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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Figo/Mutu. Implied Raúl/Cesc/Iker, Figo/Zidane.
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: This is absolutely fiction and not real and I don’t know these people at all. Any resemblance to any real-life magazine is completely accidental.
Notes: Titled after the song by Poets of the Fall.
Summary: The whole Zidane thing.
***
Fifteen Years Ago
Luís swallowed what he’d been about to say, and instead just sat down on the arm of the couch. He tossed the icepack from hand to hand, then held it out over the couch. A couple seconds later he was still holding it, so he took back his hand. At first he put the pack in his lap, but he realized it was leaking and just dropped it onto the floor.
The loud splat made Zinedine turn over. Slow, moving his arms and legs like somebody had concussed him, till he was looking up at Luís. He had bags under his eyes and the lines of his face…well, they still looked good but they seemed harsher, like somebody had carved at them with a paring knife. But his eyes themselves were calm and clear. They should’ve been in some other man’s body.
“How’s your head?” Luís asked.
Zinedine shrugged and reached up to rub at it. He shrugged again and put his arm back down by his side.
“You want some water?” Luís asked.
“No.” The clip of the word off Zinedine’s teeth wasn’t exactly curt, but neither was it welcoming.
Luís lingered a moment longer, then gave up. He started to slide off the arm, but his foot hit the icepack. He paused, then bent and scooped it up. It went into the bin and he turned for the door.
“Luís.”
When he looked back, Zinedine had crawled up to hang himself over the couch arm. The other man was looking at him like…Luís didn’t think he’d ever actually seen that look on Zinedine’s face before. It made him think he was the only person who’d ever see it.
“You were there with me,” Zinedine said. “You stayed.”
“Well, I couldn’t do anything else,” Luís said. It was a banality but he might as well have carved out his own heart and laid it on the floor in front of Zinedine.
The left side of Zinedine’s mouth turned up. “You were the one I would’ve wanted the most to stay,” he said. He looked at Luís without a shred of shadow in his eyes, without anything between them. “So thanks.”
* * *
Present Time
Xavi didn’t seem to know who Morientes was, which—Andrés couldn’t believe, so probably it was more that Xavi didn’t see why it would be bizarre for Morientes to show up, let alone when Figo had finally called somebody. He stepped aside for Morientes to go past him and it was left to Andrés to grab Morientes’ elbow. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Morientes flinched, then suddenly pressed forward and crowded Andrés nearly into the opposite wall. “What? What else has happened?”
“Well, Figo’s out—”
“Oh, I knew about that,” Morientes muttered, looking disappointed. Then he looked at Andrés again and sighed. “Look, for the last time, I didn’t bring Zidane into this. Honestly, you think anybody can make Zinedine do anything, you obviously don’t know the man.”
Andrés opened his mouth to ask how Morientes knew about Figo, but got interrupted by Xavi jostling in front of him. The other man blocked Morientes from going down the hall, then seized Morientes’ arm. “How well do you know Zidane?” he asked.
Morientes jerked at his arm, then settled grudgingly back with an irritated breath. “Look, what’s going on? I need to see Figo and it’s an emergency, and it’ll help the magazine if I get it taken care of.”
“You’re not going to find Figo in there,” Andrés said. He backtracked so he could look Morientes in the face. “He’s not back yet.”
“I know he’s not there but he’s going to be,” Morientes snapped, yanking his arm free. He tried to push Xavi out of the way; Xavi stayed put and Morientes stepped back, one hand twisting into his hair as he stared angrily at them.
Xavi didn’t take his eyes off Morientes as he slowly brushed down his suit. “I have very good information that Figo’s going to be somewhere else first. We’re not trying to keep you from him, but there’s a lot going on tonight and some things have to be taken care of first. So if you’d just like to tell me what—hey!”
Out of the blue, Morientes just—he just lifted Xavi. Grabbed his waist and hauled him up, twisted and put him down. Then pivoted—he was surprisingly fast for his height—and was into the newsroom before Xavi or Andrés could stop him.
Andrés dithered a moment longer out of shock, then shook himself and lunged after the man. But an arm on his elbow stopped him. He pulled away, then rounded on Xavi who held up his hands. “Look, look, if he’s in so much of a hurry, he won’t listen till he sees Figo isn’t there for himself,” Xavi said. “We don’t have the time to wait for him. We should just go.”
“I guess if he really wants to know where Figo is, he can try and get Bojan to tell him,” Andrés agreed with a shrug. “And if he’s telling the truth about Zidane, then whatever’s his problem isn’t really the big one right now.”
Xavi nodded along with Andrés’ words as he headed down the hall. He punched for the elevator and frowned when he saw how many floors away it was. Then he perked up, thinking of something. “If it comes, hold it. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Before Andrés could respond, Xavi disappeared around the corner. Andrés blinked, then tried to shrug it off. He stuffed one hand in his pocket and shuffled his feet, and concentrated on not thinking about how really awful things were going to be if it turned out Figo wasn’t at Guardiola’s offices, or if he hadn’t snapped out of his Zidane mindset. Maybe Morientes knew something they didn’t, coming here. Maybe—
“Sorry,” Xavi said, as Andrés caught himself against the wall. He had two cups of coffee in his hands. “I just remembered I’d offered…you want decaf or regular?”
“Regular, by God.” Andrés just kept himself from snatching the cup.
The rim had just touched his lips when the elevator rang. For a moment Andrés wanted to throw the coffee at it. Thankfully, he kept his head—and Xavi helpfully got in to hold the door while Andrés had a quick slurp. Then Andrés slid into the elevator and they started down.
* * *
“What’s going on?” Silva hissed. He’d twisted around and was trying to squeeze himself between the two front seats, but he wasn’t looking at where his hands were going. His eyes were fixed firmly on the scene taking place behind the car while his fingers jabbed into Iker’s knee, inner thigh and the hand Iker hastily stuck down there to protect himself. “I can’t see! Damn it, I wish I’d gotten the car washed this week.”
Villa paused in his efforts to drag Silva towards him and glanced out the rear windshield. “Well, Figo hasn’t taken off yet. I think Mutu’s saying something.”
Iker took advantage of their distraction to grab Silva’s wrist and yank the man’s hand up. Somehow that made Silva start to slide down; Silva yelped and twisted in surprise, which just made him slip more. Villa whipped around and got hold of Silva’s shoulders, but then stopped to tell Iker to stop whatever he was doing to Silva, which Iker ignored. He just shoved Silva into Villa’s lap, dodging the flailing knee. Then he used the space that he’d temporarily won to scrunch around to the window. If he got that open a crack, they might actually be able to hear the conversation.
Instead he hit the wrong button and the door unlocked just as Silva, still squirming, kicked his feet into it. In two seconds Iker was scraping his palm on the sidewalk and desperately clinging with his other hand to the door as he tried not to fall completely out of the car. Silva was cursing up a storm and scrabbling at Iker’s waist, getting in the way as Iker struggled to find a better handhold. Iker’s fingers were slipping bit by bit off his current one.
“Get off him!” Villa hissed. God knew what he was doing but it wasn’t helping.
“I’m not on him! He’s on me!” Iker twisted his head around as far as it could go, spotted the seatbelt and made a grab for it.
He missed. At the same time, Silva shifted on him so that Iker’s balance tipped towards the outside. The sidewalk came up towards Iker’s face at an alarming speed.
Just as Iker’s nose touched the cold, rough concrete, somebody grabbed his shoulders. They gave those a heave, then a shove back into the car; Iker’s feet whipped into Villa, who gasped and collapsed over him so he couldn’t get in any further. But thankfully, by then he was inside enough to get his elbow on the car seat and stop his sliding. He even managed to get Silva to slide off him towards Villa.
“Thank—oh.” Iker managed to work up a tired glower for Victor. “Where have you been?”
“Watching you idiots hash this up like a Tarantino rip-off,” Victor said from his squat. He blinked hard, as if that was going to clear up the red in his eyes. “At least you brought Mutu. Good. He’s an addict, so I give him a four-one shot that he’ll take the bullshit Figo feeds him and ask for more.”
Silva reappeared, squeezing himself into the floorspace between Iker and the front seat. “He’s a recovering addict, and Victor, you are awful at giving directions, you know?”
“Well, you—”
Villa plopped himself on top of Iker. He just flatout crawled onto Iker’s back and dug his pointy elbow into Iker’s shoulderblade so he could give what Iker knew was his homicidal face to Victor. “Finish that and you’re a dead man.”
Shock had made Iker freeze, but the gouging of Villa’s elbow shook him out of it. He gritted his teeth, then levered himself up so Villa slid off his back. From the sound of things, the other man went right into the far door, but Iker just let Silva go check on that. He busied himself with seizing Victor’s elbow and yanking the other man forward till even Victor’s hangover couldn’t make him miss how much Iker was not in the mood. “What’s Figo been doing?” Iker demanded. “Do we know what Zidane asked him to do yet? Is it going to take long, or is he done? Have you found out anything?”
“Yes, I don’t know, no, I don’t know,” Victor said. He paused. “That’s in reverse order.”
Iker stared at him. “I’m going to punch you if you don’t make more sense.”
“Look, you don’t have to fill in for Villa just because—” Victor’s eyes widened as their foreheads bumped “—no sex again? That’s usually where your anger comes from.”
Their foreheads came together again, only a lot harder. And this time Iker let go afterward, because he really should’ve known but headbutts hurt a lot more than they made them look in the movies. He groaned, the world spinning around him, and started to rub his head against the seat. Then he hissed and grabbed Victor’s shoulder, thinking he’d seen the other man try to move away.
“Let go! I’m not going! Not as long as Figo’s still…well, wonderful, Casillas. You’ve made us lose him, and do you know what I had to follow him through?” Victor snapped, twisting free. Then he slammed the door shut, just short of Iker’s fingers. Lucky for him, Victor got into the front passenger seat before Iker could come out after him. Still talking, of course. “…eleven bus stops, three jazz bars and a public restroom! And the whole time he’s talking about how we need to just leave him alone and let him take care of his business, and this isn’t in our employment contracts but his ability to doom us to Eurovision is, and basically I think Zidane’s making him reenact a Luis Buñuel film. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”
“Or he was just leading you on a wild goose chase because he didn’t want to start anything till he’d lost you,” Villa grunted.
It took a moment for Iker to get over the fact that Villa had actually made a good point, and another for him to wiggle into a position where he could shove his hand over Victor’s mouth. “Never mind. Where’s Figo now? And Mutu? Did Mutu at least go with him?”
“Well, I don’t see either of them outside,” Silva said.
Victor looked more closely at Silva. “Do you have the car keys?”
“Yes and you’re not getting them,” Silva retorted. He had Villa’s head cradled in his arm and was absently rubbing at a pretty big bruise on Villa’s jaw. “Mutu would’ve come back if Figo had gotten away from him. He was pretty upset. So if they’re together, then I don’t think we need to hang around. If Mutu needs us, he’s got my number.”
“Why’d you give him your number? Casillas can get him,” Villa muttered.
After getting Iker’s hand off his mouth, Victor nodded in agreement. “Iker’s the one who shanghaied us all into doing this anyway, and can I just say that I think that’s just as questionable as Figo’s Zidane errand? You don’t do Figo’s personal issues. I do.”
“Well, you were doing a shitty job of it as far as I can tell, and I’m glad Iker asked us to help since at least we’re doing something, and I gave him my number because this is my car.” Silva glared at all of them in turns, then let go of Villa’s head and flopped back in disgust. “Who cares who got us into it? The point is, Figo takes care of us so we should try to help him out once in a while.”
Villa was struggling very hard to not look at Silva as if he thought the other man was an idiot. It was a new look for him. “We already work for him. I think he should be able to deal with his own private life. I mean, if Iker wants to meddle in it, fine, but—”
“He deals with our private life all the time, and he doesn’t have to. And he does it in a good way! Sometimes,” Silva said, exasperated. Then he bit his lip, watching Villa duck his head. When he spoke again, he did so more softly and less accusingly, but with no less firmness. “Okay, if anyone wants to go home, I’ll drop them off, but after that I’m going to stay with Iker to make sure that Figo and Mutu are really okay. I’m not going to be able to sleep till I know that.”
After a moment, Villa scrubbed his head and muttered something about how he still thought Figo was an adult but he wasn’t going to leave Silva with two idiots who got their bright ideas from movie cliché lists. Victor immediately reared up, offended, and Iker had to grab his mouth again.
“It’s not that,” Iker had to admit.
Silva looked confused. “What? It’s not what? Not making sure Figo is okay? Wow, I know Victor kind of gets off on Figo’s issues, but I thought you—”
Victor nearly bit Iker’s hand trying to protest, but Iker just shoved the other man back into the front seat. “No, it is making sure Figo is okay, but there’s a little more. There’s—Victor, shut up, you do like watching Figo flail—this thing. This problem I…that Morientes needs Figo to take care of, but Figo can’t do that till he’s okay. I mean, I’d like Figo to not be acting oddly anyway, but I need him to not be so he can just get Morientes to stop bothering Raúl.”
“I knew it!” Victor and Villa both said.
Then Villa grimaced and avoided Silva’s eyes. “But I don’t care, honest. Morientes can go do whatever. It’s his life too.”
“But it’s not. It’s my goddamn life, and Raúl’s and Cesc’s, since I can’t go back and make Morientes not date Raúl,” Iker snapped. “So I’m just trying to make sure that since I can’t go back, at least I’m there for when Raúl goes forward. And I don’t think I really like him going forward with Morientes, even if they’re just friends, but it’s not about whether Raúl’s an adult. It’s whether I trust him and I do, and he says Morientes is part of why he’s the man I love now. So fine, I’ll help save Morientes’ damn life.”
It was silent in the car, and not in a good won-the-argument sort of way. More like Iker had just said something extremely awkward and…and he hadn’t felt that in a while. He’d gotten used to Raúl and Cesc somehow just getting it, and since these days they were the ones whose opinions he cared the most about, he didn’t really notice it when other people didn’t get it. But the way the others were staring at him now…it reminded him of just how glad he was to have people who got him. He was doing the right thing.
“What the hell?” Villa finally asked.
Iker sighed. “Morientes’ life is in danger. I want his life out of danger so Raúl can stop worrying about him. I need Figo for that, but Figo’s off on his Zidane-trip. So I’m helping to get Figo back on track, so I don’t have to worry about Morientes.”
“You know, if I’m going to be hijacked twice in twenty-four hours, I’d at least like a coherent narrative,” Victor said.
“I wish you’d mentioned this earlier.” Then Silva reached over and patted Iker on the shoulder. “If I’d known, I would’ve suggested we get Mutu a lot sooner. But okay, we got him to Figo anyway, and I’m sure he’ll talk some sense into our boss.”
Victor wrinkled up his face and jerked his chin at Villa. “And why on earth is he here? What does he do? Comic relief?”
Villa had Silva wrapped around him, so he couldn’t immediately get to Victor. But Iker could. He reached over the seat and grabbed Victor by the neck so the other man had to look at him. “For fuck’s sake, Valdés, we’re trying to keep our boss from going nuts and I’ve got to think about Morientes in mortal danger, and you’re just freaking out over maybe sleeping with him! When you get drunk and barcrawl looking for that! This is your zillionth fucking bad one-night-stand! Get over it!”
“I don’t look for Morientes! One-night-stands are by definition uncomplicated and he by definition complicates—”
“Oh, stop it. Stop it!” Silva slapped Iker’s arm down so Iker lost his grip on Victor, then got out of his side of the car. He popped into the driver’s seat, then stabbed his key into the ignition. “Stop it or you’re all walking home. I’m driving back to work, and we’re waiting for Mutu to call. Got it?”
“But—”
The engine cut off Victor’s protest, which put him in such shock that Silva got away from the curb in peace. For his part, Iker settled back in his seat but didn’t put on his seatbelt, just in case he needed to shut Victor up again.
* * *
Adrian had barely said anything before he was cut off by a racket over at his ride. He started to look over, then winced and made a desperate grab for Luís’ arm. The violent motion caused him to stumble and Luís instinctively caught him, then helped him straighten up. “Adi, calm down. I’m—”
“You’re not going till we talk,” Adrian said, jerking up his head. He resumed his grabbing round about Luís’ shoulders, as if he was trying to see whether he could dislocate them.
Which wasn’t going to really keep Luís from leaving if Luís really wanted to, but…well, Luís wasn’t so idiotic as to think he could leave. He pulled off Adrian’s right wrist, then used his hold to give Adrian a shake. “I’m staying put. I’m listening. I’m—oh, that’s where Victor got off to.”
A blink, a frown, and then Adrian reluctantly looked over his shoulder; his hand on Luís’ shoulder tightened at the same time. They watched Victor invade the car, which was now emitting so many yells that they ran over each other and prevented intelligibility. It was also starting to rock and for a moment Luís wished he’d had the foresight to bring some sort of videorecording device. He would’ve had enough blackmail at least for the next three work crises.
But then Adrian turned around, purposefully shrugging off the ruckus at the car, and Luís was reminded that he couldn’t solve all problems with grainy videoclips. Adrian stared at him, mouth working slightly. The other man badly wanted to say something, but it looked like sheer emotion was choking him up.
“I was wondering why Victor was sticking to me,” Luís eventually said. “Usually he gives up after the first hour and goes off to start arguing with bartenders.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “You said if I went home, you’d be there later. But you’re not. You weren’t.”
“I know. But the favor Zinedine asked me for took a little long—”
“And I wasn’t going to push, but I think I have to. I don’t want to but I think I need to know. I don’t want to keep fighting him too. It’s hard enough when it’s just you,” Adrian said in a rush. He actually teetered towards Luís on the force of the flow of his words. “Just what is he to you? Why do you always—”
“He’s my friend—”
“He’s not.” Then Adrian ducked his head, muttering angrily to himself in Romanian. “No, if you say so, he is. But he’s more than that. See, I want to know because sometimes I think he’s—he’s why you understand me so well. I want to think—I want to think you understand because you’ve seen my…my problem before, but maybe it’s more…you’ve had my problem. And he’s your problem.”
The car let out another burst of paint-melting Spanish curses. Luís glanced over, then wished he hadn’t when Adrian’s shoulders sank. He opened his mouth, then shut it; explaining that he didn’t mean to ignore the man’s distress was hardly going to do, so Luís started to look around.
He only needed a couple seconds to find the open door of a nearby café, and a couple more to get them inside it and ensconced at a table, which he made sure wasn’t even in eyesight of the car. The café wasn’t that busy and its few staff didn’t seem particularly nosy, so they could have a conversation in peace.
Without external interruptions, Luís corrected as he watched Adrian fidget. He was on the verge of remarking about Adrian’s rather inappropriate attire when the other man finally pulled it together enough to say something. “This—what you need to do for Zidane,” he said. “Is it—it’s important, isn’t it? Do you need to do it now?”
“I—” Then Luís shook his head. He resettled himself in his seat and looked Adrian in the eye; to be honest, the shock of seeing Adrian on the street had him rattled enough that he wasn’t certain what he should be doing now. It’d been odd when Victor had followed him out of the office, but Victor occasionally had temporary losses of commonsense. Adrian, on the other hand, might have emotional problems but he was well-attuned enough to Luís to know when Luís needed him out of the way.
“This isn’t going to take that long anyway,” Adrian said, a little quieter. He’d pulled his arms tight to his sides and was switching off the wrist into which he’d dig his nails. “I just want to say—I know I’m not all right, and that I don’t…I don’t have a right to tell you, I don’t want you to do this. Or even maybe that you should tell me about it. But I want you to know that you can’t do this forever, either. You’re better than me—you know better. I guess you’ve done it for longer. But even you can’t do it forever.”
Luís exhaled slowly and sat back in his seat. He rubbed at the side of his face and happened to see one of the waitstaff raising an eyebrow in Adrian’s direction. He bit down on a sharp comment and instead caught the man’s eye. The waiter hurriedly turned around, leaving Luís to ponder his own reaction.
“I said I’d go home and wait. I didn’t say I wouldn’t come find you.” Adrian attempted a dry chuckle that mostly didn’t succeed, except for making Luís look back at him. He’d apparently been watching Luís the whole time. “It’s not that you haven’t told me about Zidane yet. I can wait for that. But the problem is that you can’t tell him. And I don’t—I don’t think you can wait. I’ll wait for you but if you can’t tell him, you’re not ever going to come back.”
“It’s just a little favor. I said I’d be home tonight and I will, but just a little later,” Luís said, irritated.
The other man laughed again and this time it came out, strained but recognizable. Then Adrian began to push back from his seat. “It’s always a little thing. I know that much. You think you’ll do it one more time and that’s it, but there’s always one more time.”
Luís stood up as well. “Zinedine is not a drug habit.”
“What I was doing with those drugs wasn’t a habit either,” Adrian said. He looked Luís in the eye, anxious and shaking but with a boldness that kept Luís quiet. “It wasn’t about coming back to them. It was about not being able to leave them back where they needed to be. I want to know why you keep doing this for him, but I know you can’t tell me till you leave him. But I don’t know if—when you will. And you need to tell me. I can’t…if I’m really going to put myself together, I can’t be around someone who can’t move on.”
And with that, Adrian went out the door.
A few seconds later, Luís got himself to do the same. He was out on the sidewalk in time to watch Adrian snarl at a passerby who’d commented lewdly on his clothes, then hail a cab. The taxi driver made a couple suggestions about where Adrian probably wanted to go and Adrian was stepping back from the car, a disgusted look on his face, when Luís came up next to him.
“I think your backseat would have a worse history than him,” Luís said. When the cabbie cursed at him, he absently flipped a rude gesture at the man as he turned to catch Adrian by the elbow.
Adrian let Luís lead him down half a block before he dug in his heels. “I thought you had to do something for Zidane.”
“I do, but there’s no reason why you can’t come. And some good ones why you should.” Luís brought them up to his car, then had to let go of Adrian to get out his keys. He heard the other man move and looked up.
After a moment, he bent down and unlocked the front passenger door. He pulled it open, but Adrian kept looking at him.
“I’ll tell you about Zinedine on the way,” Luís said.
Adrian inhaled sharply. He looked as if he was about to ask Luís something, but instead he just got into the car. Then he paused, his hand still on the door, and stared up at Luís.
“They’ve probably told you all about my other favors for Zinedine. I’m not mad about that—that’s fair game, and I should have told you anyway.” Luís leaned on the door, then brushed Adrian’s hand off it and stood back. “But I do…I do know that things are different since you refused to get off my doorstep, Adrian. I’m just sorry I didn’t mention that a little earlier.”
A snort came from Adrian. His smile was still strained, but he let Luís shut the door. Luís rounded the car and got behind the wheel, then took a deep breath as he turned the key in the ignition. Once he started this trip, he really couldn’t go back. He just…
…he put his shoulders back, and pulled away from the curb.
* * *
Fifteen Years Ago
“No, you don’t need to—no. Pep, you stay where you are or so help me, I’m dragging Zinedine to the train station and getting on the first train out, and the only way you’ll ever see us again is on the evening news,” Luís snapped, his temper giving out. He listened to the phone for about a minute longer, then slammed it into its cradle with a disgusted sigh.
Luís hadn’t even taken his hand off when the phone rang again. He watched it vibrate under his fingers, then picked it up and put it down again. Then he took it off its hook and left it on the table while he went to the kitchen for a drink. Unfortunately, all they had was a few bottles of water.
After a moment, Luís shrugged and twisted off the cap of one bottle. He probably shouldn’t have anything stronger anyway. The hotel had only given them till six in the morning and that’d been after Luís had all but promised the desk his immortal soul, so he needed to keep his head.
“Isn’t Pep going to let you have it?” Zinedine stood in the doorway, icepack in hand. Water glistened from the crown of his head down the left side of his face to the dampened collar of his shirt. He paused another moment, then came in, absently tossing the pack into the trash.
“Well, we’re not seeing him for another month,” Luis muttered. He drank some more water, then pushed an unopened bottle across the counter towards Zinedine. “Plenty of time for me to think of something to tell him.”
Zinedine turned his back on the water and leaned against the counter. His fingers curved around the counter’s edge like they were curving around the neck of his guitar. “Luís, why—”
“I love you.” Luís studied his bottle, then laughed and put it down on the counter. “Zizou, I love you, but sometimes I honestly don’t know.”
“You heard what he said. I couldn’t let that go,” Zinedine said. He didn’t make it defensive or accusing, but instead simply stated it as the fact that it was to him. “I couldn’t let him say that.”
But there were plenty of ways to deal with critics besides headbutting them, Luís thought. Not that he even considered saying so to Zinedine; he knew the man well enough to know that whatever way Zinedine took was the only way possible, in Zinedine’s mind.
“I’m sorry.” Zinedine had his eyes squarely on Luís when Luís looked up. “Not about that bastard, but to you, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s not like I didn’t know—”
“I’m sorry I can’t be what you want,” Zinedine said over Luís’ protests, and the way he said it shut up Luís fast. “It’s not how I am. I can’t change that, not even for you. But I’m sorry you have to settle for this, and not have more.”
After a moment, Luís let out an uncomfortable chuckle. He stepped back from the counter and scrubbed at the back of his neck with nerveless fingers. Ice was running through his veins and he breathed as if he was standing on the very rim of a bottomless crevasse. “It’s not like I didn’t know who you were before I decided to come along with you. I asked for it, you know. So no need for apologizing.”
“I’m sorry,” Zinedine said again, firmly. He took a step towards Luís so that they were so close that if Zinedine lifted his arm…and he did. He raised his hand nearly to Luís’ face before abruptly dropping it onto Luís’ shoulder; his palm felt hotter than a poker fresh from the fire. “I do love you. I love that you listen, and stay, and that you say anything to me. But I’m sorry that—”
“I think it’s enough,” Luís blurted out. He’d meant to say I think that that’s enough.
Zinedine heard both the spoken and the unspoken reply. His eyes flickered, and then he stood back; his hand squeezed Luís’ shoulder before it lifted away. He suddenly smiled and as easy as that, all the guarded layers were gone. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same. But I want you to know that I trust you. I can give you that, at least.”
It was Luís’ turn to smile, but he did it as he turned away. He picked up his bottled water and slowly dumped it out in the sink; they probably couldn’t afford the waste but he needed to do it, to have something simple to do while his head finished its dazed whirl. He felt like he’d just had a benediction and a curse laid on his head. He felt like he’d seen the rest of his life and he wanted to throw up. He felt like it was already worth it.
“You never needed to give me anything,” he finally said.
* * *
Present
That run-in with Iniesta and…and what’s-his-name, one of Figo’s lawyers, it rattled Fernando just enough so that he got all the way to Albiol’s office before remembering what he’d really come in to do. Luckily, nobody seemed to be in the office, and the few people walking around the common areas didn’t try to accost him. Instead they kept their distance and whispered and pointed fingers. Fernando didn’t think what they were saying was complimentary, but whatever it was, he didn’t have to deal with it quite yet.
He almost turned around before having a better idea, and staying long enough to pretend like he was surprised Albiol wasn’t there. Then he headed for Figo’s office.
“He’s out,” somebody told Fernando. The fashion columnist guy, Gutí. He wandered up, eyeing Fernando but not in an overtly hostile way. “No, we don’t know when he’ll be back, and everybody’s waiting on him so there’ll be a line when he does get back.”
Fernando briefly thought about Villa to make sure he put on a plausible annoyed expression. “Damn. Well, I’m not going till I see him. I’ll wait.”
Then he tried the doorknob, but of course it was locked. He sighed loudly and looked around, then spotted a chair. By that point Gutí had already gotten bored and was walking off, but when asked he said Fernando could have the chair. Nobody else corrected him, so Fernando moved the chair to just by the door and took a seat.
It didn’t take long for the others to get over Fernando’s arrival and go back to whatever they’d been doing before. They even cleared out of the common area, leaving him completely unwatched as Fernando edged his seat closer to the door, till he could reach the knob without making it look too obvious.
Thankfully, his youthful hijinks hadn’t all resulted in useless emotional baggage; he had the lock picked in a little over a minute. After a last look for watchers, Fernando quickly twisted the knob, opened the door, and pivoted off his seat into the office. He shut and locked the door behind him, then looked around.
His eyes needed a while to adjust to the darkness. The only light was from the street outside, and it had to filter around the window screens, so that the outlines of the furniture came very slowly into view.
Once Fernando could see enough to make his way around, he headed to Figo’s desk and…well, the computer monitor was easy to locate but the keyboard was a different story. All Fernando could see were piles of papers and CD cases, and so precariously balanced that when he leaned down for a closer look, his breath triggered some slippage. He jerked away, then held his breath.
Nothing fell to the floor, thank God. Fernando let out a sigh of relief, then tried to figure out the next step. He didn’t want to leave any obvious traces of his visit, but he needed that damn keyboard.
He was still squatting down, trying to peer between the layers of the piles when the desk’s middle drawer caught his eye. It wasn’t very wide—a notebook or two might fit in it—and on a whim, Fernando pulled it open. There lay the keyboard.
A minute later, Fernando had the computer booted up and was staring at the login screen. He thought for a few seconds and remembered an article he’d recently read about the five most common passwords—but he still didn’t know the username. Maybe Figo’s email handle?
In the end, Fernando didn’t have to chance fooling around. He heard footsteps coming and jerked up, then dove down under the desk. He’d barely pulled in his feet before the knob was turning.
The door creaked open and Figo’s voice drifted into the room. It sounded like he was speaking Italian, and that he was still standing in the doorway. Whoever he was with occasionally interjected a comment but their voice was too low for Fernando to even try to guess who it was. Then Fernando heard footsteps again and tensed up.
For whatever reason, Figo didn’t turn on the lights. Instead he went over to the desk and pulled out the keyboard—Fernando could see the man’s legs, which told him Figo was still mostly turned towards his companion—and logged in to the computer. Figo tapped a few keys, cursed under his breath, and then exclaimed loudly. Fernando bit hard on the inside of his mouth, thinking he’d been discovered.
“Figo?” Casillas said from the doorway. “I thought Andrés just called and said you were going to Guardiola’s office.”
“I am. I just need to do this first—”
Somebody else stomped up. “Oh, no, you’re not,” Valdés snapped. “I spent an entire night following you around and I’m not buying that line. You’re making everybody think you’re off your Zidane trip and all better now, and really you’re going to run off the moment we lose you.”
Figo sounded like he was keeping back something, but it wasn’t clear whether it was laughter or anger. “Victor. Please notice Adi is still with me. If you’d like to ask him, he can tell you we had a fruitful—”
“He can say whatever he wants but I’m not going to understand and I’ll just have to take your word for it! That’s so very clever, but no. You’re not getting away with that one either,” Valdés snarled.
“I can understand him fine and I could tell you,” Casillas said.
But Valdés was already going off again, coming right up to the desk so he kicked it and nearly made Fernando jump out into Figo’s legs. “Look, for the last time, whatever kind of hold Zidane has on you, it’s not worth it. He doesn’t even come around more than a few times a year, and this time he’s only here because Morientes—”
Fernando rolled his eyes.
“—is pulling some bizarre—mmph!”
Scuffling. A loud thump. Then Casillas’ voice came through, tired and irritated. “Look, are you—Mutu, did he dump you?”
“No…?” Mutu said, more than a little puzzled.
“We’re fine, thanks for asking,” Figo said dryly. He did something with the keyboard—put it down on the desk, maybe. It rustled some papers. “I am going over to Pep’s office in a moment, but first I need to—”
“You need to find Morientes,” Casillas interrupted. Then he stepped out and told someone, probably Valdés, to shut up or he’d add the wastebasket. He scuffed back into the room and muttered awkwardly to himself for a few seconds. “I…have it on good authority that he really, really needs to talk to you.”
Figo sighed. “I am still in full possession of my sanity, Iker. I know very well that I’ve probably given you something of a scare, but I’m back and still running this magazine, and after I see Pep, I have every intent of taking Adi home and making it up to him. And yes, only him, because you all cause me enough grief that I think this would be just settling accounts.”
Casillas exhaled loudly. “I’m not making it up. Morientes really does need to see you.”
“Iker, I don’t know what Victor’s told you but there’s no damn conspiracy between Fernando and Zinedine. Well, except for possibly inducing Victor to fall into bed with Mori, but that’s more like a regular weekend than—”
“I didn’t sleep with him!” Fernando blurted out, unable to take it anymore.
The room was silent. Fernando was almost humiliated, but then he just set his shoulders and yanked himself out from under the desk. He straightened up, ran a hand through his hair and glowered at the doorway, where as expected, Valdés had reappeared.
“You—” Fernando pointed his finger at Valdés “—you passed out on me. I didn’t know where you lived, and I couldn’t find your phone so I didn’t know who to call. So I took you back to my hotel because I’m nice and I didn’t want you to get in trouble. We didn’t sleep together, I didn’t even try, and I would never even think of it.”
For once, Valdés was speechless. He opened and closed his mouth till Casillas finally pushed him out of the room. Then Casillas whipped around and pointed at Fernando. “You! You tell Figo what’s the matter and get it fixed so I can go home and tell Raúl he can go to sleep already. He already has a tough job and here you go asking him for help when you dropped him like an ass, but he’s helping because he cares and I care about him so I’ll…let you ask Figo. For help.”
After a moment, Figo put the folder in his hand down on the desk. “Well, I very much appreciate that, Iker. I think I can take it from here, so why don’t you go undo whatever Victor’s done and then go…home. And tell Raúl to have pleasant dreams for me.”
Casillas opened and closed his mouth rather like Valdés had. Then his eyes narrowed. He pointed at Fernando again. “This doesn’t mean I like you. Or am okay with you hanging around Raúl. It just means I trust him. He stops wanting to help you and…and…”
“And you and Cesc start spying on me again. Got that,” Fernando said, barely suppressing a sigh. While he could understand Casillas’ position, he really did think the man could stand to be a little less dramatic about it.
One last glower and then Casillas reluctantly turned around. He went out and Fernando got ready to face Figo…except Valdés was still there. “Are you sure we didn’t?” he asked.
“Oh, for…if we had, you’d better believe you’d remember it,” Fernando snapped.
Valdés theatrically rolled his eyes. “A little full of yourself, aren’t you.”
“Better than you being full of him, I suppose,” Figo said. He crossed his arms and raised his brows at Valdés’ sputtering. “Victor. Thank you for keeping an eye on me.”
Valdés shut up.
“Now, please…get out of my office. And if you have to end up on my couch tonight, try not to drag Mori into it.” Figo turned his back on Valdés, who stared on in shock for another moment. Then the man finally left, and Figo looked at Fernando. “Well, I was going to wait till everyone else was away before I outed you, to preserve your dignity, but…”
“Er.” Mutu gestured a little helplessly when they looked at him. “Should I…I think outside the door. There’s a chair.”
He was already edging away, and when Figo didn’t say anything, Mutu hurriedly exited. The man also had the courtesy to shut the door behind him, so hopefully that would bring an end to all the interruptions. Which meant Fernando had to actually tell Figo what his problem was.
Fernando had just long enough to think that he shouldn’t mention trying to break into Figo’s computer before his mouth just got it over with. “Ludovic Giuly is trying to blackmail me into using Duende to trap Cristiano into a scandal that’ll ruin his career.”
Figo mulled that over for a moment. “Well, we’ve already had drugs, sexual hijinks, attempted assassinations and more internal catfighting than you get at a family wedding. Just what did Giuly have in mind?”
“You can’t be serious,” Fernando said after a few seconds.
“No, I’m quite serious.” Then Figo peered a little closer at Fernando. “Oh, honestly, not about helping Giuly out. I agree, you can’t do that. If only because it’ll get Cristiano stalking me again and I had a hard enough time getting him away last time. No, I meant what on earth did Giuly think he could do that Cristiano hasn’t already done?”
That…was a pretty good point. And considering that Cristiano’s record sales hadn’t suffered any, one that somebody probably should’ve pointed out to Giuly. “Right now he thinks I’m going to sabotage Cristiano’s opening act for his upcoming concert.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose he’d buy that for now,” Figo said, patting himself down. He tried three pockets before he pulled out his mobile, which he thumbed open. He started to dial a number, but looked up when Fernando let out an exclamation. “What?”
“Would you like to tell me what we’re going to do about it before you go and do it?” Fernando asked sharply. Then he remembered he was the one begging for help and tried to modulate his tone a little. “Look, I know I’ve basically bound myself for life to you for this favor, and I accept that. But this is my life we’re talking about here. I’ll pay the price for it but not till I know what that price is. There are some I’m not going to pay.”
“Bit of a contradiction there. But if you have to know, I was just going to call Pep and let him know I was going to be a little later than I said.” Then Figo turned the phone so Fernando could read the number: it was Guardiola’s.
Chagrined, Fernando let Figo make that call. It was short and sharp, and Figo finished up a good deal more annoyed than before. He muttered to himself, then looked up at Fernando. Who’d managed to swallow down his newest embarrassment long enough to do some thinking, and who felt somewhat more competent. “Just why did you think I was going to be here? You weren’t surprised at all that I was under your desk. And you’re not shocked to hear Giuly’s popped up again.”
“Well, because I already knew that.” A flicker that might have been ruefulness went over Figo’s face. “Zinedine stopped over because he’d heard about Giuly’s idea and he wanted to warn me. They know each other from childhood, although they’ve very much gone their separate ways since then.”
It took a moment. “So…there really is a conspiracy?”
Figo looked disgusted with Fernando. “Good God, you really do belong on my staff.”
“If that means I’m starting to believe everything in my life goes back to you, then that’s true enough. If I hadn’t joined Duende, Giuly never would have thought of me and my life would’ve been just fine,” Fernando snapped.
“Fernando, I’ll take credit for Giuly, but not for the rest of your life. And from what Iker said, it sounds like there’s a good bit to that,” Figo sighed.
Fernando winced. He looked away, then made himself put back his shoulders and meet Figo’s eyes; surprisingly enough, they weren’t judging. “That’s fair—I take back that part. But anyway, what are we going to do about…”
Instead of listening to him, Figo had turned around and was leaning over the computer. The man logged in and pulled up his inbox, then clicked on an email. He skimmed it too fast for Fernando to even think of trying to look over Figo’s shoulder, then shut the email, the inbox and finally turned off the computer. “Nothing,” he said. He turned back and waved off Fernando’s protest. “I mean nothing because it’s taken care of. Zinedine talked to Giuly, reminded him of a few favors he owed and he just sent me an email saying Giuly’s backed off.”
“You came all the way back here to check your email,” Fernando said after a moment.
“And to see if you’d shown up yet.” It might have been dark in the room, but there was no mistaking the smugness on Figo’s face. But he shook himself out of it a lot quicker than Fernando would have expected, and then he just looked…tired. “Look, Fernando. I’m sure you’ve heard all about my and Zinedine’s relationship, but the truth is, there’s really nothing there. All it is, is that Zinedine is a private person. He doesn’t want people to know when he’s doing me a favor and I respect that.”
Fernando suddenly understood. “So you let everyone run around in a state of panic because then they don’t stop to think about what Zinedine might be up to.”
“It’s effective,” Figo shrugged. He eyed Fernando, then turned away as he slid his mobile back into his pocket. He poked at a few things on his desk before starting towards the door. “Well, so now you know. I think that makes us even.”
“Why would you owe me anything?” Fernando asked.
Figo paused by the door. “Because I did bring you in to the magazine. I don’t usually hire people like that. So you get this time. Next time, you’re the same as any other staff member.”
“Except I know that you’re faking over Zinedine,” Fernando said.
“Am I?” Figo said. Then he shook his head and laughed. “Also, I told you because I think you’d understand why I’d pull that kind of trick. It’d be immature if it wasn’t for Zinedine.”
Fernando opened his mouth, then changed his mind and let the other man go. Because he did understand. It wasn’t faking so much as…as paying homage to what’d used to be.
He stood alone in Figo’s darkened office, listening to Figo talk to Mutu just outside the door. After a moment, he pulled out his phone. His thumb was on the call button when he changed his mind again and instead just sent Raúl a text message. Iker was on his way back and Cesc was probably already there, getting on Raúl’s nerves. Let Raúl have a little peace, at least from Fernando’s corner. The past was anything but forgettable, but sometimes you just had to let it rest.
The message sent, Fernando headed home himself. He could use some sleep. And in the morning, he’d get up and see what was new.
* * *
Fifteen Years Ago
“Well, onto the next town, and the next fight,” Luís said, settling into the seat next to Zinedine.
The other man had the window seat but it was still only false dawn and so there wasn’t much of a view. But Zinedine looked anyway, resting his chin on his hand. He was a little unearthly, sitting there in all his effortless beauty on the dingy train. He didn’t reply but Luís didn’t take offense.
Luís threaded his legs in between their bags on the floor, then put back his head and got ready for a bumpy, uncomfortable sleep. He was so tired that frankly, that sounded wonderful.
He’d almost drifted off when something touched the side of his head. Light, just there long enough to push some hair from his eyes. “You shouldn’t think this is a good thing, a thing that’ll last,” Zinedine said. His tone was emotionless but somehow not cold; he sounded like he didn’t know what emotion was, and not like he didn’t care. “Someday you’re going to see that. What I wish I could do is show you that now, but it’s up to you.”
Then Zinedine dropped his arm around Luís’ shoulders, and fell silent. Luís struggled between wakefulness and sleep, wondering what was that about…but then he felt the welcome warmth and weight of Zinedine’s arm, and let it go. It couldn’t be all that bad, if Zinedine wasn’t going anywhere.
* * *
Present
“You get used to it, and eventually you stop noticing it. That’s when you know it’s a habit,” Luís said.
Adrian moved his head on Luís’ shoulder, probably trying to look up at him. Luís kept his eyes on the windshield, and eventually Adrian shifted his head back. But then the other man twisted over, pulling Luís’ arm up to lie over his hip while he tucked his arm between them. “He never asked…does he know you do—you did all these things because of him?”
“Some of them. Probably all—we’ve enough mutual friends who would’ve told him. But that’s Zinedine for you: he’d never tell you you couldn’t do it for him, even if he didn’t like it. He does what he wants and he gives others the same courtesy.” Luís chuckled a little. “No, it was all me. He told me years ago I didn’t have a hope but I…I don’t know. I suppose you could say he was my first and my last moment of madness. It’s hard to let go of those.”
It was quiet for a moment. After Luís had made sure everyone had gone home—even Valdés, already recovering from his near-brush with Morientes and full of questions—they’d driven out of town and then parked on a hill overlooking the city. Adrian had given the directions. He hadn’t explained why he wanted this spot in particular, but it was pretty enough and Luís knew enough to be patient—and grateful—and just ask later.
“But I asked you,” Adrian eventually said. “I asked, and you just…let go.”
“You know, nobody’s done that for years. Asked me, straight to my face.” Another laugh slipped out of Luís. “I think I trained them all too well. They were used to just running around panicking, or yelling at me for having a hang-up over Zinedine, and they didn’t stop to ask me to just stop it.”
Adrian thought that over for several minutes. Then he sat up and looked down at Luís. “So? Are you going to stop?”
“Being his friend? No.” Luís put his arms up around Adrian’s waist. “Thinking he’s the last moment of madness I’m ever going to have?”
“You can’t go crazy over me. And not just because I’m not worth it. Because I’m still a little crazy and you have to be the sane one,” Adrian said. His self-mocking was undercut with more than a touch of genuine nerves, but his hands were steady enough when he put them on Luís’ shoulders. “I want to start writing music again. And going out with you. And just…being out there. I think—I think if I can tell you to take it or leave it, then I can face anything.”
“Well—” Luís started.
His mobile went off. Adrian stiffened, then groaned and dropped his head into Luís’ shoulder. He moved his hand down Luís’ chest to dip into Luís’ coat, then offered Luís the phone without looking up.
Luís looked at the number. It was Zinedine, so he took the phone and answered it. “Zizou? Call me back in twenty minutes.”
Then he tossed the phone onto the other seat, and caught Adrian’s mouth just as the other man was looking up. After a stunned moment, Adrian sank into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Luís’ head and neck.
Zinedine wouldn’t be that happy, but by now Luís knew the man wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was the man in Luís’ arms, and Luís had yet to properly thank Adrian for that.
***