(no subject)
Title: Generation Dollars; Part 1/?
Author: huntingjanuary - formerly dieuepargne
Rating: NC-17 (for drug use)
Disclaimer: Complete fictive garbage makes the world go around.
Characters/Pairings: various; no fixed pairings.
Summary: see intro to series.
Klaas Jan Huntelaar lives life by the moment, where every minute is always eventful - but mornings at the Huntelaar household are always predictable, Giovanni would have to say. He would never say he’s bound to loyalty, but he’s definitely not quitting anytime soon. Anyone who could handle Klaas Jan Huntelaar, he thinks, would surely be greatly rewarded in the afterlife. So Giovanni stays put, never once cursing the boy he works for or wishing him pain - like others would probably do or have already done. He’s attached to him, mentally and physically, and he could say he would protect him till death (where in Klaas’ case, he’ll probably be responsible for it himself).
He yawned at the cup of coffee one of the housekeepers had always kindly provided him with, observing the monitors attached to the CCTVs in the penthouse sleepily. His eyes wonder around to search for the boy, but as usual, Klaas was still in bed - seeing that he’s just got under the sheets two hours ago. Gio had to admit, working for the heir of Coral Energy is decreasing his life expectancy by the hour. The reckless lifestyle, the lack of sleep, the unpredictability, and the wondering around and jetting off to places without the slightest hint of planning was getting to him slowly. He was exhausted, but he would never complain.
Giovanni sipped the searing hot cup of caffeine, eyes heavy but he’d always have control over his wants. Everyone would say it’s gotten to the part where it’s something he needed, not something that could merely pass as what he wanted any longer. But he shrugs it off as he diligently observes all the monitors - not that anyone would be bothered to pull any kind of shit at 8 am in the morning. Gio glances at his phone, there’s a text from Dirk Kuyt, the head of security for the heir of Higbury Motors, Robin van Persie.
The boy has drunk himself to death. And your boy’s fed him something I’m not sure he’s done before.
Gio sighs.
Now Dirk Kuyt was another story - he was obsessed with Robin in ways unexplainable, probably almost as bad as his parents are to him. There was something about Robin van Persie, something in him as a person that affects those around him - as if they needed to be at his feet the moment he snaps a finger. Gio had to agree, unfortunately, because he knows anyone who’s near Robin would automatically fall on their knees, feeling that need of putting him high up on a pedestal. Maybe it’s the light-hearted charm, the no-nonsense behavior, and the actual talent of selling himself for more than what he’s worth.
Gio, however, decided to ignore the text. He didn’t like the sound of the last line, and it’s definitely not the first time he’s frowned at a similar remark about his boy. Klaas Jan Huntelaar has a substance abuse problem; though everyone’s willing to be in complete denial about it. He has been in and out of rehab numerous times at the request of his father, where doctors and counselors have diagnosed him more or less: a hopeless case.
From pure MDMA to various hallucinogens, Klaas has countless variety of chemicals running through his body, and it’s safe to say he survives on it. There are fits, violent fits, convulsing and screaming and crying, and coming to that stage of helplessness. Giovanni would always feel incompetent at that moment, knowing even if he’s hired to protect Klaas’ life, watching him kill himself getting high and not doing anything about it is not exactly responsible.
Klaas’ biggest enemy is himself and Giovanni doesn’t seem to see that.
-
A smile from Rafael van der Vaart had been hard to find, and it has been even harder to find since his father had practically outline his future plans of the company by using his own son. He had always been willing to let Rafael cut himself open and pour his heart out, but now it’s clear he’s only willing to do that as long as he’s bleeding onto the pages of Ajax Records history. Blood, preferably in the color green (probably the only color his father has ever known).
“He’s fucking mental, Robin” Rafael argued into the phone, walking the length of his room, eyes set onto the line of guitars sent every other month by his mother.
The boy on the other side of the phone tried his best to stay interested, Rafael had always chosen to confide in him and he’s not all sure why. Wes was much more attentive, and always knew the right things to say. Klaas was too much of a self-obsessed prick, so he knows the answer to that one, but why Rafael ran to him day in and day out, he still doesn’t know. He glances at another mobile as Rafael remains talking, a text from Klaas.
Party at Orlando’s. I’ll come around at 9 for some pre-fiesta shots.
“It’s like I’m merely this tool he uses to drain cash out of these tasteless mainstream critics who gets paid to say what he wants them to say” Rafael continues, “He’s like a mad scientist, yeah, that’s right, he’s that - that evil scientist who created Frankenstein or zombies or something”
Robin quiets. He didn’t even consider digesting the information, “What the fuck are you on about, Raf?” Robin scoffs, “Anyways, whatever. You going anywhere tonight?”
Rafael frowns into the phone, mood less than satisfactory when he’s not getting what he wants, “Are you even listening to me?”
“What do you want me to do? Schedule a day for me and you to sulk and cry about the shit your father’s put you worth a million hours of therapy and a raid through Klaas’ medicine cabinet?” Robin laughs half-mockingly, and even if he does care a little, he wouldn’t like to admit to it. “Party at Orlando’s. Come over at 9, Klaas is coming then.”
Rafael stays quiet for a while, minds in places he wouldn’t like them to be. Why he confides in Robin all this time is a wonder to him. The boy hardly listens, much less say anything useful, but that’s probably all he needs - a punching bag who doesn’t talk back to him, give bullshit advices, or hug him as if he needed one. “Wes coming?”
“I never do the inviting, for your information” Robin walks down his closet, grabbing a pair of dark wash denims.
“I’ll bet ten grand he wouldn’t” Rafael rolled his eyes, before flopping onto his bed.
“You’re on” Robin smirks, “Cash, yeah?”
“I was joking” Rafael chuckles, “But I don’t see why not - I’ve always been optimistic, I’ll learn to see the worst in everything”
“Optimistic, my ass” Robin sneers, tempted to let out a judgmental laugh, “You’re so melodramatic, that tortured artist bullshit reason doesn’t even work on me anymore”
“Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”
“I’m the only remaining connection you have with the outside world and the reason why you even get laid in the first place”
“Suck it, van Persie”
“You wish” Robin smirked at the mirror in front of him, before hanging up and tossing his mobile.
Rafael took one glance at his phone, shaking his head. His eyes were focused at the view above him, his ceiling painted with a part of Debussy’s Clair de Lune - the first piece he had learnt as a child. It’s his mother’s idea of attempting to tap Rafael’s talent after finding out what the piece meant to the little Rafael. It was more than just his muse, but the heart of his gift. He can’t help but frown though, the piece meant shit to him now. He’s not even sure if he remembered how it goes. His father had made him forget all about it.
Rafael tossed and turned on his bed, before taking a dive under the sheets, blocking out every light as he threw the duvet over his head.
Sleep. Goddamnit, sleep.
The best times in Rafael’s everyday life nowadays were either when he was unaware or completely out of it thanks to Klaas’ concoctions. For now though, he’d rather be unaware and eventually lifeless, fuck the party.
-
Robin van Persie had spent the next two hours commuting between his walk-in and his en suite, taking all the time he needed to look faultless - pretty much all that he could get, even if it meant constantly pissing his friends off. His body was a temple, and the clothes on it were ornaments adorned by worshippers. He took a glance in the mirror, adoringly observing himself, and if vanity was a sport Robin would have raked in all the gold by now. Wes and Rafael never seemed to understand the amount of time and effort Robin spent flirting every mirror and window he saw, firing personal trainers who couldn’t help him reach his bordering-on-anorexia targets, getting therapists’ licenses revoked when they condemned him self-obsessed, and throwing a punch or two at Klaas when he defended his hair.
The door knocked unexpectedly and interrupted Robin’s ten thousandth reunion with his reflection, and he groans rather dramatically, “It’s open” He hissed.
One of the maids walked in nervously, trying to carry her head higher but her eyes remained fixed on the floor - there was never a right way to deal with Robin. “I’m sorry to bother you, Master van Persie, but your parents requests your presence in the living room”
“I’m busy” He muttered, running his fingers to part his hair before frowning instantly.
“I understand that, sir but - “
“Busy” He repeated, waving her off.
“Sir - your parents - “
“Hey, are you blind? Or maybe,” he suddenly switched gears and changed expressions, looking at her with a counterfeited over-the-top smile as she started to cross the line, “Deaf?”
“Excuse me, sir?” She shied away, tempted to run out of there, knowing Robin’s only going to yell at her from this point on.
“Take your pick,” He shrugged again, nearing her, as he started to reach that annoyance level.
She remained quiet, eyes boring onto the Italian marble and she’d collapse to escape this if she could.
“Because one, I’m standing right here and repeating myself but two, you obviously didn’t listen or see me here talking, so you must be both blind and deaf!” He gave a cruel gleeful cheer.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ll -“
“You know where the door is” He scoffs, attention turned back at his hair.
The maid ran and made her way out of his room as quickly as possible, swiftly making her way straight at Robin’s father, Arsenè Wenger, bumping into him and another man who looked to be younger than Robin, timidly standing behind the Higbury Motors CEO. He was dressed in old jeans, an off-colored hoodie, a black second-hand leather jacket that was too big for him, and a messenger bag draped across him.
“Oh, god - Sir, I’m so sorry!” She apologized desperately, head even lower than before.
“Don’t worry about it, Kelly,” He waves it off, “Is Robin in his room?”
“Yes, Sir, he is,” she nodded, still panicky as she struggled to calm down, “I tried to call him for you, Sir, but he’s just busy at the moment”
“I’ll get him myself,” he nodded, “Come along, Ibrahim” he gestured at the young man beside him, guiding him down the hall towards the door to Robin’s room.
Arsenè knocked softly at the door, responded with a groan by his son, who doesn’t even bother to reply at the knock as Arsenè called out, “Robin?”
Robin rolled his eyes from the other side before answering, “Yeah, it’s open”
His father walked in the room, with Ibrahim trailing on his tail, declining to look at Robin but his eyes wandered around the room, admiring the interiors of it. Arsenè gave an affectionate smile to his son, and he was never short of it, especially ones for Robin. He glances back at Ibrahim and guided him closer towards his son, “Robin, I want you to meet Ibrahim”
Robin prepared to do his routine, looking him up from hair to shoes, and he can’t seem to smile at anything he’s seeing and he wonders what his father is up to, bringing a homeless up to their penthouse. He only cringed and managed a scoff, trying to hide a laugh before he attempted a smile and offered his hand. Ibrahim took it, shaking it rather enthusiastically, “It’s so cool to finally meet the Robin van Persie”
Robin let that stroke his ego for a moment, before responding, “It’s good to finally meet -?”
“Ibrahim Afellay, I’m - well, I’m nobody really,” the boy shrugged with a grin, still holding Robin’s hand, and somehow still shaking it as he can’t seem to let it go.
Robin half cringed, half smiled, pulling his hand away and letting go as he searches for hints and clues to who he might be when he looked at his father.
“Robin,” Arsenè started, almost nervously and he’s not even sure why, “Ibrahim’s here to stay with us”
“Oh” Robin’s eyes tried to play fascinated but he remained clueless, “Well, that’s great, is he - a long-lost cousin or are you and mom taking a new take on the charity cases?” Robin laughed a little.
Arsenè and Ibrahim exchanged glances for a moment as Robin waited for a straight answer. Arsenè came back to look at his son, doesn’t even dare a frown at his last line, instead nearing him as he touches at his arm and motioned at Ibrahim, “No, Robin. He’s going to live with us as a part of our family”
Robin’s brows furrowed, trying to ingest all of this but he can’t seem to pin down what his father is trying to say to him, “Dad, who is he?”
“He’s going to be your brother, Robin” Arsenè gave a tense smile, “We’re adopting him”
-
Wesley Sneijder had come back from a brief meeting with the board to a bunch of messages entailing parties, events, and other socializing slash networking-oriented dealings that for the past few weeks, he had condemned unnecessary. More often than not, they were just a reason to get smashed out of your skull. Wes would never judge his friends, but he always knew that he was a bit different from the other three.
Rafael he could understand, he was a musician, an artist - he was well known for something other than his bank account and he had an abundance of talent to hold himself. Anyways, rock stars had to live like one, and he’s pretty much on the right train. Though sometimes, he was rather useless at avoiding being under Robin’s and Klaas’ shadows. He could stumble from left to right and no one would care, but even so, he needed a little training in the sex, drugs, and rock & roll department.
Klaas had done a lot of modeling - even some runway jobs for various charity events, and Wes had to be fair, the boy was talented in it. But let’s face it, flaunting your best assets, throwing bitchy looks, and whoring the camera for pay isn’t exactly the best way to please the old man. And the only reason why he sells in the first place is because he was the Klaas Jan Huntelaar - heir to Coral Energy, the most eligible bachelor in the city three years running, challenged only by Robin.
(Rafael was fourth this year, bumping up from sixth and Wes had come seventh. Again.)
Robin was - always a special case. Wes never knew what to say about him. He was sure there was something he was good at, but he didn’t think his parents let him do much as a kid to figure out what that was. By the time he reached adolescence, he was already too busy living life to continue finding that undiscovered interest. Wes could never remember a time where Rafael wasn’t humming a tune or tapping a desk for a beat when he was little. He could also remember Klaas never refusing to take pictures, usually pushing everyone out of the way before the shutter clicked. Robin however, well, he always remembered being jealous of his parents - the amount of affection they had for him, it was nice to the eight year old, then.
He was fond of all three of them, they were like the brothers he never had and he would never give them up, rat them out, or sell them in exchange for anything. He was the only one who understood beyond Robin’s vanity and Klaas’ abusive personality - aside from Rafael of course. He didn’t think they understood each other though; they were both too alike to be able to. He never minded on how they lived their lives, hell, he was a part of that. Out every night, plastered every night, high as a kite every chance possible, girls and sometimes boys of their choice on a platter, always armed and ready with cash and cards.
But at 24, Wes had been thinking a little too much on life beyond the heir status - whether or not he could actually live up to the expectations of his family. So lately, Wes had been trying to distance himself away from them, knowing very well that if he continued to stay associated with their circle of friends, he would never get away.
Wes glanced at the text messages on his phone, on his BlackBerry, and listened to various voicemails sent by the three over the course of two weeks or so - he hadn’t contacted them back, neither did he intended to. But he figured that tonight, out of any nights, he probably needed to show up to at least reassure them that he was still alive.
I’ll see you guys there.
Wes hit the sent button, even smiling at his own decision, knowing well that all work and no play - well, made him a complete loser, according to a certain Klaas Jan Huntelaar.