traces, part four.
Title: Traces
Part: 4 of 10
Characters: David Beckham, Martín Cáceres, Fabio Cannavaro, Iker Casillas, Royston Drenthe, Julien Faubert, Fernando Gago, Raúl González, Pep Guardiola, Thierry Henry, Guti Hernández, Xavi Hernández, Gonzalo Higuaín, Andrés Iniesta, Bojan Krkić, Lionel Messi, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Gerard Piqué, Carles Puyol, Sergio Ramos, Rubén de la Red, Michel Salgado, Miguel Torres. Not all characters appear in every chapter or in equal measure. Some characters' ages have been altered for the sake of coherence.
Genre: AU; murder mystery.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sex, drug use, and possibly distressing themes.
Summary: When corruption no longer shocks, drugs no longer numb, and darkness no longer soothes, men become desperate, reckless extremes of themselves. The secrets behind one man's life falling into another man's hands are revealed, exploited, and overlapped, and it falls to DCI Raúl González to trace the threads.
Disclaimer: One hundred percent fiction.
Notes: Thank you for your patience. :)
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism and questions are very welcome.
| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |
Part Four
He grabs them by their hair. They can't tug their hair away like they can an arm or a leg, and it hurts if they try. Their control becomes his.
He doesn't do it to hurt them - no. It's a game of sorts. He makes it fun, easy. He cradles them with one hand, his lips caressing their cheeks as their blushes deepen and their pulses quicken. Their fear, they come to realise, is really just a fear of accepting what they want. And it's soon replaced by the kind of excitement that shares the same throbs as the fear.
He knows what they like, what they've fantasised about. He knows how to make them please him without sacrificing even a little of their own thrill. He knows how to make them feel like big men, like they know what they're doing, like they know what he wants. They play into his hands, delicately, with the generosity of innocence and the catalyst of curiosity that he looks for whenever he chooses his next pursuit. His control becomes theirs - in so far as he allows.
All the while, the fingers of one hand remain laced in their hair. It's so simple that they barely notice him doing it. If they suddenly deign to lower their lips to his neck or nipples or stomach, it's because he has gently directed their head downward. If they pound harder on his cock, it's because he has pushed them to. If they feel drawn to him, as though they can't bear to slip away, it's because he's keeping them firmly, threateningly, in place.
The subtlety of the threat has always been Thierry's true métier. You don't need to tell a child that, should they disobey you one time too many, everything that matters to them will be cut off. They know it, and so they rarely push that far. A student needn't be explicitly warned of expulsion; an athlete, of the bench; a thief, of prison. Everyone, no matter how rich or poor, has a fear that rises to the surface when they begin to tread too carelessly the line between wanting and chasing. When he dangles that carrot in those boy's faces, those faces shine, and everything they dread losing is revealed in the light of everything they dream of winning. He knows which buttons to push.
In the middle of a conversation about the Union, he casually slips in a mention of the new limit on election campaign funding and questions whether a similar restriction should be applied to the boys gunning for captaincy at the school. He relishes the way the corners of Fabio's mouth pull inwards a little, distorting his smile as his eyes get harder. He listens neutrally as Fabio stammers something about the 'greater good' of his campaign to eradicate social inequalities (all the while muddling up his arguments against misogyny in the workplace and his arguments for abortion rights) more than outweighing the few extra thousand of his lover's money that he's piling up in his piggy bank.
He doesn't bat an eyelid when he gets a hefty payout post election day, and he always notices the faint trace of reverence and gratitude in Fabio's tone when he speaks to him, his secret locked up behind an extra zero in his bank account.
He pats Gerard on the back with something close to genuine sympathy (he won't lie - he feels for him a little) when David's name flits into conversation, and Gerard realises that the money he gets from Ruud, Ruud gets from someone else now. And Gerard looks up fearfully and begins to comprehend the magnitude of this web in which he is very much the main course.
He remembers with a smile Iker about to knock at the door only to see that it's already open. He remembers Iker peering inside, and the worry that creased David's face so suddenly when it was revealed to Iker that he wasn't alone in his office. He remembers the full, heavy satisfaction he felt at the second that everyone in that six-by-six understood each other perfectly - and how very, very perfect it was for himself. He remembers David's office getting bigger, his arguments with Iker getting louder, their post-argument heat getting hotter; their relationship getting deeper and deeper until they finally understood how much danger they were in. And he remembers how they began shirking his company, as though he wouldn't notice their complete need for each other.
But he notices everything.
It's the same now, with Bojan. His want is more obvious than that of any of the other boys. He wants to escape his mediocre, blue-collar home in its permanent state of turbulence. He wants to prove how much more he's worth. He wants to give better than he gets. He wants to wear the school badge like a head on a stick, show the bull where its horns are, show the world that he can take control and take it like a man.
Thierry's control becomes his. Bojan fucks him like he's always wanted to. He wipes the platter after he's taken his chances, so nobody can screw him over afterward and take his leftovers. He practices, does his interviews, sits his exams, and leaves all those older, experienced pieces of shit dumbstruck by his command over his instrument, his superiors, himself.
They don't see Thierry behind the scenes, ready to drip the poison of Bojan's past into everything he's been drinking up so eagerly. They don't see him cradling Bojan's future in his steady hands, making him with as much ease as it would take to break him. They don't see it, but Bojan feels it every second, and it gets stronger after those moments when he tries to kid himself that he's doing it alone. The shame grows, with his desperation, and his dependence. The further he gets, the more he wants, the longer he'll need Thierry.
His control becomes Thierry's.
* * * * *
"I hardly know him!"
"That's your problem, not mine."
"No, he's very much your problem."
"And now you're my problem, too. And there are only so many problems I can handle at the moment."
"This wasn't part of our -"
"I'm not having this conversation with you right now."
"What a surprise."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You think I won't find out? What you're up to? You think you can hide things from me?"
"You might be a sneaky little prick, but I know when the water gets too deep for you. And trust me, I'm swimming with sharks here. You'd run if you knew, so it's best that you don't."
"Unbelievable. Unbelievable! I do all of this for you, and you don't even have the decency to -"
"I don't have time for this."
Fernando glares at the door that Sergio slams behind him, and briefly considers running after him to offer him a lift. But he figures Sergio will just decline, refuse to tell him where he's going.
"Have it your way," Fernando mutters petulantly as he glances through the front window at Sergio's retreating figure. "Take the metro like an idiot."
He sighs and wonders whether he could get away with just giving up and going home. After all, he's in too deep now for Sergio to go off prattling to Guardiola if he doesn't do his job properly. And Rubén - well, he won't complain.
But he turns and heads into Rubén's room nonetheless, and waits for him to wake up and groan at the sight of him.
"Morning, sunshine."
"Fuck you," Rubén murmurs sleepily. "Where's Sergio?"
"He had to go and screw someone over." Rubén frowns and Fernando snaps back at him. "Get up, will you? I haven't got all day."
"Oh? Got a school to go to, then?"
"You're not one to talk, asshole."
"I'm tired," Rubén whines as Fernando tears his blankets from him.
"I understand," Fernando replies, his voice silky with sarcasm. "I tried telling him that six in the evening was too early. Inhumane, almost. But that Sergio, he's an odd one."
"You're not funny. Not even a little. You two woke me up this morning, anyway. I was up at eight."
"And then you went back to sleep, so boo-fucking-hoo." Fernando roughly puts his arms under Rubén's to lift him up, Rubén wincing at the touch. "Will you calm down?" Fernando says impatiently. "I'm not going to do anything to you."
Rubén summons energy enough to roll his eyes and snap back, "I never asked you to do this. Why don't you just run along and we can both pretend that we -"
"You know just as well as I do that pretending isn't going to do you any good. I'm not here for me, you know."
"No, you're doing it for -"
"Just get the fuck up and put your shoes on," Fernando interrupts, letting go of Rubén and turning around to head to the back wall and open the curtains roughly. "Look - it's still sunny out. Fuck knows you could use a tan."
"Speak for yourself," Rubén mutters bitterly, his hand rummaging under his bed for his shoes. "Besides, I don't see how ten minutes is going to do much for my complexion."
"Well, if you want to stay out for longer -"
"I don't," Rubén replies quickly.
Fernando sighs before bending over to tie Rubén's laces, Rubén's trembling fingers failing. Looking up briefly at that pale face, Fernando thinks it might be good to say something reassuring, or consoling, or understanding. But Rubén looks away quickly and Fernando remembers that small-talk was never in the job description anyway.
Rubén lasts three minutes before he twists away and tries to go back to the house. Fernando grips his arm, not tightly, but too firmly for Rubén's weak resistance. His head snaps around, and he spots a man in his thirties emerging from a nearby post office, a few doors down from the tiny newsagency that's supposed to be Rubén's target today.
"He's not going to do anything to you," Fernando says with rolled eyes.
Rubén looks back at Fernando. "According to your logic, nobody ever does anything to anybody. Muggings are unfathomable. Murders utterly impossible. That gun shot Beckham all by itself."
Fernando doesn't have a reply. "Look, you," he snaps, needlessly tightening his grip, "I don't care how hard I'm going to have to pull you, but we are going to get to that store. I don't care how long it takes."
"It's only supposed to be ten minutes -"
"You're such a fucking defeatist, I don't know why I'm bothering -"
"Don't, then! Go home, let me go home!"
"You know that's not an option." Fernando gives Rubén a hard look. "We're going to get to that store."
"Why can't we just stay here for ten minutes?" Rubén looks back at Fernando weakly. "What difference does it make how far I get?"
"You have to see people, you have to deal with them, you -"
"I don't want to."
"Well, I don't want you to, either, because fuck knows the world isn't ready to deal with you. But the world isn't going to change for you, either, so . . ." Fernando trailed off, shrugging. "Just - come on, please. There's only ever one, maybe two people there at a time, anyway." Rubén's eyes are still wide with trepidation, but he doesn't continue struggling in the direction of the house. "Please, Rubén. It can only help you."
Rubén makes it to the store, his hands clammy by the time they find Fernando's and clutch onto them for dear life as they step inside, the bell chiming to alert the disinterested shopkeeper of their presence. Rubén only hesitantly lets go as Fernando goes to get a bottle of Coke from the fridge at the back of the store, Fernando noticing his eyes fixed on the shopkeeper, who sits filling in lottery tickets with dirty fingernails.
By the time Fernando has paid for the water, Rubén's fingers are wrapped around his again, sweating and trying so desperately to be stronger than they are. There is nobody on the street this time. Rubén hurries up as they near the house again, as though he's racing the rest of the world and showing it how quickly he can escape it. Fernando unlocks the door and steps back to let Rubén back inside the dark safety of home. He checks his watch as he hears Rubén's sigh of relief.
Sixteen minutes. He'd lasted sixteen minutes.
Fernando doesn't quite realise how proud he feels until a few days later, when he'll angrily ask himself why he didn't give Rubén a pat on the back when it could have made a difference. As it happens, he finds himself, as he steps back into Sergio's house and can smell him on everything again, wondering whether Sergio values his efforts as little as Rubén does. He wonders whether Rubén was right the other day, when he said that Fernando was being used, while Sergio keeps his secrets and keeps him out.
* * * * *
The coffee machine made its spluttering, choking noises and Iker stared at it intently, wondering if he'd done something wrong. There was silence, and the cup was half-full. He turned to look at David, who shrugged and leaned against the wall as Iker craned his neck further in to inspect the machine. There was one last burst of milk into the cup and Iker twitched in surprise as David snickered.
"You shut up," Iker muttered, taking the cup carefully out from under the spout and handing it over to David. "If you weren't so picky about your coffee -"
"I just can't drink that stir-in garbage," David said before taking a long and indulgent sip.
"If I can drink it, you can drink it." Iker turned off the machine before sitting down on one of the high, squeaking stools around his kitchen island.
David frowned. "Aren't you having any?"
Iker shook his head. He didn't meet David's eye. "Nah, I'm... I'm heading out soon."
David's frown dissolved as his face fell just fractionally. "Oh."
"I'm not in a rush," Iker added. "You - take your time with that. Enjoy it. God knows how hard I worked to make it."
David's smile was small, and he lowered himself onto a stool opposite Iker's. He glanced briefly toward the large glass doors at his right, the pouring rain beating down on them, forming and retracing tracks of dotted lines that seeped indoors from the bottom.
"You should get that fixed," David said, nodding toward the small puddle. "I can call someone for you, if you -"
"No." Iker looked at David for a brief moment before averting his gaze again and exhaling slowly. "I don't - I don't need you to do that."
David blushed, though Iker didn't see it, the weather outside commanding his attention. "Sorry. I keep -"
"I know."
The silence was less awkward than tense, and as much as David tried, his eyes flicked toward the note on the fridge that Fabio had left for Iker earlier in the morning. 'Be back in the evening. I love you.' How soon it had been after reading it that Iker had phoned David and asked him to come over... David tried not to think about it. He always seemed to end up reading too much into what was ultimately very little.
"It's just that - I know you're - you're both really busy. What with the campaign and all. So I just thought, if I could help..."
Iker took in a deep breath before looking up at David, who was relieved to see warmth and sincerity in his expression. "It's not your responsibility anymore. To help me. I know you want to, but it's better for both of us if... It's better if we leave that behind."
David wanted to fire back a hundred retorts - about how different Iker's tune was now, about how some things could never be 'left behind'. But he was done overstepping his bounds, and waited for Iker to explain why he did pick up that phone.
"Why did you leave?" Iker ventures. "The Union."
David pauses, looking at Iker hesitantly. "Because... I needed to do things right. For a change." He smiles to try and appease the confused surprise in Iker's expression.
"Did Thierry have anything to do with it?"
"No," David replies before kicking himself for not waiting a second longer before speaking, for not sounding more casual, more convincing. He can feel his blush betray him, but Iker says nothing more on it.
"I - I hope you know that I am doing fine." Iker smiled humourlessly for a second as he tried to gather his thoughts. "I - Fabio and I - we're good. We're really good. Which is - I -" He smiled again. "I mean, I'm sure you'd be happy to hear that."
"I am," David agreed quickly. "I am."
"I - I didn't think it would happen, you know? That I would find someone... That I would... forget. No - not forget, but -"
"I know what you mean." David paused as Iker heaved another weighted breath. "And I am - glad - to see you've moved on. It's healthy. It's good. And, I mean, you guys have been working together as well, so it's even better that way, I'm guessing. You have more of - more of a - connection."
Iker frowned. "It's not really 'working together'. I just - I care about him."
"No, I know, that's all I meant."
"Not to say that we didn't care about each other, because - well - obviously -" He laughed uncomfortably, and David smiled back, if only to maintain the semblance of understanding between them. "But, uhm, I just want to see him through this, you know? It's important. It's good, what he's doing, what he wants to do."
"I don't disagree."
"Don't sound too enthusiastic, there," Iker smiled wryly.
David blushed again. "I am happy for you. For both of you. I just - I don't want you to get in over your head."
"We've known each other for over fifteen years. Longer than I've known you. I know what I'm doing with him."
"I don't want to see you get yourself into any trouble. What we did was - okay. You know - a charity, it's all kosher and - and what you're doing with - with Cannavaro is - different."
"Are you still talking business, or are we onto relationships now?" David didn't answer, his gaze serious and unfaltering. "Look, we're both smart people, David. Fabio could get into just as much trouble as me - more, probably - so neither of us plan to do anything stupid."
"I just want to know that you can back out when you want."
"I can. Not that I'll need to, or want to. But I can."
David could think of nothing else to throw at Iker without being pushy, so he merely nodded and took another gulp of his coffee. He watched as the dim sunlight, peering in through clouds, gently hit the curves of Iker's sunken, unshaven face. A face that always seemed so tired now. But happier, David was loath to admit. Weary with work and the thousand little adjustments that came with a new life, and not with the tugging heartache and uncertainty that seemed to characterise his features when he was with David. It was weariness for the world, and not for the love that seemed to make him happier than David's ever did. Though he'd always said that he'd ended it for Iker's benefit, it was only now that he actually believed himself.
"Why did you ask me over?" David asked, more abruptly than he'd intended.
Iker frowned as he met David's eyes, hurt laced into his surprise. "Just... for this. To make you coffee. To see you."
* * * * *
Bojan's shirt lies atop the rest of his clothes, thrown carelessly into the corner of the room, prey for the moths and silverfish that continue to infiltrate the house despite Thierry's best efforts to keep it clean. The dull grey carpet looks dirty though it's not, and the sheer white curtains only serve to dull the weak sunlight filtering through the window. The standing air-conditioner hums, seeming louder now that Bojan and Thierry are quiet. Thierry reaches over to turn it down, as their sweat cools them and they start pulling the sheets up around them.
Bojan keeps an arm locked around Thierry's shoulder, making it hard for him to stretch away from the bed comfortably. "Let's go again," he whispers into Thierry's chest.
Thierry smiles wearily and brings up a hand to rake through Bojan's hair. He ignores the hardness of Bojan's cock against his upper thigh. "You have to practise. And I have to go soon."
"I can practise anytime."
"Baby," Thierry says softly. "You have to work harder."
"But now I'm in -"
"I know," Thierry interrupts. He gently moves himself up to a sitting position, leaving Bojan draped across his torso as they look at each other intently. "But it's not smooth sailing, you have to understand that. I can only get you so far."
Bojan frowns a little. "That's not what you said before."
Thierry sighs. "I hadn't counted on Guardiola suddenly going round the bend. I knew he was a bit - self-righteous. But I didn't think he was suicidal."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't think he knows what it means to run Oxley. He thinks it's all cultural-enrichment-this and equal-opportunity-that. Oxley wouldn't be the powerhouse it is today if it weren't for people like you and me. Parents wouldn't be signing their kids up from birth if -"
"I still don't see why this means I have to go and practise," Bojan says stubbornly.
"You're not the only one who can play the violin. You're the best, but you're not the only one. You know that." Bojan nods, but looks unconvinced. "Those interviews and auditions I put you up for? Guardiola knows about them. He's despised me for them - even though he knows you deserve them more than any of those other kids. But he couldn't do anything about them because he was in my - in our hands."
"And now he's not."
"And now he's not," Thierry repeats glumly. "And he'll put all those shitty violinists and cellists and whoever else he likes up for the same auditions and interviews that you've worked your entire life for. He'll turn those opportunities into public property, when they should be privileged. For people like you. For the best."
Bojan rolls his eyes, and tightens his grip around Thierry. "He really thinks those guys have a chance?"
"He's an idiot. He doesn't recognise talent when he sees it. He thinks it's just elitism. But where the world would be if the talented were pushed down to the level of commoners, I don't want to know."
"He's just on a power trip," Bojan says dismissively. "He's got money now and he doesn't know what to do with it."
"Right you are," Thierry says, nodding. "A sheep in wolf's clothing. Nobody who matters is going to put up with his bullshit. I certainly won't."
"Is he going to let you keep teaching me?"
Thierry frowns. "Pfft, he doesn't know about our lessons."
Bojan looks at him skeptically. "Are you serious? Everyone knows."
"What?"
Bojan laughs. "I don't think anyone really believes that I'm self-taught." He lifts his hips up and moves himself over Thierry, straddling him now. "They know that I'm too young. And that I -" He traces a finger along Thierry's collarbone and down to his chest, until he reaches his nipple and circles it lightly. "I need someone with experience to guide me."
Thierry links his fingers around Bojan's back. bringing him closer. Bojan's cock is pressed up against his lower stomach, and Thierry feels his own body responding. His eyes flutter closed before he forces them open again, and he looks at Bojan firmly. "I will give you everything you need. I am not going to let Guardiola's socialist nonsense stop me from getting you to where you belong. But I need you to give back. I need you to work harder than you ever have."
Bojan smiles, his hand reaching down past his own groin to Thierry's, and he grabs Thierry's cock and begins teasing it with his thumb. "You know you have my everything."
Thierry's eyes flick closed again, and just before he heaves in a shuddering breath, he lifts his hand again to Bojan's hair and tugs at it, and Bojan moves his head down in compliance.
* * * * *
Fabio takes care not to move too much, wary of letting the dust he's sitting on settle in the fibres of his trousers. His jacket lies folded across his lap, pinned by his arm against the threats of the heightening wind. He winces a little as the ash from Pep's cigarette flies in front of his face, before taking a drag himself. He sees Pep smile, out of the corner of his eye, and turns to look at him.
"I feel like we're kids again," Pep says, looking at Fabio fondly, his cigarette twitching a little in his fingers. "Cigarettes in the parking lot, keeping an eye out for parents, taking our jackets off so that they don't smell like smoke."
"I wish we were were kids again," Fabio replies, looking back out over the parking lot, crowded with the cars of parents who were undoubtedly counting down the minutes until they were free from the teachers, free to lecture their children on their falling grades. "What I wouldn't give to be back in that uniform, starting all over again."
"You were such a dork," Pep grins. "Do you remember our last parent-teacher night? Our parents had no clue it was even on, but there you were, organising the whole fucking hurrah. Would you like some more tea, sir? The bathrooms are down the hall, ma'am." He laughs. "How the fuck could you be bothered?"
Fabio shrugs. "I was young, and naïve, and still liked this place." Fabio takes another puff, and exhales it slowly. "Not that you're one to talk; you became the god damn headmaster." He pauses. "But things'll be better now."
Pep grunts a little. "I don't know." He pauses for a long while, and Fabio turns to look at him again. "When... When you lose people, it takes twice as long to get them back as it did to get them in the first place. They don't like me here. I can try to convince them that I'm not one of those assholes who screwed them for two decades, but it'll always be a huge fucking mountain to climb."
"But you can do it now," Fabio says somewhat urgently. "You can actually do it. You don't have to answer to anyone."
Pep's mouth turns down at the corners as he frowns. "There are still people like that Krkić kid."
"He's the last. There's no need for that kind of situation to happen again. You can stop that now."
"I don't know." Pep sighs. "If it does happen, I'll be blamed, even if I try my best to squash that kind of thing. I'm the enemy. I'm everything that's standing in their way towards freedom or college or happiness in general. It's always the school's fault, and the school's always the principal's fault."
"Now you're just feeling sorry for yourself," Fabio says firmly. "You have a real opportunity here, to make up for the shit this school's been swimming in. You can put things right. And people might not thank you for it now, but they'll remember it in years to come."
"You romantic, you," Pep says, nudging Fabio's side with his elbow. His face falls again, though, as he remembers something. "It's all David, really. Without his money, I'd still be crawling instead of standing on my own two feet."
"It's what you choose to do with the money that matters."
Pep is silent for a moment. "I wonder if I'd still be the shit principal who picked winners and let the losers crash and burn. You know - if David hadn't died."
"Don't start talking that way."
"Guti was here this morning, did you know that?"
Fabio blinks. "Guti? Hernández?"
"The one and only. Back in business. The cops are on my scent," Pep says with a dramatic glint in his eye and a sarcastic smile. "I didn't bother to think of an alibi."
Fabio stares at his friend, who smiles blankly out at the cars and the dusky sky, his cigarette now just a limp stick of ash. Fabio's leg jerks involuntarily. He speaks carefully. "You could have done this on your own. I believe that. You're capable of so much. You didn't... You didn't have to kill him." Pep's head snaps up and he looks at Fabio with that same distant amusement. "Not that - I don't mean that - that I think you did it," Fabio adds hurriedly. "I just - you wouldn't have had to -"
"It's okay if you think that, Fab." Pep pats him on the shoulder before hoisting himself up off the ground and dusting off his backside. "After all, I'm not the only one here who had reason to see David gone. I see you squirming every time I say his name. Still, after all this time." He smiles down at Fabio, who thinks he sees just a touch of sadness in his look. "I have to get back. I have a seven-thirty appointment with Eto'o's mother - doesn't seem to realise that her child is beyond my help."
Fabio jumps up as Pep makes to walk away. "I didn't mean -"
"It's okay," Pep calls back. "If you can have those doubts and still be here at the same time on Monday, I'll know you're the same old Fabio. Dependent and dependable." He turns to smile over his shoulder. "Night, old buddy. Have a good weekend."
Fabio watches him strolling back to the lit-up school foyer, before slumping back down onto the low brick wall and lighting another cigarette, which he smokes slowly and unfeelingly as he looks at the distant silhouettes of students, parents and teachers inside his former refuge.
* * * * *
Ruud stammers. "He's not as - as prompt as David was. Things are different now, the dynamics of the Union have -"
"Don't talk to me about that. It makes me dislike you."
Ruud sighs and looks at Gerard helplessly, his eyes wide with fatigue and desperation. "Are you sure you don't want to come in? Have some - some -"
"What? Wine? Schnapps? You have nothing to give me," Gerard snaps. "Again."
"I promise you, it'll just be a - a week. Not even that. Thierry just needs to get his - his payment from Cannavaro, and then he'll have me covered."
"Oh, and Cannavaro just needs to miraculously raise enough to cover himself, his debts, Henry's debts, and Henry's little payouts for his butt-monkey, and then, hopefully, there'll be enough left over to stop your hands from trembling too much." Ruud looks down at the fingers gripping his doorway, their knuckles white. "You make me sick, you really do," Gerard continues, looking disgusted. "I am so tempted to just walk away for good right now -"
"No!" Ruud yelps. "No," he repeats, calmer. "Please - can you - can you just stop making such a fuss? Come in, try to calm down. It looks weird, you just - standing there. If the neighbours -"
"It is weird, me standing here." Gerard's young voice is low and furious. "I shouldn't have to chase you up like this."
"Don't then," Ruud says defiantly, and stupidly. "I can find someone else, you know."
"Sure. Go ahead," Gerard replies, turning to head back down the front steps. "You can't even pay your electricity bills anymore." He nods toward the doorway - behind Ruud, the indoors are black. "And you think you can find someone as - as patient as me. Ha," he snickers humourlessly. "I'd like to see you try. I'd give you - two days, tops?"
Ruud takes a step out of his house and lays a hand on Gerard's shoulder imploringly. "I promise you, I will have the money soon."
"You'd better. Or I'll be paying that Henry a visit myself, and ask him who the fuck he thinks he's playing with, leaving me hanging like this."
* * * * *
Raúl lets a smile escape when the door opens and Guti finally walks in. Guti raises an eyebrow as he sits next to Raúl on one of the large, rubbery seats that line the wall opposite the coroner's office that they are waiting to enter. He looks good for early in the morning.
"Someone's in a good mood," the sergeant remarks. "Listen, I have -"
"I have to talk to you about Casillas," Raúl interrupts.
Guti pauses for a second, before shaking his head quickly, in a jerky, urgent sort of way. "No - wait - let me go first. I have - I have so much shit for you to digest, you will not know what hit you."
"Are you feeding me the shit, or using it as a weapon?" Raúl drawls, making a face.
Guti ignores him. "How long until the coroner gets here?"
"He said he'd be here at eight. So that translates to - oh - ten minutes past?"
"Great," Guti says, twisting in his chair to face Raúl. "Have you heard of the Brass Union?" Raúl looks at him blankly, unsure if the vague familiarity of the name is genuine or just his own automatic need to understand everything he's presented with. "I didn't think so," Guti continues excitedly, his voice low but rushed. "I think it could be the key to unlocking all of this. It's basically a society, like a big boy's club, and it goes way back to before the first World War. And Raúl - you wouldn't believe who's in it -"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Raúl interrupts. "You can't just jump into my lap -" Guti smiles. "- without starting from the beginning. Where did you get this?"
"Leo Messi," Guti says somewhat dismissively. "A kid who graduated from Oxley last year, works at a pub downtown."
"A kid? Working in a pub?"
"That's not important -"
"You're a law enforcer."
"And you're missing the point, here."
"You're actually giving me information from a barman." It's more of a disbelieving statement than a question. "Or make that a barboy."
"You don't understand - everybody goes to this place, and Messi hears it all. He's that amazing barman from black-and-white movies who gets his customers blind drunk and then sits and listens understandingly to all their deepest, darkest secrets. He's super-observant, he gets to know everybody, and I literally mean everybody. And besides, as I said, he started going to the school when people like Sergio Ramos and Casillas were already ruling it -"
"What - what? Ramos?"
"They're all in this Union -"
"What Union?"
"I'm trying to explain," Guti replies, rolling his eyes as Raúl huffs to himself. "You know those elite, secret societies? The ones that they make movies about, that start out as little college fraternity clubs but end up being huge and political and important?"
Raúl doesn't bother masking his skepticism. "An underage barman has told you that our city is housing a secret society, and you buy it because the movies tell you to," he says flatly. "I question your judgment, really, I do."
"Just hear me out, okay?" He doesn't wait for a response, and his hand reaches over to grip Raúl's arm on the armrest of his chair. "The people in this Union, you would not believe it."
"You're right, I don't," Raúl says bluntly, his eyes darting down towards Guti's fingers on his wrist, though Guti is totally lost in his attempted monologue.
"Sergio Ramos," he continues, ignoring Raúl. "Iker Casillas, and Fabio Cannavaro - who are in cahoots, by the by, if you know what kind of cahoots I'm talking about." Raúl raises an eyebrow as Guti's fingers tighten involuntarily. "Uh-huh," Guti nods pointedly. "Yeah. Uhm, where was I... Cannavaro, Michel Salgado -"
"What? Cannavaro and Salgado?"
"Oh, yeah. Let me tell you, these are shady folk we're dealing with. They could all hate each other, and I'm guessing a lot of them do, but as long as they, as a collective, have all the power, they'll cooperate as much as they need to."
Raúl takes a deep breath, feeling his heart rate begin to match the speed at which Guti's must be flying, his excitement at last reaching a point of infectiousness. "So - you're telling me that this a - a power - thing." Guti nods. "Because these are some of the most powerful people in this city. A media tycoon, the mayor and his opposition... Where Ramos fits in, I don't know -"
"Money. His father."
"Ah," Raúl nods, before frowning. "But that can't be it. There have to be more, surely. And - I'm guessing Beckham was -"
"He was," Guti nods again. "He was definitely in it, and so he had an intimate - well, probably literally intimate, given what Casillas and Cannavaro -" Raúl coughs. "Uh - yeah, he was in it. So I'm thinking that this is it - this is the key! Societies - I mean, they're all about dirty money and favours and monopolising... things."
Raúl hears a car pull up outside and speaks quickly. "How can you be sure about this? If this Union is so huge, so important, why haven't I heard of it? A goddamn barman told you."
"Trust me, he knows what he's talking about."
"How did you even find out about him?"
"I used to live here, I know where people go to talk, and that pub has been gossip central since before Messi even knew what alcohol was."
"Do you know anything else about it? This Union?"
Guti shakes his head, and lifts his hand from Raúl's arm to scratch his jawline absently. "Messi let slip about Ramos, and I pressed him about Casillas and Cannavaro - because it just seemed to fit, you know? But that's as much as I got."
"And Salgado?"
"Oh - I just, sort of, made a comment about how the Union would basically suck from his point of view, because he'd pretty much be guaranteed to be screwed over by Casillas and such, and then Messi was all, 'no, actually, Salgado's Brass, too'!"
Raúl pauses as noises sound from the corridor. "Say this is - this is actually real, and useful, and relevant - do you have any idea how to find out who else is in this thing?"
Guti shrugs and turns to sit in his seat properly again, Raúl this time twisting around to look at him properly. "I don't know - go and harass Casillas or whoever and make them tell us? I just figured I should - you know - let you know, let you decide."
"Do you know anything else about it?"
"Nothing useful."
Raúl eyes Guti carefully. He has an eye for liars - he can pick up their slight hitches of breath and uneasy glances to some spot beyond his head as easily as picking out the sun on a clear day. He can see that Guti isn't lying - about the Brass, about what he's said. He is, however, evading. Telling a true story, yes, but only the half of the real one, and none of how he knows all of this.
A lecture on snooping around in pubs without his permission is about to tumble out of Raúl's lips, but Guti is saved as Xavi Hernández at last bursts through the door looking bright and excited and not remotely sorry for his lateness.
"My favourite people! Well, not you," he adds apologetically to Guti. "I haven't met you. But anyway - cops!"
Raúl stands and nods his good-morning at Xavi, and Guti follows suit, slightly taken aback. "Tell me you've got good news," Raúl says, somewhat relieved for the distraction from this onslaught of information to which Guti has suddenly - and quite humiliatingly, Raúl will never admit - exposed him.
"Any news I give you is good news," Xavi replies cheekily, taking off his coat and throwing it down onto the seat that Guti has vacated.
"Tell me you've got news, then."
"I always have news," Xavi grins.
"You enjoy your job way too much, you morbid son-of-a-bitch," Raúl says disapprovingly.
"He was shot."
"We know."
"But do you know by what?" Xavi asks exasperatingly, his eyes twinkling. "I'm Xavi, by the way," he suddenly adds, turning to Guti and shaking his hand.
"Uh, Guti Hernández."
"Ah, same surname! We could be brothers!" As Xavi speaks, Raúl can't help but snort at the total lack of physical resemblance. "Nice to meet you." Xavi turns back to Raúl, who glares at him with impatient expectation. "Alright, alright. Two bullets, to the chest, as you know. Point-four-five bullets, two-hundred grain, almost prehistoric judging by the wear."
"Which means what?" Raúl asks, feeling his pulse quicken further as Xavi's excitement begins to bubble somewhat in his speech.
"We're not sure yet - we'll need a few days - but we think they were fired from an old Webley automatic. The shots were fired really quickly - one after the other, you know? It took us way longer than usual to figure out which one was fired first, which is why we couldn't get that info to you until Tuesday evening. And so close together, the shots - it's impossible unless you've got a non-rotating cylinder."
"I don't know what you're getting at, Xavi, but get there fast."
Xavi's smile widens. "What I'm getting at is that you're dealing with a very old revolver. One with very specific specifics, too. If I'm right - and let's be honest, I usually am - your murder weapon is the rarest of rare guns. It's just so old, you can't find them anymore. They don't make them. This thing is at least a century old, you know? Early twentieth, easy."
Raúl can no longer feel his heart beat, such is its pace now. "Guti? When did you say this Union formed?"
There is a pause before his sergeant responds. "Early twentieth century."
| Part 5 |
Part: 4 of 10
Characters: David Beckham, Martín Cáceres, Fabio Cannavaro, Iker Casillas, Royston Drenthe, Julien Faubert, Fernando Gago, Raúl González, Pep Guardiola, Thierry Henry, Guti Hernández, Xavi Hernández, Gonzalo Higuaín, Andrés Iniesta, Bojan Krkić, Lionel Messi, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Gerard Piqué, Carles Puyol, Sergio Ramos, Rubén de la Red, Michel Salgado, Miguel Torres. Not all characters appear in every chapter or in equal measure. Some characters' ages have been altered for the sake of coherence.
Genre: AU; murder mystery.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sex, drug use, and possibly distressing themes.
Summary: When corruption no longer shocks, drugs no longer numb, and darkness no longer soothes, men become desperate, reckless extremes of themselves. The secrets behind one man's life falling into another man's hands are revealed, exploited, and overlapped, and it falls to DCI Raúl González to trace the threads.
Disclaimer: One hundred percent fiction.
Notes: Thank you for your patience. :)
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism and questions are very welcome.
| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |
Part Four
He grabs them by their hair. They can't tug their hair away like they can an arm or a leg, and it hurts if they try. Their control becomes his.
He doesn't do it to hurt them - no. It's a game of sorts. He makes it fun, easy. He cradles them with one hand, his lips caressing their cheeks as their blushes deepen and their pulses quicken. Their fear, they come to realise, is really just a fear of accepting what they want. And it's soon replaced by the kind of excitement that shares the same throbs as the fear.
He knows what they like, what they've fantasised about. He knows how to make them please him without sacrificing even a little of their own thrill. He knows how to make them feel like big men, like they know what they're doing, like they know what he wants. They play into his hands, delicately, with the generosity of innocence and the catalyst of curiosity that he looks for whenever he chooses his next pursuit. His control becomes theirs - in so far as he allows.
All the while, the fingers of one hand remain laced in their hair. It's so simple that they barely notice him doing it. If they suddenly deign to lower their lips to his neck or nipples or stomach, it's because he has gently directed their head downward. If they pound harder on his cock, it's because he has pushed them to. If they feel drawn to him, as though they can't bear to slip away, it's because he's keeping them firmly, threateningly, in place.
The subtlety of the threat has always been Thierry's true métier. You don't need to tell a child that, should they disobey you one time too many, everything that matters to them will be cut off. They know it, and so they rarely push that far. A student needn't be explicitly warned of expulsion; an athlete, of the bench; a thief, of prison. Everyone, no matter how rich or poor, has a fear that rises to the surface when they begin to tread too carelessly the line between wanting and chasing. When he dangles that carrot in those boy's faces, those faces shine, and everything they dread losing is revealed in the light of everything they dream of winning. He knows which buttons to push.
In the middle of a conversation about the Union, he casually slips in a mention of the new limit on election campaign funding and questions whether a similar restriction should be applied to the boys gunning for captaincy at the school. He relishes the way the corners of Fabio's mouth pull inwards a little, distorting his smile as his eyes get harder. He listens neutrally as Fabio stammers something about the 'greater good' of his campaign to eradicate social inequalities (all the while muddling up his arguments against misogyny in the workplace and his arguments for abortion rights) more than outweighing the few extra thousand of his lover's money that he's piling up in his piggy bank.
He doesn't bat an eyelid when he gets a hefty payout post election day, and he always notices the faint trace of reverence and gratitude in Fabio's tone when he speaks to him, his secret locked up behind an extra zero in his bank account.
He pats Gerard on the back with something close to genuine sympathy (he won't lie - he feels for him a little) when David's name flits into conversation, and Gerard realises that the money he gets from Ruud, Ruud gets from someone else now. And Gerard looks up fearfully and begins to comprehend the magnitude of this web in which he is very much the main course.
He remembers with a smile Iker about to knock at the door only to see that it's already open. He remembers Iker peering inside, and the worry that creased David's face so suddenly when it was revealed to Iker that he wasn't alone in his office. He remembers the full, heavy satisfaction he felt at the second that everyone in that six-by-six understood each other perfectly - and how very, very perfect it was for himself. He remembers David's office getting bigger, his arguments with Iker getting louder, their post-argument heat getting hotter; their relationship getting deeper and deeper until they finally understood how much danger they were in. And he remembers how they began shirking his company, as though he wouldn't notice their complete need for each other.
But he notices everything.
It's the same now, with Bojan. His want is more obvious than that of any of the other boys. He wants to escape his mediocre, blue-collar home in its permanent state of turbulence. He wants to prove how much more he's worth. He wants to give better than he gets. He wants to wear the school badge like a head on a stick, show the bull where its horns are, show the world that he can take control and take it like a man.
Thierry's control becomes his. Bojan fucks him like he's always wanted to. He wipes the platter after he's taken his chances, so nobody can screw him over afterward and take his leftovers. He practices, does his interviews, sits his exams, and leaves all those older, experienced pieces of shit dumbstruck by his command over his instrument, his superiors, himself.
They don't see Thierry behind the scenes, ready to drip the poison of Bojan's past into everything he's been drinking up so eagerly. They don't see him cradling Bojan's future in his steady hands, making him with as much ease as it would take to break him. They don't see it, but Bojan feels it every second, and it gets stronger after those moments when he tries to kid himself that he's doing it alone. The shame grows, with his desperation, and his dependence. The further he gets, the more he wants, the longer he'll need Thierry.
His control becomes Thierry's.
* * * * *
"I hardly know him!"
"That's your problem, not mine."
"No, he's very much your problem."
"And now you're my problem, too. And there are only so many problems I can handle at the moment."
"This wasn't part of our -"
"I'm not having this conversation with you right now."
"What a surprise."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You think I won't find out? What you're up to? You think you can hide things from me?"
"You might be a sneaky little prick, but I know when the water gets too deep for you. And trust me, I'm swimming with sharks here. You'd run if you knew, so it's best that you don't."
"Unbelievable. Unbelievable! I do all of this for you, and you don't even have the decency to -"
"I don't have time for this."
Fernando glares at the door that Sergio slams behind him, and briefly considers running after him to offer him a lift. But he figures Sergio will just decline, refuse to tell him where he's going.
"Have it your way," Fernando mutters petulantly as he glances through the front window at Sergio's retreating figure. "Take the metro like an idiot."
He sighs and wonders whether he could get away with just giving up and going home. After all, he's in too deep now for Sergio to go off prattling to Guardiola if he doesn't do his job properly. And Rubén - well, he won't complain.
But he turns and heads into Rubén's room nonetheless, and waits for him to wake up and groan at the sight of him.
"Morning, sunshine."
"Fuck you," Rubén murmurs sleepily. "Where's Sergio?"
"He had to go and screw someone over." Rubén frowns and Fernando snaps back at him. "Get up, will you? I haven't got all day."
"Oh? Got a school to go to, then?"
"You're not one to talk, asshole."
"I'm tired," Rubén whines as Fernando tears his blankets from him.
"I understand," Fernando replies, his voice silky with sarcasm. "I tried telling him that six in the evening was too early. Inhumane, almost. But that Sergio, he's an odd one."
"You're not funny. Not even a little. You two woke me up this morning, anyway. I was up at eight."
"And then you went back to sleep, so boo-fucking-hoo." Fernando roughly puts his arms under Rubén's to lift him up, Rubén wincing at the touch. "Will you calm down?" Fernando says impatiently. "I'm not going to do anything to you."
Rubén summons energy enough to roll his eyes and snap back, "I never asked you to do this. Why don't you just run along and we can both pretend that we -"
"You know just as well as I do that pretending isn't going to do you any good. I'm not here for me, you know."
"No, you're doing it for -"
"Just get the fuck up and put your shoes on," Fernando interrupts, letting go of Rubén and turning around to head to the back wall and open the curtains roughly. "Look - it's still sunny out. Fuck knows you could use a tan."
"Speak for yourself," Rubén mutters bitterly, his hand rummaging under his bed for his shoes. "Besides, I don't see how ten minutes is going to do much for my complexion."
"Well, if you want to stay out for longer -"
"I don't," Rubén replies quickly.
Fernando sighs before bending over to tie Rubén's laces, Rubén's trembling fingers failing. Looking up briefly at that pale face, Fernando thinks it might be good to say something reassuring, or consoling, or understanding. But Rubén looks away quickly and Fernando remembers that small-talk was never in the job description anyway.
Rubén lasts three minutes before he twists away and tries to go back to the house. Fernando grips his arm, not tightly, but too firmly for Rubén's weak resistance. His head snaps around, and he spots a man in his thirties emerging from a nearby post office, a few doors down from the tiny newsagency that's supposed to be Rubén's target today.
"He's not going to do anything to you," Fernando says with rolled eyes.
Rubén looks back at Fernando. "According to your logic, nobody ever does anything to anybody. Muggings are unfathomable. Murders utterly impossible. That gun shot Beckham all by itself."
Fernando doesn't have a reply. "Look, you," he snaps, needlessly tightening his grip, "I don't care how hard I'm going to have to pull you, but we are going to get to that store. I don't care how long it takes."
"It's only supposed to be ten minutes -"
"You're such a fucking defeatist, I don't know why I'm bothering -"
"Don't, then! Go home, let me go home!"
"You know that's not an option." Fernando gives Rubén a hard look. "We're going to get to that store."
"Why can't we just stay here for ten minutes?" Rubén looks back at Fernando weakly. "What difference does it make how far I get?"
"You have to see people, you have to deal with them, you -"
"I don't want to."
"Well, I don't want you to, either, because fuck knows the world isn't ready to deal with you. But the world isn't going to change for you, either, so . . ." Fernando trailed off, shrugging. "Just - come on, please. There's only ever one, maybe two people there at a time, anyway." Rubén's eyes are still wide with trepidation, but he doesn't continue struggling in the direction of the house. "Please, Rubén. It can only help you."
Rubén makes it to the store, his hands clammy by the time they find Fernando's and clutch onto them for dear life as they step inside, the bell chiming to alert the disinterested shopkeeper of their presence. Rubén only hesitantly lets go as Fernando goes to get a bottle of Coke from the fridge at the back of the store, Fernando noticing his eyes fixed on the shopkeeper, who sits filling in lottery tickets with dirty fingernails.
By the time Fernando has paid for the water, Rubén's fingers are wrapped around his again, sweating and trying so desperately to be stronger than they are. There is nobody on the street this time. Rubén hurries up as they near the house again, as though he's racing the rest of the world and showing it how quickly he can escape it. Fernando unlocks the door and steps back to let Rubén back inside the dark safety of home. He checks his watch as he hears Rubén's sigh of relief.
Sixteen minutes. He'd lasted sixteen minutes.
Fernando doesn't quite realise how proud he feels until a few days later, when he'll angrily ask himself why he didn't give Rubén a pat on the back when it could have made a difference. As it happens, he finds himself, as he steps back into Sergio's house and can smell him on everything again, wondering whether Sergio values his efforts as little as Rubén does. He wonders whether Rubén was right the other day, when he said that Fernando was being used, while Sergio keeps his secrets and keeps him out.
* * * * *
The coffee machine made its spluttering, choking noises and Iker stared at it intently, wondering if he'd done something wrong. There was silence, and the cup was half-full. He turned to look at David, who shrugged and leaned against the wall as Iker craned his neck further in to inspect the machine. There was one last burst of milk into the cup and Iker twitched in surprise as David snickered.
"You shut up," Iker muttered, taking the cup carefully out from under the spout and handing it over to David. "If you weren't so picky about your coffee -"
"I just can't drink that stir-in garbage," David said before taking a long and indulgent sip.
"If I can drink it, you can drink it." Iker turned off the machine before sitting down on one of the high, squeaking stools around his kitchen island.
David frowned. "Aren't you having any?"
Iker shook his head. He didn't meet David's eye. "Nah, I'm... I'm heading out soon."
David's frown dissolved as his face fell just fractionally. "Oh."
"I'm not in a rush," Iker added. "You - take your time with that. Enjoy it. God knows how hard I worked to make it."
David's smile was small, and he lowered himself onto a stool opposite Iker's. He glanced briefly toward the large glass doors at his right, the pouring rain beating down on them, forming and retracing tracks of dotted lines that seeped indoors from the bottom.
"You should get that fixed," David said, nodding toward the small puddle. "I can call someone for you, if you -"
"No." Iker looked at David for a brief moment before averting his gaze again and exhaling slowly. "I don't - I don't need you to do that."
David blushed, though Iker didn't see it, the weather outside commanding his attention. "Sorry. I keep -"
"I know."
The silence was less awkward than tense, and as much as David tried, his eyes flicked toward the note on the fridge that Fabio had left for Iker earlier in the morning. 'Be back in the evening. I love you.' How soon it had been after reading it that Iker had phoned David and asked him to come over... David tried not to think about it. He always seemed to end up reading too much into what was ultimately very little.
"It's just that - I know you're - you're both really busy. What with the campaign and all. So I just thought, if I could help..."
Iker took in a deep breath before looking up at David, who was relieved to see warmth and sincerity in his expression. "It's not your responsibility anymore. To help me. I know you want to, but it's better for both of us if... It's better if we leave that behind."
David wanted to fire back a hundred retorts - about how different Iker's tune was now, about how some things could never be 'left behind'. But he was done overstepping his bounds, and waited for Iker to explain why he did pick up that phone.
"Why did you leave?" Iker ventures. "The Union."
David pauses, looking at Iker hesitantly. "Because... I needed to do things right. For a change." He smiles to try and appease the confused surprise in Iker's expression.
"Did Thierry have anything to do with it?"
"No," David replies before kicking himself for not waiting a second longer before speaking, for not sounding more casual, more convincing. He can feel his blush betray him, but Iker says nothing more on it.
"I - I hope you know that I am doing fine." Iker smiled humourlessly for a second as he tried to gather his thoughts. "I - Fabio and I - we're good. We're really good. Which is - I -" He smiled again. "I mean, I'm sure you'd be happy to hear that."
"I am," David agreed quickly. "I am."
"I - I didn't think it would happen, you know? That I would find someone... That I would... forget. No - not forget, but -"
"I know what you mean." David paused as Iker heaved another weighted breath. "And I am - glad - to see you've moved on. It's healthy. It's good. And, I mean, you guys have been working together as well, so it's even better that way, I'm guessing. You have more of - more of a - connection."
Iker frowned. "It's not really 'working together'. I just - I care about him."
"No, I know, that's all I meant."
"Not to say that we didn't care about each other, because - well - obviously -" He laughed uncomfortably, and David smiled back, if only to maintain the semblance of understanding between them. "But, uhm, I just want to see him through this, you know? It's important. It's good, what he's doing, what he wants to do."
"I don't disagree."
"Don't sound too enthusiastic, there," Iker smiled wryly.
David blushed again. "I am happy for you. For both of you. I just - I don't want you to get in over your head."
"We've known each other for over fifteen years. Longer than I've known you. I know what I'm doing with him."
"I don't want to see you get yourself into any trouble. What we did was - okay. You know - a charity, it's all kosher and - and what you're doing with - with Cannavaro is - different."
"Are you still talking business, or are we onto relationships now?" David didn't answer, his gaze serious and unfaltering. "Look, we're both smart people, David. Fabio could get into just as much trouble as me - more, probably - so neither of us plan to do anything stupid."
"I just want to know that you can back out when you want."
"I can. Not that I'll need to, or want to. But I can."
David could think of nothing else to throw at Iker without being pushy, so he merely nodded and took another gulp of his coffee. He watched as the dim sunlight, peering in through clouds, gently hit the curves of Iker's sunken, unshaven face. A face that always seemed so tired now. But happier, David was loath to admit. Weary with work and the thousand little adjustments that came with a new life, and not with the tugging heartache and uncertainty that seemed to characterise his features when he was with David. It was weariness for the world, and not for the love that seemed to make him happier than David's ever did. Though he'd always said that he'd ended it for Iker's benefit, it was only now that he actually believed himself.
"Why did you ask me over?" David asked, more abruptly than he'd intended.
Iker frowned as he met David's eyes, hurt laced into his surprise. "Just... for this. To make you coffee. To see you."
* * * * *
Bojan's shirt lies atop the rest of his clothes, thrown carelessly into the corner of the room, prey for the moths and silverfish that continue to infiltrate the house despite Thierry's best efforts to keep it clean. The dull grey carpet looks dirty though it's not, and the sheer white curtains only serve to dull the weak sunlight filtering through the window. The standing air-conditioner hums, seeming louder now that Bojan and Thierry are quiet. Thierry reaches over to turn it down, as their sweat cools them and they start pulling the sheets up around them.
Bojan keeps an arm locked around Thierry's shoulder, making it hard for him to stretch away from the bed comfortably. "Let's go again," he whispers into Thierry's chest.
Thierry smiles wearily and brings up a hand to rake through Bojan's hair. He ignores the hardness of Bojan's cock against his upper thigh. "You have to practise. And I have to go soon."
"I can practise anytime."
"Baby," Thierry says softly. "You have to work harder."
"But now I'm in -"
"I know," Thierry interrupts. He gently moves himself up to a sitting position, leaving Bojan draped across his torso as they look at each other intently. "But it's not smooth sailing, you have to understand that. I can only get you so far."
Bojan frowns a little. "That's not what you said before."
Thierry sighs. "I hadn't counted on Guardiola suddenly going round the bend. I knew he was a bit - self-righteous. But I didn't think he was suicidal."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't think he knows what it means to run Oxley. He thinks it's all cultural-enrichment-this and equal-opportunity-that. Oxley wouldn't be the powerhouse it is today if it weren't for people like you and me. Parents wouldn't be signing their kids up from birth if -"
"I still don't see why this means I have to go and practise," Bojan says stubbornly.
"You're not the only one who can play the violin. You're the best, but you're not the only one. You know that." Bojan nods, but looks unconvinced. "Those interviews and auditions I put you up for? Guardiola knows about them. He's despised me for them - even though he knows you deserve them more than any of those other kids. But he couldn't do anything about them because he was in my - in our hands."
"And now he's not."
"And now he's not," Thierry repeats glumly. "And he'll put all those shitty violinists and cellists and whoever else he likes up for the same auditions and interviews that you've worked your entire life for. He'll turn those opportunities into public property, when they should be privileged. For people like you. For the best."
Bojan rolls his eyes, and tightens his grip around Thierry. "He really thinks those guys have a chance?"
"He's an idiot. He doesn't recognise talent when he sees it. He thinks it's just elitism. But where the world would be if the talented were pushed down to the level of commoners, I don't want to know."
"He's just on a power trip," Bojan says dismissively. "He's got money now and he doesn't know what to do with it."
"Right you are," Thierry says, nodding. "A sheep in wolf's clothing. Nobody who matters is going to put up with his bullshit. I certainly won't."
"Is he going to let you keep teaching me?"
Thierry frowns. "Pfft, he doesn't know about our lessons."
Bojan looks at him skeptically. "Are you serious? Everyone knows."
"What?"
Bojan laughs. "I don't think anyone really believes that I'm self-taught." He lifts his hips up and moves himself over Thierry, straddling him now. "They know that I'm too young. And that I -" He traces a finger along Thierry's collarbone and down to his chest, until he reaches his nipple and circles it lightly. "I need someone with experience to guide me."
Thierry links his fingers around Bojan's back. bringing him closer. Bojan's cock is pressed up against his lower stomach, and Thierry feels his own body responding. His eyes flutter closed before he forces them open again, and he looks at Bojan firmly. "I will give you everything you need. I am not going to let Guardiola's socialist nonsense stop me from getting you to where you belong. But I need you to give back. I need you to work harder than you ever have."
Bojan smiles, his hand reaching down past his own groin to Thierry's, and he grabs Thierry's cock and begins teasing it with his thumb. "You know you have my everything."
Thierry's eyes flick closed again, and just before he heaves in a shuddering breath, he lifts his hand again to Bojan's hair and tugs at it, and Bojan moves his head down in compliance.
* * * * *
Fabio takes care not to move too much, wary of letting the dust he's sitting on settle in the fibres of his trousers. His jacket lies folded across his lap, pinned by his arm against the threats of the heightening wind. He winces a little as the ash from Pep's cigarette flies in front of his face, before taking a drag himself. He sees Pep smile, out of the corner of his eye, and turns to look at him.
"I feel like we're kids again," Pep says, looking at Fabio fondly, his cigarette twitching a little in his fingers. "Cigarettes in the parking lot, keeping an eye out for parents, taking our jackets off so that they don't smell like smoke."
"I wish we were were kids again," Fabio replies, looking back out over the parking lot, crowded with the cars of parents who were undoubtedly counting down the minutes until they were free from the teachers, free to lecture their children on their falling grades. "What I wouldn't give to be back in that uniform, starting all over again."
"You were such a dork," Pep grins. "Do you remember our last parent-teacher night? Our parents had no clue it was even on, but there you were, organising the whole fucking hurrah. Would you like some more tea, sir? The bathrooms are down the hall, ma'am." He laughs. "How the fuck could you be bothered?"
Fabio shrugs. "I was young, and naïve, and still liked this place." Fabio takes another puff, and exhales it slowly. "Not that you're one to talk; you became the god damn headmaster." He pauses. "But things'll be better now."
Pep grunts a little. "I don't know." He pauses for a long while, and Fabio turns to look at him again. "When... When you lose people, it takes twice as long to get them back as it did to get them in the first place. They don't like me here. I can try to convince them that I'm not one of those assholes who screwed them for two decades, but it'll always be a huge fucking mountain to climb."
"But you can do it now," Fabio says somewhat urgently. "You can actually do it. You don't have to answer to anyone."
Pep's mouth turns down at the corners as he frowns. "There are still people like that Krkić kid."
"He's the last. There's no need for that kind of situation to happen again. You can stop that now."
"I don't know." Pep sighs. "If it does happen, I'll be blamed, even if I try my best to squash that kind of thing. I'm the enemy. I'm everything that's standing in their way towards freedom or college or happiness in general. It's always the school's fault, and the school's always the principal's fault."
"Now you're just feeling sorry for yourself," Fabio says firmly. "You have a real opportunity here, to make up for the shit this school's been swimming in. You can put things right. And people might not thank you for it now, but they'll remember it in years to come."
"You romantic, you," Pep says, nudging Fabio's side with his elbow. His face falls again, though, as he remembers something. "It's all David, really. Without his money, I'd still be crawling instead of standing on my own two feet."
"It's what you choose to do with the money that matters."
Pep is silent for a moment. "I wonder if I'd still be the shit principal who picked winners and let the losers crash and burn. You know - if David hadn't died."
"Don't start talking that way."
"Guti was here this morning, did you know that?"
Fabio blinks. "Guti? Hernández?"
"The one and only. Back in business. The cops are on my scent," Pep says with a dramatic glint in his eye and a sarcastic smile. "I didn't bother to think of an alibi."
Fabio stares at his friend, who smiles blankly out at the cars and the dusky sky, his cigarette now just a limp stick of ash. Fabio's leg jerks involuntarily. He speaks carefully. "You could have done this on your own. I believe that. You're capable of so much. You didn't... You didn't have to kill him." Pep's head snaps up and he looks at Fabio with that same distant amusement. "Not that - I don't mean that - that I think you did it," Fabio adds hurriedly. "I just - you wouldn't have had to -"
"It's okay if you think that, Fab." Pep pats him on the shoulder before hoisting himself up off the ground and dusting off his backside. "After all, I'm not the only one here who had reason to see David gone. I see you squirming every time I say his name. Still, after all this time." He smiles down at Fabio, who thinks he sees just a touch of sadness in his look. "I have to get back. I have a seven-thirty appointment with Eto'o's mother - doesn't seem to realise that her child is beyond my help."
Fabio jumps up as Pep makes to walk away. "I didn't mean -"
"It's okay," Pep calls back. "If you can have those doubts and still be here at the same time on Monday, I'll know you're the same old Fabio. Dependent and dependable." He turns to smile over his shoulder. "Night, old buddy. Have a good weekend."
Fabio watches him strolling back to the lit-up school foyer, before slumping back down onto the low brick wall and lighting another cigarette, which he smokes slowly and unfeelingly as he looks at the distant silhouettes of students, parents and teachers inside his former refuge.
* * * * *
Ruud stammers. "He's not as - as prompt as David was. Things are different now, the dynamics of the Union have -"
"Don't talk to me about that. It makes me dislike you."
Ruud sighs and looks at Gerard helplessly, his eyes wide with fatigue and desperation. "Are you sure you don't want to come in? Have some - some -"
"What? Wine? Schnapps? You have nothing to give me," Gerard snaps. "Again."
"I promise you, it'll just be a - a week. Not even that. Thierry just needs to get his - his payment from Cannavaro, and then he'll have me covered."
"Oh, and Cannavaro just needs to miraculously raise enough to cover himself, his debts, Henry's debts, and Henry's little payouts for his butt-monkey, and then, hopefully, there'll be enough left over to stop your hands from trembling too much." Ruud looks down at the fingers gripping his doorway, their knuckles white. "You make me sick, you really do," Gerard continues, looking disgusted. "I am so tempted to just walk away for good right now -"
"No!" Ruud yelps. "No," he repeats, calmer. "Please - can you - can you just stop making such a fuss? Come in, try to calm down. It looks weird, you just - standing there. If the neighbours -"
"It is weird, me standing here." Gerard's young voice is low and furious. "I shouldn't have to chase you up like this."
"Don't then," Ruud says defiantly, and stupidly. "I can find someone else, you know."
"Sure. Go ahead," Gerard replies, turning to head back down the front steps. "You can't even pay your electricity bills anymore." He nods toward the doorway - behind Ruud, the indoors are black. "And you think you can find someone as - as patient as me. Ha," he snickers humourlessly. "I'd like to see you try. I'd give you - two days, tops?"
Ruud takes a step out of his house and lays a hand on Gerard's shoulder imploringly. "I promise you, I will have the money soon."
"You'd better. Or I'll be paying that Henry a visit myself, and ask him who the fuck he thinks he's playing with, leaving me hanging like this."
* * * * *
Raúl lets a smile escape when the door opens and Guti finally walks in. Guti raises an eyebrow as he sits next to Raúl on one of the large, rubbery seats that line the wall opposite the coroner's office that they are waiting to enter. He looks good for early in the morning.
"Someone's in a good mood," the sergeant remarks. "Listen, I have -"
"I have to talk to you about Casillas," Raúl interrupts.
Guti pauses for a second, before shaking his head quickly, in a jerky, urgent sort of way. "No - wait - let me go first. I have - I have so much shit for you to digest, you will not know what hit you."
"Are you feeding me the shit, or using it as a weapon?" Raúl drawls, making a face.
Guti ignores him. "How long until the coroner gets here?"
"He said he'd be here at eight. So that translates to - oh - ten minutes past?"
"Great," Guti says, twisting in his chair to face Raúl. "Have you heard of the Brass Union?" Raúl looks at him blankly, unsure if the vague familiarity of the name is genuine or just his own automatic need to understand everything he's presented with. "I didn't think so," Guti continues excitedly, his voice low but rushed. "I think it could be the key to unlocking all of this. It's basically a society, like a big boy's club, and it goes way back to before the first World War. And Raúl - you wouldn't believe who's in it -"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Raúl interrupts. "You can't just jump into my lap -" Guti smiles. "- without starting from the beginning. Where did you get this?"
"Leo Messi," Guti says somewhat dismissively. "A kid who graduated from Oxley last year, works at a pub downtown."
"A kid? Working in a pub?"
"That's not important -"
"You're a law enforcer."
"And you're missing the point, here."
"You're actually giving me information from a barman." It's more of a disbelieving statement than a question. "Or make that a barboy."
"You don't understand - everybody goes to this place, and Messi hears it all. He's that amazing barman from black-and-white movies who gets his customers blind drunk and then sits and listens understandingly to all their deepest, darkest secrets. He's super-observant, he gets to know everybody, and I literally mean everybody. And besides, as I said, he started going to the school when people like Sergio Ramos and Casillas were already ruling it -"
"What - what? Ramos?"
"They're all in this Union -"
"What Union?"
"I'm trying to explain," Guti replies, rolling his eyes as Raúl huffs to himself. "You know those elite, secret societies? The ones that they make movies about, that start out as little college fraternity clubs but end up being huge and political and important?"
Raúl doesn't bother masking his skepticism. "An underage barman has told you that our city is housing a secret society, and you buy it because the movies tell you to," he says flatly. "I question your judgment, really, I do."
"Just hear me out, okay?" He doesn't wait for a response, and his hand reaches over to grip Raúl's arm on the armrest of his chair. "The people in this Union, you would not believe it."
"You're right, I don't," Raúl says bluntly, his eyes darting down towards Guti's fingers on his wrist, though Guti is totally lost in his attempted monologue.
"Sergio Ramos," he continues, ignoring Raúl. "Iker Casillas, and Fabio Cannavaro - who are in cahoots, by the by, if you know what kind of cahoots I'm talking about." Raúl raises an eyebrow as Guti's fingers tighten involuntarily. "Uh-huh," Guti nods pointedly. "Yeah. Uhm, where was I... Cannavaro, Michel Salgado -"
"What? Cannavaro and Salgado?"
"Oh, yeah. Let me tell you, these are shady folk we're dealing with. They could all hate each other, and I'm guessing a lot of them do, but as long as they, as a collective, have all the power, they'll cooperate as much as they need to."
Raúl takes a deep breath, feeling his heart rate begin to match the speed at which Guti's must be flying, his excitement at last reaching a point of infectiousness. "So - you're telling me that this a - a power - thing." Guti nods. "Because these are some of the most powerful people in this city. A media tycoon, the mayor and his opposition... Where Ramos fits in, I don't know -"
"Money. His father."
"Ah," Raúl nods, before frowning. "But that can't be it. There have to be more, surely. And - I'm guessing Beckham was -"
"He was," Guti nods again. "He was definitely in it, and so he had an intimate - well, probably literally intimate, given what Casillas and Cannavaro -" Raúl coughs. "Uh - yeah, he was in it. So I'm thinking that this is it - this is the key! Societies - I mean, they're all about dirty money and favours and monopolising... things."
Raúl hears a car pull up outside and speaks quickly. "How can you be sure about this? If this Union is so huge, so important, why haven't I heard of it? A goddamn barman told you."
"Trust me, he knows what he's talking about."
"How did you even find out about him?"
"I used to live here, I know where people go to talk, and that pub has been gossip central since before Messi even knew what alcohol was."
"Do you know anything else about it? This Union?"
Guti shakes his head, and lifts his hand from Raúl's arm to scratch his jawline absently. "Messi let slip about Ramos, and I pressed him about Casillas and Cannavaro - because it just seemed to fit, you know? But that's as much as I got."
"And Salgado?"
"Oh - I just, sort of, made a comment about how the Union would basically suck from his point of view, because he'd pretty much be guaranteed to be screwed over by Casillas and such, and then Messi was all, 'no, actually, Salgado's Brass, too'!"
Raúl pauses as noises sound from the corridor. "Say this is - this is actually real, and useful, and relevant - do you have any idea how to find out who else is in this thing?"
Guti shrugs and turns to sit in his seat properly again, Raúl this time twisting around to look at him properly. "I don't know - go and harass Casillas or whoever and make them tell us? I just figured I should - you know - let you know, let you decide."
"Do you know anything else about it?"
"Nothing useful."
Raúl eyes Guti carefully. He has an eye for liars - he can pick up their slight hitches of breath and uneasy glances to some spot beyond his head as easily as picking out the sun on a clear day. He can see that Guti isn't lying - about the Brass, about what he's said. He is, however, evading. Telling a true story, yes, but only the half of the real one, and none of how he knows all of this.
A lecture on snooping around in pubs without his permission is about to tumble out of Raúl's lips, but Guti is saved as Xavi Hernández at last bursts through the door looking bright and excited and not remotely sorry for his lateness.
"My favourite people! Well, not you," he adds apologetically to Guti. "I haven't met you. But anyway - cops!"
Raúl stands and nods his good-morning at Xavi, and Guti follows suit, slightly taken aback. "Tell me you've got good news," Raúl says, somewhat relieved for the distraction from this onslaught of information to which Guti has suddenly - and quite humiliatingly, Raúl will never admit - exposed him.
"Any news I give you is good news," Xavi replies cheekily, taking off his coat and throwing it down onto the seat that Guti has vacated.
"Tell me you've got news, then."
"I always have news," Xavi grins.
"You enjoy your job way too much, you morbid son-of-a-bitch," Raúl says disapprovingly.
"He was shot."
"We know."
"But do you know by what?" Xavi asks exasperatingly, his eyes twinkling. "I'm Xavi, by the way," he suddenly adds, turning to Guti and shaking his hand.
"Uh, Guti Hernández."
"Ah, same surname! We could be brothers!" As Xavi speaks, Raúl can't help but snort at the total lack of physical resemblance. "Nice to meet you." Xavi turns back to Raúl, who glares at him with impatient expectation. "Alright, alright. Two bullets, to the chest, as you know. Point-four-five bullets, two-hundred grain, almost prehistoric judging by the wear."
"Which means what?" Raúl asks, feeling his pulse quicken further as Xavi's excitement begins to bubble somewhat in his speech.
"We're not sure yet - we'll need a few days - but we think they were fired from an old Webley automatic. The shots were fired really quickly - one after the other, you know? It took us way longer than usual to figure out which one was fired first, which is why we couldn't get that info to you until Tuesday evening. And so close together, the shots - it's impossible unless you've got a non-rotating cylinder."
"I don't know what you're getting at, Xavi, but get there fast."
Xavi's smile widens. "What I'm getting at is that you're dealing with a very old revolver. One with very specific specifics, too. If I'm right - and let's be honest, I usually am - your murder weapon is the rarest of rare guns. It's just so old, you can't find them anymore. They don't make them. This thing is at least a century old, you know? Early twentieth, easy."
Raúl can no longer feel his heart beat, such is its pace now. "Guti? When did you say this Union formed?"
There is a pause before his sergeant responds. "Early twentieth century."
| Part 5 |