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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Silva/Villa, Casillas/Raúl/Fábregas.
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 Razorlight.
Summary: Relationship counseling is a tricky area.
***
“Villa! We know you’re in there! Open up or we’ll be forced to use, um, force!” Iker pounded the door for good measure, then dropped back and put his hands on his hips. He regarded the unyielding wood with an annoyed huff. “He’s not coming out.”
“So…you’re going to kick in the door now?” Cesc asked, checking his watch. Then he realized Iker was looking at him and squirmed a little. He stuck his hand behind his back and defensively arched his shoulders. “Well, look, we are late. And that’s totally what would happen in a movie. And possibly the only way you’re getting him out. Why do you have to get him out again?”
They were…Iker pulled out his phone. He grimaced when he saw the time, then again when he saw that he’d gotten another message from Figo. For a moment his thumb hovered over the touchpad, but then he took a deep breath and shoved the phone back into his jeans pocket. He wasn’t masochistic enough to want two suicide missions on his head; if Figo wanted Iker to do more dirty work, he’d have to wait till Iker was done with this one.
Cesc coughed politely. “Iker? Listen, if you really really need it, I can probably blackmail one of my coworkers to come over and bash in the door. They’re German and they do this all the time. But…I need some plausibility. Like, an excuse. And I don’t think they’re going to buy something like, the suppressed Freudian aggressions of Rambo.”
“What? Is that from Victor?” Then Iker realized that Cesc was just making up nonsense. For a moment he also thought Cesc was mocking him, but then he remembered that the whole situation was a mockery.
Iker paused, then pushed his fingers into either side of his nose. He wasn’t working right now and he really needed to stop it. Except…he glowered at the door. Damn it, he was at work.
“Villa?” Cesc called out, a rare note of uncertainty in his voice. “Hey, it’s…Iker’s boyfriend! The short one! You still owe us for that mess you made of Eurovision! At his other boyfriend’s place!”
“I think Raúl and you are the same height, actually,” Iker said after a moment.
Cesc elbowed him, then dropped back and heaved a sigh big enough that it made the various sticky notes stuck to the door flutter. They caught Cesc’s attention and he took one off before Iker could stop him. “Hmm. ‘Sorry we missed you, will try again tomorrow.’ Singing telegram service.”
“That must’ve been what Figo was talking about,” Iker muttered while putting out his foot. He tested the door’s give, then started checking the hallways.
“What?”
“He said he tried shorting out Villa’s temper first, but that didn’t even work so it has to be really serious and now we’re stuck here, and—oh, damn it.” Iker took a long step backwards, squared his shoulders, and threw himself at the door.
By the time he got to it, the door had opened. He had one second to look at Villa’s annoyed snarl before he plowed into the other man. Villa threw up his hands and fell backward; Iker desperately flung out his arms and just managed to catch the jamb. He yanked himself back and clung to the doorframe, gasping.
“What…what the hell? Casillas?” Villa was now on the floor, with his limbs all sprawled in different directions. He sounded sort of vague and was talking to the ceiling instead of trying to look at Iker, and there were some other wrong points too. Like the stubble and the grimy sweatpants, and the weird stale smell.
Cesc poked his head into the room and stuck a helping hand under Iker’s arm at the same time. “Wow. You look like somebody who just trashed—”
That got Villa’s attention and he began to sit up. Iker cursed and instinctively dove at him.
“—like somebody who just trashed every single bit of personal hygiene ever invented and then decided he wanted to grow up to be a caveman on top of that,” Cesc finished about ten minutes later, once they were in the car. He sat in the front passenger seat and stared straight forward for an alarming amount of time. Then he put his hands over his face and moaned. “Iker, I love you, but what the hell are you doing? Are you kidnapping him? Okay, first, he needs about an hour in the washing machine, and maybe even haircare tips from Sergio, and second? Second, I can’t be in jail for kidnapping! I’m supposed to help throw launch parties for Aguero’s album! And Thierry’s out of town! He can’t make bail for me and Ljungberg’s not going to—”
“I’m not kidnapping him!” Iker couldn’t help hunching his shoulders, even though that didn’t make his reflection in the windshield look any more credible. So he stopped looking at it. He looked at his white-knuckled fists clenched around the steering wheel. “I’m not. Look, we’re in the car, we’re not that late, I’ll tell Raúl we got stuck in traffic.”
Something slapped hard against the side of Iker’s chair. Then a whiff of rotten paella mixed with unwashed male body blew past his face, making him wince. “Yeah? And how are you going to tell him about me in the backseat?” Villa rasped. He just sat there to the left of Iker’s head, breathing in and out a couple times. Then he sighed. “Look, Casillas, just…let me out and I’ll forget you went—”
“No!” Of its own volition, Iker’s hand went to the button panel on the door and hit the locks. All the clicks made him jump and he jerked back his hand. He was looking at it and pondering which low-budget horror film he should be recalling when a hand hit his head. Then Villa snarled something about breaking the window and Iker’s hands took over again. They went to the ignition and the gearshift, got the car into the road, and had them halfway down the street before Iker managed to catch them.
“What are you doing? Put them back on!” Cesc yelped, diving in from the side. He grabbed Iker’s hands and shoved them back on the wheel. Then he yanked the car around into a side street.
From the backseat came a loud thud, some cursing and then two more thumps. Cesc glanced over his shoulder, then ground his teeth so loud that Iker looked at him. Luckily, Cesc kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. He drove the car for another couple of blocks before Iker finally pulled himself together.
“Okay, okay. No, I—I got it. I’m okay! You can let go.” Iker stared straight forward. There was a red light ahead so he had to stop. Stopping meant he stepped on the brake and breathed and okay, he was a competent human being. He had gotten his driver’s license legally, anyway. “You can let go. Okay.”
“Okay? Like hell this is okay! What the fuck is going on?” Villa roared.
Cesc paused in the middle of his seat and looked back. His face smoothed out, eerily similar to the way Raúl sometimes blanked his less cooperative patients before he did something painful to them. Then he twisted forward while whacking his arm backwards. Something yelped and then a lot of scuffling and rattling came from the back.
“Iker? Seriously, why is he in the backseat?” Cesc asked. He hooked his seatbelt back over his lap and buckled it, then dusted his hand on his trouser-leg. “Where are we taking him?”
“Work,” Iker said.
The back of Iker’s seat shook like someone was trying to rip it out from the very roots. Or like Villa was finally upright again. “I am working! Is this Figo’s fault? He can’t do—I’m working, I’m sending in my shit on time, so he doesn’t have a fucking—”
“You haven’t been into the office in fifteen days. There’s a clause in your contract that says you have to show up at least once every two weeks unless specifically authorized otherwise. If you don’t, Figo gets to check up on you using ‘any reasonably effective method.’” Iker gingerly took the next turn and spotted a restaurant sign on the corner that looked a little familiar. Ah, he was going the right way, even though he was about one snappy remark away from a complete nervous breakdown. This one really should’ve gone to Victor. “No, it’s really there. Figo showed it to me.”
For a few minutes it was completely silent inside the car, and Iker was able to turn the car onto the freeway without any mishaps or shattered nerves. His breathing was beginning to slow, and he even was able to change lanes without having to tell himself in his head how to do it.
“I should check my contract for something like that,” Cesc said suddenly. He sounded vaguely horrified and admiring. “That would so be something Lehmann would do.”
Villa flopped back, making the seat creak loudly. He sighed even louder, then grumbled to himself. A quick check in the rearview mirror revealed that yes, he really was going to let this go. Iker started to tense up again, because that was coming very close to violating one of the principles of the world as he knew it.
“So how’d you get stuck with this one?” Villa muttered.
“Told Silva that being depressed doesn’t mean he gets to go over his word limit,” Iker replied unthinkingly.
Cesc exclaimed something, then lunged at the backseat. His arm nearly hit Iker in the head and Iker ducked, then swore as he saw the sign for their exit come up. He glanced to the side, saw Cesc still flailing wildly and just prayed as he switched lanes.
Thankfully they didn’t hit anything. They went down the ramp and made a left, and Cesc plopped back in his seat while nursing his left hand. He sucked on a knuckle for about a minute.
“Is he dead?” Iker asked.
The other man sighed. “No. But I guess it’s a good thing we’re going to Raúl’s anyway. He’s going to be mad, though. He’s not gonna get paid for this one.”
“I promise that when Villa wakes up, I’ll tell him I punched him.” Iker sneaked a look at Cesc, then grimaced at the confused expression on the other man’s face. “You know, so you don’t end up in jail…and Raúl will be mad at me instead—well, he’s annoyed anyway…”
“He’s not annoyed at you. He’s just…oh, I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. Let’s just go,” Cesc muttered, pressing his hand against his front.
* * *
“Here,” Bojan said, setting down the mug by David’s elbow. When David looked up in surprise, Bojan shrugged awkwardly and nodded to the tray in his other hand. “Well, you looked tired, the last I checked, and I was doing a coffee run anyway.”
David looked at the coffee, then up at Bojan, who was gazing at him with puppy-eyed sympathy. Then Bojan’s eyes widened as he remembered he wasn’t supposed to make it obvious he was pitying David. He stammered out something about needing to drop off Gutí’s cup before Gutí saw he was out of designer water, then scooted out of the office.
The door slowly shuddered back into its frame. Then it was quiet again. David looked at the mug, then sighed and picked it up. He took a sip. It wasn’t bad, for all that he didn’t really need it. The funny thing was that he wasn’t having trouble sleeping—the problem was more like he slept way too much. In the past two weeks, he and Juan had finished their spa-tripping article and David had submitted another one plus a proposal for the fall preview issue. It was a lot of work and David should’ve been proud of it, but instead he kept thinking that it just showed all he did these days was work and then go home, eat dinner and go to sleep. He hadn’t been out unless it was on assignment.
And the thing was, he hadn’t wanted to go out. He got home and he knew he should probably do something relaxing and fun, even if it was just sitting in front of the TV for a couple hours. But nothing seemed interesting and so he just ended up falling asleep, for lack of anything better to do.
David put down the coffee and put up his arms, so he could cradle his face in his hands. All right, he admitted. All right. These were classic signs of depression and he knew exactly why he was having them.
Somebody knocked at the door. Then they opened it, and as David lifted his head, Juan came into the room. “Hey, listen, I’m going to borrow your office for…a half-hour? I’m really sorry, but Albiol’s in mine having an argument with Albelda again, and if they’re going to disembowel each other, I don’t want to watch. Again.”
“Oh. No, go ahead,” David said, waving towards the empty seat. “Nothing happening here.”
Juan didn’t reply right away, busy as he was with depositing himself plus an armful of laptop, papers and highlighters in the chair. But when he did look up, it took him about two seconds to squint at David. He opened his mouth.
“I know, but he won’t even come in to work! I want to talk to him, I really do, but only if I think he’s really going to listen. And if he can’t even face me, then…I don’t know. I just don’t.” A sigh started to creep out of David, but suddenly he was completely fed up with everything. With his depression, with everybody tiptoeing around like he was made of glass, with a certain serial no-show…he flung up his hands and fell back in his chair. It gave a bit, then bounced back so his arms flopped down to his sides. He looked at Juan. “Honestly, what am I supposed to do?”
“Uh.” After some wriggling, Juan managed to work free one hand, which he promptly put to use scratching at his head. “Give me a sec, I just sat down here.”
David slouched some more. Then he saw the funny side and snorted. He flipped his hand in a sort of apology and then reached out for his keyboard. “Okay, forget I said that.”
“Oh, no no no. You brought it up and if you’re fine with talking about it, then I want to hear all about it.” Juan paused. “That came out wrong. It’s more like, it’s been two fucking weeks and the Villa’s still holed up licking his wounds and you’ve been so quiet about it, and I’m sorry but something’s got to give, or we’re all going to die from holding our breath. What’s happening?”
“I just told you. Nothing,” David muttered. He read the last sentence he’d written and it sounded crappy, so he highlighted it with the mouse. Then he unhighlighted it, because his last couple tries had been even worse and he had to have something to show Figo at the end of the day. Settling for mediocre wasn’t…well, no, he thought irritably. Past history showed he was perfectly fine with settling. It was just the last month or so that he’d tried to do differently, and look how that turned out.
He looked up and Juan was still staring intently at him. David exhaled loudly and let his arm fall back down, and Juan made half-indignant, half-apologetic noises. Then Juan’s face suddenly went all determined. He fumbled with his things for a moment, came up with a pen and then waggled it in David’s face.
“No. Not acceptable. This is not the guy who went round with me for a week and a half, letting people stick his hands and feet in gunk that smells worse than whatever’s left in the coffeemaker at the end of the day,” Juan said. Then he lost the pen and dove after it, only to spill more stuff. He cursed and scrabbled with both hands on the floor. “Look, I get that you don’t want to do the hard part. You’ve done that plenty already and it definitely is his turn. But that doesn’t mean you can’t…you know…check out…how he is…indirectly…”
David kicked his foot against his desk. “Mata, seriously? I’m not spying on him! If he doesn’t want to come in, then that’s his decision. I said I wasn’t going to put up with his…you know, but I’m not going to force him to be something he’s not.”
“So he gets to stay an asshole because you, the one person he gives a shit about, aren’t going to call him on it? Ah! Stupid pen.” Juan sat up and viciously stuck the pen in question into his binder. He rearranged the folders under his laptop, then held the laptop screen with his hands as he looked up. “David. This is really—”
“You don’t get it. I mean, I get that you’re trying to help and all, and thanks, but…Juan, you don’t get it,” David sighed.
The other man was shaking his head, but David refused to let that change his mind. As lousy as he felt right now, he did know he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t going to mess up somebody just because he loved them, like a lot of people he’d seen. He was giving David Villa time to look at things and figure out himself if he wanted to do something different, and if…if the other man didn’t? Well, they were adults and they could make their own decisions.
“As nice and high-road as that is, David, I still think you shouldn’t be feeling like shit for it,” Juan finally said.
David looked at his computer screen, with its long stretch of should-be-filled white and its tiny couple lines of type. “Yeah. Me too.”
* * *
Raúl just stood there and looked at them. He rubbed his left eye, tugged at his hair and looked again. His mouth twisted up for a second, like he wasn’t sure whether he should be snarling or sighing. Then he stepped back into the house, but kept his hand on the opposite side of the jamb, barring the doorway. “Is that…what’s his name, David—”
“Villa. David Villa. You damn well know who I am. I’ve been to a couple press conferences of yours and you’ve dodged my questions like everybody—ow!”
Iker gave Villa another shake, then pulled away his hand and tried not to make it obvious that he was wiping it against his jeans. Villa’s shirt felt a little greasy and he didn’t even want to guess what that might be. “Don’t insult him. You’re going to borrow his shower and you already tried to break his TV.”
“Yeah, besides, he sees a whole ton of reporters. It’s not his job to remember each and every one of them, even if you’re such a jerk that you’d stand out,” Cesc chimed in. He wriggled in front of Villa and tripped cheerfully up the steps to hug Raúl. “Hey, sorry we’re late, but Iker had some last-minute work to do. So I got off the package to José before the post office closed, and—”
“Wait, what about my shower?” Raúl asked.
Cesc paused, then ducked under Raúl’s arm. Once inside, he dashed into the kitchen and started banging cupboards hard enough to make Raúl turn towards him. Raúl let go of the jamb and Iker shoved Villa hard in the back. They got about a foot and a half apiece inside before Raúl turned back, the power of his questioning glower redoubled.
“I’m starving! What’s for dinner? We’re out of paella, right? Because I’ve been eating it all week and much as I love it, I could really use something different tonight,” Cesc was burbling, a distinct tone of desperation sneaking into his voice. His words were beginning to run together. “Man, I’m so hungry. Thierry had me on my feet all day and then when I went to eat, Ballack and Frings were doing footsie under the table and I just lost my appetite, so I figured I’d eat later but then that crazy Larsson guy—”
“Why is David Villa here and why is he going to use my shower?” Raúl asked, more loudly. He didn’t shove Iker and Villa back out the door, but he had the same look on his face he used when he was telling Lehmann to shut up and follow doctor’s orders. Then he glanced at Villa again and Iker thought he spotted some decidedly irritated recognition flit through Raúl’s eyes. “Aside from the hygienic reasons.”
Iker straightened his shoulders, told himself he deserved the sinking feeling in his stomach, and opened his mouth.
“Because my fucking boss thinks it’s funny to have Casillas here drag me into the office so everybody knows I’m not dead. I don’t get why he gives a shit as long as I send in my work and don’t punch your ex in the nose,” Villa snapped.
Both Iker and Cesc turned to look in horror at Villa. Then Iker…must have gone for Villa, because the next thing he knew, Villa was across the kitchen and yelling at him to stop being insane while somebody pinned him up against the wall. And Iker was so busy looking at Villa’s little, annoying, perfect-size-to-be-wrung neck to really pay attention to who was holding him back. At least until Cesc popped up to grab Iker’s swinging fist and accidentally get clocked in the side of the head by Iker’s other hand. Iker forgot about Villa and cringed, only to have his elbows dig into somebody else when he yanked in his arms. Somebody else who couldn’t be Cesc, now huddled against the opposite wall and rubbing his head.
Iker looked down, recognized the rumpled black curls under his nose and tried very hard to sink into the floor. Raúl grunted and pushed hard at Iker’s belly, making him stand back up. Then the other man unwound himself from Iker’s middle and stepped back. He wrapped one arm over his shoulder and clutched at his back.
“I’m really sorry,” Iker blurted out. “I was trying to—”
“Strangle him, I saw that, but I’m not having a homicide in my kitchen tonight.” After some pained grunting, Raúl eventually put down his arm and stood up straight. His face was still twisted up in the kind of expression a man going into groin surgery might wear, and he didn’t look at Iker or at Cesc but at Villa.
Villa raised his brows and spread his hands in about the most insulting ‘what?’ gesture Iker had ever seen.
But before anything could happen, Raúl put his own hands out, so that both Iker and Cesc were blocked. Then he pulled them in and put one on his hip, while the other hand went into his hair. “All right. I still don’t understand what’s going on, but this is my house and I have rules. One, I don’t get the dead or soon-to-be dead people. Two…Iker, for the last time, I’m not going to fall over and faint if somebody brings up Mori.”
“I thought you two had broken up,” Villa put in.
Raúl half-turned towards the man. In that pose his expression wasn’t visible to Iker, but Iker could watch Villa hitch back and then look shocked that he’d flinched.
“You. You’re David Villa, I remember you but I wish I hadn’t because you always made press conferences too long, and you’re going to shut up until you take a shower and stop stinking,” Raúl said, slow and steady and firm. He paused to let that all sink in, then pointed.
Villa not being one of Cesc’s cousins, he didn’t quite catch on. “What?”
“Shower. That way. You can use the towel since I just changed it this morning. There’s a new bar of soap under the sink.” After another moment, Raúl heaved his shoulders into a long-suffering sigh that would’ve given Job a run for his money. “Listen. I can see you’re an adult so I’m not going to show you. Either you do it yourself or I tranquilize you and do it, but then I’d have to send you a bill. And you probably can’t afford my rates.”
Villa opened his mouth. Closed it. Started to say something nasty to Iker, but Raúl made a slight movement forward and Villa hopped back again. Then Villa threw up his hands. “Fine! Fine, God knows tonight’s already been a fucking circus so why not get threatened and ordered around by Lehmann’s…”
Mumble mumble snarl all the way out of the room. The peaceful quiet that fell afterward made Iker twitch, it was so…unfamiliar. He almost felt more comfortable when Raúl finally went over to the window and threw it open with a groaning screech. Raúl’s shoulders jerked in a wince before the other man turned around. He looked at Iker.
“I’m sorry. As soon as he’s clean, I’m going to drop him off at Figo’s,” Iker said. He dropped back against the wall and put one hand over his face, digging his nails into the flesh under his eye. It was better than facing up to the weary, expectant disappointment in Raúl’s face. Tonight had played out like a farce but suddenly, with the way Raúl was just standing there and listening, like he always seemed to do, it felt like something more intimately painful. “I…well, it’s a long story.”
“And Villa was being a total ass,” Cesc said.
Raúl glanced at Cesc, who scrunched down. Then he turned around and walked back a couple steps to the table. He pulled out a chair, spun it around and sat down.
“Villa and this other guy at work, David Silva, they were seeing each other. But Silva dumped him two weeks ago and Villa went home and never came back,” Iker continued after a long, awkward moment. He shifted against the wall, putting one arm over his chest and then bringing it back down to his side. “Figo wanted to make sure he was alive, but Villa wasn’t answering his phone, his email…so Figo made me go do it.”
“Okay, but why did you bring him here? He has a shower in his own place, doesn’t he?” Raúl asked. Reasonably enough.
Iker grimaced and put his face in his hand. “Didn’t bring him here to use your shower.” He spread his fingers a little and peered out at Raúl, who was…staring at him in total incomprehension. He pushed the thumb off his mouth and repeated what he’d said a little more loudly. “I didn’t even realize how…well, you know, till he opened the door and I, ah, tackled him, and by then it just seemed like a good idea to get into the car. Before he got up and went back inside, or tried to punch me, or…I wasn’t really thinking.”
The look on Raúl’s face said no kidding, but the other man just drew in a breath and waved his hand for Iker to go on. “So why didn’t you just go to Figo’s straight from there?”
“Because we were late,” Cesc said. “And Villa was being such a jerk that I couldn’t even really think. He’s really mouthy and he doesn’t shut up even when you sit on him, and we—”
“Didn’t just call to say you’d be late for dinner because…” Raúl now had his face in his hand.
Cesc and Iker glanced at each other. Then Iker pulled his hand off his face and moved it a little towards Cesc, who immediately shook his head. Iker glowered at the other man, because that hadn’t been what he’d said—
“Does this have something to do with Mori being on the front cover of Duende this month?” Raúl asked with a sigh.
“You still got it? I told the doorman to trash your copy! Damn it, I knew we should’ve driven faster,” Cesc yelped. Then he saw Raúl’s expression and backtracked. Literally. His heels hit the wall behind him and he nearly lost his balance. “Um, I mean…”
“Oh, God,” Raúl muttered. He put his face back into his hand, and then he kept it there for a good couple of minutes.
Iker looked hard at Cesc, who pulled an oops! expression, then shrugged and scratched at the back of his neck. Cesc looked at the still-silent Raúl, then at Iker, who shook his head and pointed at Cesc. Blinking, Cesc started to spread his hands in a why? gesture.
Wet foot slopped into the room. Villa, dirt-free and clean-shaven—though his hair didn’t look too different—stood there wearing only a fluffy orange towel around his waist. “Wait a moment, I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”
“So Iker can lend you something. He…” Raúl paused and stared hard at Villa “…did you use my razor?”
“You said—”
“I said use the shower, not appropriate my—mother of God, it’s like I have another nephew.” Raúl rolled his eyes so hard that his feet actually shifted. Then he squinched his eyes shut as he grabbed a fistful of hair. “Okay. Never mind. Just go back there and get dry, and—don’t use my comb. Or I’ll kill you.”
Villa was all ready to say fuck-you to that, with the hunched shoulders and jutting chin, but that last bit threw him. He unfolded into a disbelieving stare. “What?”
“I’ll kill you. I am not happy and you don’t work for the label and I don’t give a shit what your editor wants with you. And I have a big garden.”
Still incredulous, Villa started to turn. Then he stopped and held up his hand.
“And I don’t care what I said about homicide earlier, this is my house and I make the rules. Go back to the bathroom, now,” Raúl ordered. He stabbed his finger in the correct direction, then slumped back with his head held between both hands, muttering to himself.
“Well, don’t have a fit. Lehmann teach you to threaten people like that?” Villa grumbled, stomping off.
Out of reflex Iker started after him, but was stopped by Raúl turning to point at him. “And you,” Raúl said wearily. He closed his eyes, held them that way a moment, and opened them to make Iker feel idiotic and embarrassed and guilty all at once. “When are you going to understand that I don’t have a—look, if I have a problem with Mori at this point, it’s because you keep making a big deal of it on my behalf. When I haven’t asked you to, and don’t want you to, and just what the hell is it that makes you so scared of Mori? Because this is you. It’s not me.”
“It’s not—” Cesc started.
Raúl just looked at him. Then Raúl sighed again. He absently flexed his hands, then frowned and raised one. After some peering at it, he plucked off a few stray hairs that had gotten tangled around his fingers. “Yes?”
“I just don’t understand why you’re so calm,” Iker blurted out. “Even if you’ve moved on, why aren’t you angry that he’s—that he used your old relationship in his column, that he’s still talking about it? You can’t have forgotten all about it.”
“No. But I’m not—Iker, I’m not not annoyed by that. I would’ve rather he kept that private,” Raúl said. “But I’m not…I’m not spending my whole day thinking about it and being mad about it, and it’s because that’s what moving on is about. It’s personal information but it’s not…not really personal anymore. Yes, he was part of my life but that’s really over, and when he or I or anyone else talks about it now…I don’t feel it like that. I just don’t care like that about him now.”
It was still hard to understand, even though Raúl was clearly trying as much as he could to make it clear, right down to the way his eyes slightly bulged with the effort. For a moment Iker was mad at himself for making the other man work that much. But…Iker shook his head. “I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t…it’s like with explosions in an action film. You know something blows up, you see it but sometimes it still doesn’t make sense, once you start thinking about it.”
“Well, you don’t go to an action film to think. You go there to watch things blow up good, as you’ve said.” Raúl was back to frustrated. “Look, Iker, don’t you just watch the damn movie sometimes? It doesn’t matter how it works, so long as it does.”
“I’m a film critic,” Iker had to say.
“And we’re not talking that literally, we’re…ahhh.” With a disgusted exhale, Raúl turned around. He started towards the direction of the shower. “I’m getting your friend some clothes and then I’m cleaning the shower. Fix yourself up dinner. We’ll talk about this later, since we’re not getting anywhere now.”
Too late Cesc jumped forward. He barely caught himself from running into the dining table, and then he and Iker watched Raúl stalk out of the kitchen. Iker let out a disappointed sigh.
“Okay,” Cesc said, a moment after Raúl had left. “Well, he didn’t throw us out. And…I guess I can make…he’s got some sausages, I think. Don’t look at me like that. We need to sit down and think about this if we’re gonna have make-up sex tonight, and we might as well eat while we’re at it. Hungry and depressed never accomplishes anything.”
* * *
“I’m not here because I’m about to send you to cover Tuva throat singing in its natural freezing habitat, so calm down,” Figo said. “I just saw the light on and thought I’d drop in for a moment to see how you’re doing.”
David breathed in.
“Good. Remembering you need air is important.” Figo had what had to be the world’s stoniest face on as he said that. “Now. How are you?”
“Um, good,” David said.
The other man nodded. “Great. What the fuck are you still doing at the office? It’s past midnight and you don’t have a deadline.”
“I thought you said this would be friendly!” David blurted out.
“I said I want to know how you’re doing. I reserve the right to determine the method I use to do that. It’s in your contract.” Dead stare. Then Figo shook his head and sighed. He came into the office, shut the door behind him and then pulled up a chair. “But seriously, I would like to know if there’s anything going on in your life that you’re having a hard time with.”
This time David did think a bit before he spoke. Mostly about how incredibly idiotic Figo suddenly seemed to be, and how David was so tired and this was crap and he couldn’t believe he had this along with everything else. “Like David Villa not coming in for two weeks just because of me? Like that? Is that what you’re talking about?”
Of course he immediately shut his mouth, like that was going to do anything. For a moment David seriously considered diving under his desk in embarrassment. Work was the one part of his life that had been going well, but now…now was about a minute later and Figo hadn’t fired David yet.
“I suppose. If that’s what it really is that’s bothering you,” Figo finally said. He shifted his legs around, then stretched out his arms in front of him. When he let them fall back, he let his whole body fall into an easy slouch. “We had that talk about—”
“No, no, it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m not letting my personal life screw up my work, really. I mean…here, I can show you my drafts…”
“Silva, sit down.” Looking exasperated, Figo put one hand to his forehead and massaged it. Then something beeped and he frowned, hand still on his face. He moved his hand and glanced down, then rolled his eyes. “Probably Victor. Anyway, I was going to say that even though I made it quite clear that I expected you two to be professionals and to not make a private issue into a workplace one…you’re a human being, David. I want you to make a reasonable effort, but I don’t expect you to turn yourself into an ice cube. And if there’s a problem, then I’d like for you to be able to talk to me about it.”
After a moment, David deposited himself back in his seat. Plastic rattled and he looked down to find that in his hurry he’d grabbed his keyboard; he put that down, too. “I…thanks. But this…I mean, you’re not my counselor.”
“No, and you shouldn’t take this as an invitation to take over my couch like Victor does.” Figo’s phone beeped again and he shoved down his hand. The phone stopped beeping. “But look, if there’s a problem and you can’t take care of it yourself—you can’t take care of it yourself. It’s not about being self-sufficient and strong, like most idiots think. It’s about recognizing how large a problem is and doing the right thing about it. And I am the one who makes sure problems get solved around here.”
“I guess,” David said.
“Well, I know.” Hard stare, and then a small, relaxed laugh. “If you’re really fine, David, I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re not, then let me know. I don’t just want you to get your work done. I want you to do good work, and for that I have to make sure you have the chance to do that. If you’re distracted, you won’t have the energy.”
David bit his lip and moved around in his seat. He looked at Figo, then at the door behind Figo, and then he caught himself because he’d been looking in the direction of…well, he had spent a couple years doing that. Just sitting around and waiting for the next outburst, the next problem. “But that’s it.”
Figo raised his brows.
“Sorry, I was…I’m okay, honestly. Mostly—most of the time,” David said. “I mean…sorry to get personal, but it hurts a hell of a lot. But I can keep busy and work actually helps, because it kind of reminds me that I really…I really have stopped being just his copy-editor. I grew up and stopped letting what he did dictate my life, and because of that I could tell him that I—well, you were there for that.”
“And had the pleasure of seeing you two nearly disgrace my doorway,” Figo dryly recalled.
Heat flushed up in David’s face, but he swallowed his embarrassment and kept going. “It’s just…I don’t know what the hell is going on with him, okay? I don’t and it bothers me, and this is going to sound horrible but it’s because I feel like I should know what he’s doing. What he’s going to do. I spent three years figuring him out well enough so that I knew what he was mad about just from the way he snorted, but I didn’t see this coming! I didn’t. And…”
“What did you think was going to happen?”
“Huh. Oh. I don’t know…no, well.” David let out a loud, strangled breath as he slumped in his chair. He flipped his right hand a couple times. “I thought he was going to be pissed off at me, and stomp around and get people to punch him like usual. And come after me and keep asking what the hell I meant till I don’t know, we figured it out in some ER while the doctor sewed up his head. But no, he just went and…went. And I don’t know what that means.”
Figo looked at David and nodded a couple times, and generally acted like he was really paying attention. But then he got up. “You’re fine,” he said to David’s confusion. “Well, except for thinking that Villa left because he actually doesn’t care that much about you. You know Villa so well that you’ve got tunnel vision—all those habits of his that you have memorized, but you can’t even see that breaking habit for him is probably the best sign that he gives a damn.”
“But—” David started.
“But he hasn’t figured that out either, so you’re not alone. I’ll see you in the morning, Silva,” Figo said. And with that he went out, leaving David behind to ponder just what the hell had just happened.
After a couple minutes, David turned off his computer and started to pack up. He hadn’t figured out much of anything, but he did see that he wasn’t going to get any more work done tonight. He might as well go home and be confused where people weren’t going to barge—David winced, then stuffed things into his bag more quickly. Maybe he could just go home.
* * *
Raúl was sitting at the table when David came into the kitchen. The other man had his back to David and was doing some kind of paperwork—oh, he had a calculator.
“Doing up my bill?” David asked as he came around the table. He didn’t see Iker or that snippy other one, even though he peered into all the hallways that branched off of the room.
“They’re sitting in the living room eating dinner and trying to figure out why I’m mad that they’re mad I’m not more mad.” For a few more seconds Raúl placidly punched buttons. Then he scribbled down something on a pad of receipt paper, tore off the sheet and held it out towards David. “Here.”
David looked at it, then at Raúl’s sober expression. Then he looked at the receipt again. He put out his finger and touched the edge. “Are you serious?”
“About them? Yes, even though I can’t believe…” Raúl blinked “…oh, you mean that. It’s not a bill, Villa. I think between you not making a fuss about this and me not making a fuss about it, our respective employers don’t ever have to know.”
“And all’s even, huh.” A tiny bit relieved—God knew what Figo would do if David showed up with a bill from Lehmann’s doctor—David pulled out a chair. Just out of curiosity, he took the receipt from Raúl as he sat down. “Yeah, and Fàbregas doesn’t churn out half of FC’s rumors.”
Raúl went back to staring at actual bills and totting up numbers on his calculator, which upon closer inspection had a Real Madrid crest at the top of it. “Cesc knows what to keep private. But if you insist, you can use the phone over there while I call Lehmann on my—”
“I never said that,” David snapped. He tossed the receipt down on the table. Or tried to, but the borrowed shirt he was wearing was a bit large and the receipt got caught in the sleeve flapping over his hand. He started to shake it off, realized he looked idiotic and just grabbed the receipt again. Then he remembered that Raúl had already seen him in a much more idiotic state and…the only good thing about this night was that David would never cover one of Raúl’s press conferences again. There was just too much backstory now, even for Figo. “I heard you and Cesc are related, kind of. It shows.”
“Thank you,” Raúl said, with just a touch of sarcasm.
David almost called the man on it. Almost. But Raúl had shooed off his moronic pair of boyfriends, and in between the threats had treated David half-decently, so David supposed the man got one pass. One.
Raúl didn’t have any smart remarks after that, apparently. He added away while David sat in his kitchen, after having used his shower, and tried to figure out what now. Maybe David could call a taxi and—no. David reluctantly gave up that idea, and not just because it was pretty damn obvious that Figo would spare no mercy in making him get out of his place. It was also that…well, he was out, and now that he was, he couldn’t really go back without consciously noticing how fucking pathetic he was being. Before, he could just sit in his apartment and listen to demos, and pretend he was that into his work. But now he’d been reminded that the rest of the world existed and was paying attention, and was leveling judgment. Fucking Casillas. Fucking Figo. Like either of them had a leg to stand on, with their relationship records.
“The prescription might be free but I don’t run a hotel,” Raúl suddenly said. He put down his pen, glanced at David, and then began to gather up all the papers spread around him. “You can have a little longer to catch your breath, but I’m not going to give you somewhere to sleep for the night. I don’t know what exactly is going on between you and Iker and Luís Figo, but you’ll have to settle it somewhere besides my kitchen.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t have any intention of staying here a moment longer than I have to,” David replied.
Raúl shuffled papers. “You’re still sitting here.”
“It’s only been a—and you said you’d let me wait a little! And by the fucking Virgin, you’re as nasty as Figo.” David slapped his hands on the table, but then thought the better of getting up. Instead he planted himself back in his seat, twining one foot around the chair-leg for good measure. “I didn’t ask to be here, you know. I didn’t ask for your goddamn ex to ruin my life.”
At the last bit Raúl looked up. He almost said something, but then just thumped his handful of papers against the table a couple times to straighten them out. Then he put it down. He looked at it, then folded his hands on top of the stack and sighed. “What on earth did Mori do to you?”
“What did he do? What, hasn’t Casillas said anything? Your ex waltzed in here, like things weren’t going fine without him, and got himself a column at Duende!” David snapped.
Raúl didn’t even blink. “So he got another job. I take it that he didn’t get your job, so…”
“So he’s still in the office and making insinuations about my boyfriend whenever he isn’t writing all about how hard it was to get over you, and maybe you’re calm about it but…maybe David Silva’s not upset about it either, but…but that doesn’t mean you’re right.” The finger-jabbing felt faintly weird to David, but he couldn’t sit still. It could have been worse. He could have kicked Raúl. He wanted to.
The other man didn’t even glance at David’s finger. He just moved his head—had he started to roll his eyes?—and looked straight past the finger to David. “Right about what?”
“Right about…look, I know you didn’t say anything but you were thinking it, with that smug look on your face,” David said. “You and everyone else, you’re all thinking what’s the big deal? Well, it’s that it’s not just about you being okay with it. It’s not all about you. Every time he shows up, I have to remember that I almost lost David to him and that I’m—”
And then David remembered mid-rant that Raúl was a complete stranger. Well, okay, not a complete stranger, since he was Casillas’ significant other and they’d met a couple times outside of that and—but he wasn’t somebody David knew well enough to be baring his soul like this. Actually, outside of his mother David couldn’t think who on earth he would know well enough to…David slumped in his chair. He stared moodily into space.
He didn’t even know David Silva that well. Otherwise he would’ve told the other man this instead of going off about what Morientes did two years ago. Wait, Raúl had said something. “What?”
“So because you’re insecure, everyone has to suffer?” Raúl obligingly repeated.
“It’s not because I’m insecure! It’s because I’m—I’m realistic. I know I treated David Silva like shit for a long time and I’m over that now, but I still…I don’t need Morientes hanging around, too. I’m trying to change but it doesn’t happen like that and he’s added pressure—why the hell am I talking to you?” David threw up his hands. One of them brushed the top of his head as it came down and he paused to push back that spike, then dropped his arms and stared at Raúl.
“Because you’re wearing Iker’s clothing and sitting in my kitchen and smelling like my shampoo,” Raúl said. “I didn’t say you could use that.”
After a moment, David had to admit that that was a good point. Good enough to win this round. But he didn’t have to be happy about it; he crossed his arms over his chest. “What the hell does Iker see in you? You’re as much of a smart-ass as Figo.”
“I’m not a smart-ass to him. I’m just a smart-ass to self-destructive idiots like you, whom I’ve been treating for longer than you’ve been mouthing off for pay.” Raúl lifted his arms off his stack of bills, then grabbed his calculator and pen. He piled them on top of the papers and then picked up the whole thing as he got out of his chair. “You’re in my goddamn kitchen because you can’t handle having Mori around to remind you of what a jerk you are? Listen, I’m fine with Mori now, but he can be an incredible ass too, believe me. I forgave—I didn’t forget. Your significant other might think he’s a nice guy, and he is, but this David Silva’s never been in a relationship with him. So stop worrying about living up to Mori and take my prescription.”
“Wait a sec—where are you going? What fucking prescript—”
As Raúl walked out of the room, David looked wildly around for that stupid little bit of paper. He spotted it and grabbed it, then read it. Then read it again. It wasn’t a prescription. It was just a bunch of…numbers. A phone number.
David started to crumple up the paper. Then he sighed and smoothed it out against his thigh. He looked up but Raúl was already gone…just like Figo. Right down to saying crap David couldn’t ignore and not giving David a chance to respond, because the other man was so right there wasn’t a point. That…bastard.
Eventually David went over to the phone. He took it off the hook, looked at the number again, and then started to dial. Halfway through he changed his mind and slammed the phone back on the hook. He swore at the empty kitchen.
After a moment, he took the phone down again and dialed the number. The voice that answered thanked him for calling and asked him what his address was and how soon he wanted his taxi. That bastard.
* * *
Fernando escaped to the balcony with a lousy cocktail in one hand and his mobile in the other. He quickly assessed his surroundings before heading to a dark, unoccupied corner where a large ugly statue would hide his mobile screen’s glow from the people indoors. Mostly from Pepe, who was a wonderful friend and who was leaving in the morning to continue his film promotion at a festival in America, but who really needed to stop introducing Fernando to ambitious starlets angling for—well, that last one had actually grabbed Fernando’s ass. And here he’d always thought that once he’d made it big, he wouldn’t have to put up with the sexual harassment anymore.
He was perfectly happy with being single. He didn’t need to be in a relationship to have self-esteem or a sense of fun or whatever it was that Pepe thought he was missing. And he didn’t need the damn sex either. For God’s sake, he was a grown man. He could do without it for a few months. What kind of person did Pepe think he was, anyway?
“There you are.”
Fernando jumped, then hissed as he felt something wet splash over his hand. He jerked his hand away, then remembered about his cocktail.
It made a tinny little smashing noise against the balcony, which at least was tiled so Fernando didn’t have to worry about stains. Just broken glass.
“Look, I’m not interested and I’m not going to listen to your demo, or look at your headshots or anything like that,” Fernando half-snapped, half-sighed as he gingerly stepped over the puddle. He tried not to look up at the voice’s owner—he didn’t want to offer anything that looked like encouragement—but that backfired when his elbow ran into them. He twisted away, just caught himself against the wall and cursed again when he realized his head had involuntarily risen. “As a matter of fact, I’m on my way out and…and…”
“As a matter of fact, I wasn’t going to proposition you,” said one of Duende’s…people. He stared at Fernando for a few seconds, gently swaying in the breeze.
There wasn’t a breeze. The man wasn’t holding a cocktail but now that Fernando was looking for it, it was hard to miss the shiny, slightly unfocused look in his eyes.
“Valdés. Victor.” Victor managed to look superior even though he’d stumbled over his own feet while standing still. “Movie reviewer? Is it coming back to you yet?”
“Oh! Yes, sorry, I…” Fernando gave up on covering for the slip in manners “…I didn’t know Figo was sending somebody to cover this party.”
After some dodgy shuffling of feet, Victor got himself vaguely upright. “Because he didn’t. I went to a showing for a damn sci-fi flick and was stupid enough to stay for the Q-and-A, and the director decided he just had to drag me here to show me how he’s such good friends with your friend Reina that he’s fucking Reina’s publicist. Do you know where Figo lives?”
Fernando had been in the middle of telling Victor that Pepe couldn’t possibly have known and of course there wasn’t a connection, it was all just puffed-up bragging, and then that bit about Figo’s address dropped in. Blinking, Fernando stuttered off into silence.
“No? Oh, well, his number’s in my phone. Call him and ask,” Victor said, just before pitching forward.
He was somewhat taller than the swaying made him look and Fernando had a bit of trouble keeping the other man from falling face-first into the broken glass. Eventually Fernando got Victor’s arm over his neck and a good hold on Victor’s belt. He yanked up the other man and gave Victor a shake; Victor’s head flopped back just enough for Fernando to see that the man was out for the rest of the night.
Not in a way that needed medical attention, unfortunately. Otherwise Fernando could have dropped him off at a clinic or an ER. And Fernando thought about dropping Victor anyway, because this in no shape or form was in Fernando’s deal with Duende and furthermore, he just didn’t feel like it tonight.
But even as grumpy as he was, Fernando couldn’t bring himself to be that callous. He couldn’t leave the man with Pepe. As soon as the party was ending, Pepe was leaving and his hotel room wouldn’t be available, and Fernando was not going so far as to pay for a room for Victor at one of the poshest hotels in town. Nor did Fernando know where Victor lived. Or Figo, and…Fernando did actually try to call Figo. But he couldn’t find a phone on Victor, and Pepe couldn’t find a lost phone anywhere in the room.
“Well, he looks all right over your shoulder. Very primal,” Pepe said. “Just take him back to your place.”
Fernando looked at him.
“I never said you had to take advantage of him, even though it’d not really be taking advantage so much as getting compensated for what you’re do…okay, okay. But I don’t think you really have any other choice.” Pepe paused. “About taking him with you! God, Mori, tone down those thoughts of yours a little.”
Victor took up too much of Fernando’s shoulder for Fernando to hit Pepe, but he managed to have Victor’s feet smack Pepe’s arm as he stalked towards the door. At least the party had died down, so the only people left were ones who wouldn’t jump to the tabloids with some story about Fernando’s new love interest.
Getting Victor to the hotel room Fernando was currently calling home was relatively simple, since the other man had the decency to act like a sack of flour the entire time. Once there, Fernando took off the man’s shoes and loosened his clothes, then positioned a wastebasket near Victor’s head. Then he went into the other room to try and find Figo’s phone number, which now that he thought about it, he really should put into his speed-dial. Never mind all the complicating factors, the truth was that Fernando and he had a business relationship now and Fernando should act like it.
He found the number and was picking up the phone in the bedroom when he heard a noise in the living room. Fernando listened for a few more seconds, then put down the phone and went back to look into the other room. “Victor?”
The couch was empty. So was the rest of the room…wait, there was light coming from the suite’s other bathroom. And the wastebasket wasn’t by the couch anymore. With a sigh, Fernando stepped into the room. He was thinking about how effective it might be to dunk Victor’s head under a cold shower when something dunked his head towards his knees. Very hard. Hard enough to turn the world black.
***