at him. After a moment they both looked away, but the tension in the room had already eased.
“It helps a little that you’ve actually put yourself back together, and I saw that. I don’t see that that often.” Raúl pushed the towel over his chest a few more times before tossing it on the counter by Ruud’s hand. Then he stepped back from the sink, running one hand through his hair. “It does just look like an upset stomach with Kun, not even full-blown food poisoning. In a couple hours he can probably try a little bread or pudding, but nothing spicy or interesting for a full twenty-four hours, just to make sure. And make him drink water, tea, whatever.”
“Will you come by to check him again tomorrow? I don’t want to send him out unless he can take it,” Ruud said.
The other man gave him a longer look than that question required, obviously thinking about more than it as well. Finally Raúl nodded. “When I get home I’ll look at my schedule and send you the time. When are you looking at?”
“Whenever you can come. The earlier the better, but I already canceled up till tomorrow afternoon anyway, so it doesn’t matter too much,” Ruud replied. Then he looked up, hearing something in the hall.
About a minute later, José stumbled in, clean shirt held out in front of him like a shield, and then seemed rather stunned to find them both in one piece. He stared round for a while before Raúl eventually startled him into awareness by taking the shirt from him. “Kun’s asleep, and—damn. I forgot the spare towel.”
“It’s all right, I’ll get it.” Ruud let his hand drift over José’s shoulder as he moved towards the door and got a half-confused, half-relieved smile in return. Which didn’t do much for the mess he still needed to clean up, but it lightened his mood a good deal.
* * *
Iker sat up on his knees, then grabbed Raúl’s arms for balance, as he was a little dizzy from suddenly being able to breathe through his mouth. “Oh, so you and Ruud made peace? Isn’t that a good thing?”
Raúl blinked once, gasped, and blinked again, and it occurred to Iker that Raúl’s explanations had actually petered off a good while ago. It’d just taken that long for Iker to put it all together, since his multitasking abilities seemed to fail him when it came to sex. Even though he wasn’t actually…he shifted, uncomfortably reminded, then reached down.
Somehow that got Raúl’s attention: his eyes snapped down, and then his chair’s leg was dangerously near Iker’s right ribs because it’d toppled over and Raúl was on his knees right in front of Iker. Except for his hands, which were down Iker’s trousers and they were rolling under the table. It was a good thing the place was so fancy that even a two-person table was big enough for that.
After Iker had gotten his breath back, he rolled onto his belly and rested his elbow on Raúl’s chest. The other man smiled fondly and brushed sweaty fingertips against Iker’s equally sweaty brow, then closed his eyes as Iker kissed his neck. “I suppose. It’ll make next week less awkward, anyway.”
“Next week?”
“Don’t panic, I just agreed to it. Also, don’t tell Cesc till I’ve figured out a way to tell him that doesn’t give him ideas,” Raúl mumbled. He twisted over, his hand stroking up Iker’s thigh, his face pressed into the very soft carpet. His fingers dragged higher to brush against Iker’s prick and for a moment it seemed like Raúl didn’t want to talk about it, but then he sighed. “I invited Ruud and José over for dinner. It’s just dinner, because I don’t think I’ve had just José over since he went to South America, and…well, I think Ruud deserves that much. Even if I still wish it’d been someone else.”
Iker looked at the creases in Raúl’s brow, then pushed his head into the curve of the other man’s neck. He let them lie still for a little bit. “I think you’re doing a good thing, you know. Even better since you don’t like it. Um. That is—”
“Thank you,” Raúl said, eyes opening. He put up both hands around Iker’s face, then pulled Iker down and softly kissed him on the lips, and Iker knew he’d gotten his point through, despite the bad wording.
* * *
Luís hung up, then rolled over and snuggled into Adrian’s bare, warm back. His brain let him enjoy it for about fifteen seconds before it poked him, and he stuffed it back, where it couldn’t distract him from the smell of whatever Adrian was using for shampoo these days. So then it kicked him and he cursed and sat up.
Adrian mumbled something, then sleepily twisted over and stared up at Luís from the blankets, all rumpled and confused. And frankly, he had a right to be the latter. “What’s wrong?”
“Why the hell do I have somebody calling me to tell me where Deco is?” Luís asked.
For a long moment, Adrian just looked at him, silently pointing out the unfairness of asking such a question at this hour, of a man who’d balanced Luís’ checkbook, cooked a fantastic dinner and then let Luís fuck him next to a sink full of dirty dishes. Then Adrian frowned. “Deco? The one you didn’t think you should ask about but then thought Lehmann would want to know about?”
“Oh. Oh. Right. That was it.” Those pieces of information firmly slotted together, Luís laid back down and pulled up the covers. After another moment, he felt Adrian moving and lifted his arm so the other man could sprawl over him.
Adrian nuzzled his way into Luís’ neck, then absently nibbled at Luís’ ear as Luís put his arm down, grazed a naked buttock and automatically cupped it. In response Adrian hitched up, draping his arm around Luís’ chest, and mmm’ed into the side of Luís’ face. “Do you need to do something about that now?”
“Probably not. He’s being depressed in London, apparently. I don’t think he’ll be moving too soon,” Luís said, and closed his eyes. “That’s probably not going to interest Lehmann too much, so never mind.”
* * *
*Hello, sunshine? Did I interrupt anything?*
Jens considered the naked, annoyed man in his lap. “Fantastic sex. Why shouldn’t I kill you?”
Not placated in the least, Robin rolled his eyes and pointedly flexed his body around Jens’ cock. Then he leaned forward, which pressed Jens’ cock in an entirely different but equally good way, and rested his chin on Jens’ shoulder, scraping the tie binding his wrists against the back of Jens’ neck. “Fuck that. Let me just cut off his phone service,” Robin muttered.
*Because I’m about to solve all your problems without anything from you,* Giuly chirped. *Domenech and Kahn are having this wonderful little dinner at the new French restaurant downtown in about a week, and being the lover of my native cuisine that I am, I think I should be there too. No need to thank me, Jens. This one’s just for me, and I’m happy to let you take the benefit.*
“What—” Jens started, beginning to rear up. But the call ended before Robin could even slam them back down, and God, now Jens wanted to kill someone. Except he couldn’t, and that was the whole problem.
Robin leaned back with mouth open, then shut it as he took in Jens’ face. Then he sighed, glancing down between them. “Well, now I’m not even up for it. Is it really that bad?”
Jens just threw the phone down on the floor. It was still clattering when he picked up Robin by the waist and pulled the man off a rapidly-softening cock, then got off the couch. As he walked off, the clattering abruptly stopped. Then there was a beep, and another sigh from Robin. “Thierry? Oh, Bobby. Sorry. Can you put—hi, Thierry. There’s a—he stopped in the middle of sex and walked—yeah. Yeah, okay. Yeah. Right, I’ll tell him.”
***