Fic: gangsters don't love 11 [Pep/Bojan]
Title: gangsters don’t love 11
Author: foot_faults
Characters/Pairing this chapter: Pep Guardiola/Bojan Krkić, Danny Agger, Glen Johnson, Sergio Ramos, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, Carles Puyol, Florentino Pérez
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,760
Disclaimer: this is an entirely fictional story with fictional characters. Any resemblance to real life is a coincidence.
Summery: Pep Guardiola is the head of one of the largest mafia groups in Spain. But what’s a gangster to do when he gets his own personal hostage in the form of the grandson of his biggest enemy?
Disclaimer part 2: I don’t know anything about the mafia, Spanish or otherwise. This is all made up like a made up thing. Also I realize that Bojan is not really Pérez’s grandson, but see the disclaimer about this being made up. These are not real people; they are fictional characters with fictional families and fictional lives.
Note: Omg hallelujah, LJ is back! Here’s a chapter to celebrate! This chapter is dedicated to liroa15 who is the best pre-reader ever. Ilu bb.
Previous chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4a | 4b | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10a | 10b
5 years later …
Madrid, Paris, London, and Tokyo are all great, but if you really want to do some business, you go to New York City. This is a truth Pep Guardiola has long known. He’s been out of prison for several months now, but this is his first trip back to New York. He was able to do some work while in jail, and of course his lieutenants are competent and trustworthy people, who had taken care of business in his absence. Business like getting rid of Victor, who had bribed one of his bodyguards into being a spy, a spy who had ultimately betrayed Pep to the police. Pep’s still not sure how he had misjudged Zlatan so badly. He had known the bodyguard hadn’t liked him, but Pep had assumed the man was a professional who knew how to be loyal. It seemed Zlatan’s loyalty had only extended as far as his paycheck. To bad for Zlatan, Pep thinks, that he won’t be able to work ever again. No one betrays Josep Guardiola like that without being made an example of. That was something Carles had made sure was taken care of right away. There was a convenient accident, and the police could have their suspicions all they wanted, but there was nothing to link the crime on Pep’s organization.
Still, while his lieutenants had been able to take care of a lot of things while Pep was locked up, there were certain aspects of the business that required his specific touch. The fact that Pep had been sent to jail had hurt his organization’s reputation as well. Perez had muscled into Pep’s territory heavily with Pep out of the action, so there were plenty of things for Pep to work on, plenty to fix, once he was free. But now that he had things more under control, it was time to go to New York and do some real business.
It’s mid afternoon and he’s standing on a teaming with humanity, both tourists and locals going about their day. It’s almost a little almost comforting, Pep thinks, that he’s anonymous here, that his face is so little known in the US that he can blend into the crowd. Pep’s just finished one meeting and has some time before the next one, so he’s decided to take a walk, his ever-vigilant bodyguards unobtrusively at his sides.
He’s idly looking at something on his BlackBerry when something catches his eye ahead of him in the crowd. He slows down, letting himself be carried forward by the movement of the bodies around him, then …
“Bojan?”
The person ahead of him turns, and Pep sees it is indeed a familiar profile. Bojan is scanning the crowd, looking for the source of the sound of his name, when his eyes finally alight on Pep. He goes still, looking slightly surprised. Pep’s about to step forward, about to say something, he doesn’t know what, when appearing seemingly out of nowhere, a tall, tan-skinned man with long brown hair in a ponytail steps between Pep and Bojan. If Pep doesn't know a trained bodyguard when he sees one, then he isn't the head of his organization. Danny has stepped between Pep and the strange bodyguard in response, while Glen has stepped to the side, scanning the crowd for other threats. All three men are going for their guns.
"Sergio, stop," he hears Bojan's voice. It's deeper than it was 5 years ago, more resonant. "It's alright." Bojan comes from around the taller man, patting his shoulder. "Guardiola isn't going to do anything to me in a crowded street in broad daylight, are you?" he directs the question at Pep.
The crowds are now streaming around the five of them, like they're an island of stillness in the middle of the sidewalk. "I'm not," Pep agrees, motioning Danny to the side.
“Hey, Danny,” Bojan waves a little.
Danny quirks a bit of a smile and gives a small wave back, but keeps his eyes on Sergio. “Hey kid.”
From the other side of Pep, Glen waves as well. “Whatsup.”
“Hey, Glen,” Bojan says.
Pep takes the time Bojan and the bodyguards are exchanging greetings to allow himself to get a good look at Bojan. Still the same brown hair, still the same distinctive cheekbones and nose, but his face looks older now, more mature. He must be 24 now, Pep muses to himself. His clothes look scruffy, well worn- they could be second hand, which surprises Pep. He won’t comment on that though. Out loud he says, "you look well." And Bojan does. A little skinnier than 5 years ago, more wrinkles around the eyes, but over all, he looks good.
Bojan tilts his head slightly as if this statement from Pep is a surprise. "I am well," he agrees. "And you ..." Bojan chuckles, and Pep sees a glimpse of what must have been the boy that was there all the time, underneath the fear and suspicion, the boy he never got to meet. "You look balder."
Pep runs a hand over his close shaved hair, which does not do much to hide the large bald spot he has. He's suddenly, unaccountably self-conscious. "It happens, with age, I'm told," he says. "And with stress."
It’s the first mention in this short conversation of what happened between them, of why they haven’t seen each other in five years. Bojan doesn’t respond though, instead 'mm'ing in agreement. He glances away and Pep is struck by the knowledge that there's nothing keeping Bojan here, nothing keeping this conversation going. He's also struck by an inexplicable desire for the conversation to continue. "Are you here visiting?" he wants to know. "Or...?"
Sergio makes a small gesture, and Bojan tilts his head to the side. "Now why would you want to know that?" he says, and it’s more like he’s musing than asking a question.
The suspicion is warranted, Pep supposes, but still, he suppresses the urge to sigh. "No nefarious purpose, I assure you.” Why does he want to know? Why, really? If his subconscious has the answer, it’s not telling. “... Look, can we talk?" The offer is out of his lips before he realizes he's gong to make it, and maybe his subconscious is talking, talking more than he wants it to. But now that the offer’s been made, Pep’s not going to go back on it. "Somewhere public, somewhere ... you chose where. I don't have any kind of plan to hurt you or anything, I just ... want to talk."
Bojan looks considering. The bodyguard, Sergio, leans over, whispering something in his ear. "Fuck my grandfather," Pep is surprised to hear Bojan say. Sergio looks displeased, but resigned. "Sure," Bojan continues, turning back to Pep. “Sure, I can…" he looks at his watch, "give you 20 minutes of my time. Over there?" He points across the street to the two story McDonalds housed in a building facing them.
Pep honestly can't remember the last time he had McDonalds, but he must have been very young. It’s certainly not likely he’s going to find anything he would want to eat there now. This isn’t about eating though, it’s about making Bojan feel comfortable enough he’ll stick around to talk to Pep, and Pep can hopefully satisfy whatever crazy urge his subconscious has to see the younger man. "That's fine," he says, feature neutral, betraying none of his inner turmoil.
They cross the street together, bodyguards eyeing each other warily. Bojan walks next to Pep, and Pep can’t help watching the younger man out of the corner of his eye. It no longer feels right to call him a ‘boy’ as it did 5 years ago. He’s grown into his manhood. There’s a confidence in the way he moves, a quiet, restful, calm in his eyes, which seem to watch the world with curiosity and mild amusement. Bojan’s smiling to himself, just a little, mouth quirked in such a way that makes Pep long to know what Bojan’s thinking, what he’s seeing that makes him smile like that.
Once inside the McDonalds, they discover that even though it’s not a meal time, there’s still fairly extensive lines, so they settle in to wait. Pep keeps watching Bojan covertly until Bojan unexpectedly looks up, catching Pep’s gaze. Pep quickly looks away, and though he hasn’t blushed in a long time, he almost feels like his cheeks might heat up, just a fraction. Bojan laughs.
“You know,” he says, turning to look forward again, “I used to think about what it would be like to meet you again. I used to imagine it, though I would try not to. It was pretty hard not to think about.” Pep makes a noise of inquiry, and Bojan laughs again. “You left a pretty big impression on my life,” he says, glancing up at Pep again.
“… I’m sorry,” Pep says. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“Really? Do you honestly mean that?” Bojan’s looking up at Pep again, face curious. There’s nothing malicious in his words, nothing sarcastic. Pep has no idea what Bojan sees in his face, but Bojan ‘hmm’s at something. “You just might,” he concludes.
“I do mean it,” Pep finds himself saying. This is not at all where he expected this conversation to be going. “I certainly never asked Valdes to put either of us in that position.”
Beside him, Bojan stiffens minutely. Pep wouldn’t have caught the movement if his livelihood didn’t depend on being able to read people, being able to pick up the smallest changes in body language. Bojan lets out a long, slow breath, as if consciously forcing himself to relax. “No, I suppose you didn’t.” When he speaks his tone is even, voice conversational. Still, Pep makes a mental note that the topic must bother Bojan in some way.
“So how did you imaging meeting me again would go?” Pep can’t help but asking, honestly curious.
Bojan laughs again. “It depends on what point in my therapy you’re asking about,” he says with a sly, teasing smile up at Pep.
“Therapy?”
Bojan shrugs. “Boat loads and boat loads of therapy. As much therapy as my grandfather could afford, which was quite a lot.”
“… Oh.” Pep isn’t quite sure what to do with that information, so he does nothing with it, for now.
Bojan glances up at him again. “What, did you think I wouldn’t need therapy?”
“I didn’t think about it, I guess,” Pep admits. That’s not entirely true. He had spent many nights in his prison cell turning over how things had gone wrong, playing a what-if game, wondering if there was some way he could have made what had happened better. Pep’s not usually a man who ruminates or engages in wishful thinking, but prison leaves little time for anything but. He’s saved from having to say anything that might reveal how much Bojan really had been on his mind, by the fact that it’s now their turn to order.
Pep requests a Coke, diet, then turns to Bojan, tilting his head expectantly. Bojan tuts up at him. “I don’t accept a single cent of my grandfather’s money, so I’m certainly not going to accept yours,” he says as he indicates to the teen behind the cash register that he should ring Pep’s order up.
Bojan orders fries and a chocolate milkshake, and pays for it with worn dollar bills from his scruffy looking wallet. “Sometimes, I have a sweet tooth,” he tells Pep with a small smile.
Pep’s certainly not filing this information away. It isn’t of any use to him at all. Still, he can’t help asking, “isn’t there a better way to satisfy that then a milkshake from McDonalds?”
Bojan shrugs, a smile playing over his lips. “It’s cheap, and it’s high calorie.”
Pep raises an eyebrow as he collects his diet Coke and Bojan waits for the workers behind the counter to make his shake. “Those aren’t usually considered good things.”
Bojan snorts softly. “They are when you’re a starving artist.”
This time both of Pep’s eyebrows shoot up. “A starving artist?” he repeats carefully.
Bojan’s food is finally ready, so he collects his tray, then starts to negotiate his way towards the stairs. “Come on,” he says over his shoulder, apparently avoiding the question, “I want to get a good seat.”
Pep dutifully follows, impressed by how agilely Bojan is able to negotiate his way through the crowd. Sergio is apparently used to this, for he follows quickly after his small charge. All the bodyguards have gotten sodas for themselves, so that they don’t draw attention to themselves by sitting in a restaurant with no food.
Once on the second floor, Bojan moves with alacrity so that he’s able to snag a booth next to one of the two-story windows that dominate the storefront. Moving at a more sedate pace, Pep follows after him. “A good seat?” he questions, looking down at the street below them. “Everyone down there can see us, you know.”
Bojan shrugs. “I like to people watch. It doesn’t bother me.”
Sergio, Glen, and Danny meanwhile are sliding into the booths that surround the one Bojan has chosen, giving Pep and Bojan illusion of privacy while at the same time creating a security perimeter. Bojan seems to take it for granted that Pep will sit down across from him, for he pops the plastic lid off his milkshake, and dips one of his fries into it. Bojan’s expectations are accurate, for Pep has seated himself at Bojan’s booth, though he’s now watching with bemused horror as Bojan pops the ice cream covered fry into his mouth. Noticing the look, Bojan laughs. “It’s good, you should try it.”
“No thank you, I think I’ll pass.” Bojan shrugs, and eats another chocolaty fry. Hating how it makes him sound like he cares, yet needing to know, Pep prompts Bojan again. “Starving artist?”
Bojan shrugs once more, smiling lopsidedly. “Who else walks around with paint permanently embedded under their fingernails?” He holds out his hand for Pep’s inspection, and indeed, there is a rainbow of colorful staining around the nails.
Pep touches Bojan’s fingers for the briefest second, before thinking better of it and pulling his hand away. “You do art now?” he asks carefully.
“Yep,” Bojan says as he pulls his hand back. If Pep’s touch sent a shiver down his spine, Bojan certainly doesn’t show it. “When I went back to uni, I was an engineering student, but when they made me do ‘creative self expression’ in therapy, I found out that I really loved art.”
There’s a mention of therapy again. Pep doesn’t wince, but it’s a close thing. “So you do art now.” Bojan nods. “And you’re happy?” It’s a stupid question, Pep knows it as soon as he asks it. What right does he, the man who held Bojan hostage for over a month, have to ask such a question. Still, he feels like he’s almost pathetically invested in the answer to this question, like some part of him deep down is really hoping Bojan will say yes.
Bojan shrugs. “As happy as any 24 year old has a right to be.”
His tone is upbeat, but Pep frowns. “That doesn’t sound like a yes.”
Bojan shrugs again, turning so he’s staring out the window. “New York City is great, but …”
“But?” Pep prompts. He feels like his entire role in this conversation is prompting. He thinks he should feel bad, that he’s so blatantly fishing for information about the younger man’s life, but at the same time, he can’t help himself.
Bojan sighs, staying silent for a long moment before he turns back to stare at his milkshake. “I miss Spain.”
“Why aren’t you in Spain?” It’s a question that’s been in the back of Pep’s mind this whole time. Why did he bump into Bojan here, of all places?
Bojan stares at his milkshake for another long moment, before lifting his eyes to Pep. “You could have been in jail for years longer if they had prosecuted you for sexual assault,” he says casually.
Pep stiffens. “What?” he says carefully.
Bojan’s staring down at his shake again. His tongue runs over his lips. “Do you know why they didn’t?” he asks without looking at Pep. “They didn’t because my grandfather used his influence to pressure them not to. You see,” he looks up at Pep again and this time his eyes are hooded, so Pep can’t see the expression in them. “If you had sexually assaulted me, that would make me a fag. And my grandfather didn’t want his grandson to be known as a fag, even if I had no choice in the matter.”
“Jesus,” Pep mumbles under his breath. He knows most of the criminal underground is deeply homophobic, which is why his own sexual orientation is a secret outside of his organization. But still, sometimes he allows himself to forget how homophobic it really is. “I didn’t assault you,” he says next, glad that they’re speaking Spanish, glad that probably none of the Americans in the restaurant around them can understand what they’re saying.
Bojan’s eyes have grown flinty. “I was a hostage. I couldn’t consent to anything in that position. Even if I said yes, even if I thought I was saying yes, that would be just Stockholm Syndrome.” When Pep looks at him with faint surprise in his eyes, Bojan shrugs. “We talked about this a lot in therapy.”
“Ah,” Pep says, because what else do you say to that? “… Did it help?”
“Therapy?” Pep nods. “Yeah,” Bojan says after a pause, “yeah, it helped.”
“I’m glad,” Pep says softly. The idea that he would leave some kind of lasting scar on the man in front of him is frankly abhorrent. “And your grandfather …?”
A sort of smile crosses Bojan’s face, but there’s a tiredness in his eyes. “I got back at him by turning out to be gay anyway.”
“… Ah.” Pep’s careful not to show any reaction. It’s not relevant to him after all. Not relevant at all … “Is that why you’re in America? Did your grandfather kick you out?” Pep frowns at the thought.
“No.” Bojan sighs. “It wasn’t anything like that- I wasn’t openly gay until I got to New York.” He grimaces. “I got tired of being watched 24 hours a day, of having my life controlled. He had bodyguards on me constantly, paranoid I would get kidnapped again. I couldn’t live like that, so I left, and came to the States. Sergio here,” and he nods at his bodyguard, “was the compromise. I tolerate a guard following me around, and my grandfather tolerates me being in another country.”
“Ah,” Pep says. “So you can’t go back to Spain without falling back under Perez’s thumb.”
Bojan sighs, slumping in his seat. “Something like that.”
Pep is silent for a long moment, watching Bojan as he sips at his diet Coke. It’s not very good, but then he doesn’t drink soda often: mostly only in rum and Cokes. It’s not that he’s feeling guilty, it’s just … It’s true he never seduced Bojan, but it’s also true that he intended to, and from where Pep is sitting, any distinction between the two seems pretty negligible. Really, the best thing for him to do would to be to get back out of Bojan’s life and stay the hell as far away from him as possible. If there’s one thing Pep doesn’t want, it’s putting Bojan through another five years of therapy. Yes, the best course of action is to wish Bojan a good life and to walk away, never to see him again.
Pep’s subconscious clearly has other ideas. “You could come back to Barcelona,” he hears himself saying, as if it’s someone else who’s moving his mouth, someone else who’s producing the words.
Bojan’s head jerks up. “What?”
Pep’s desperately trying to stop himself, but the words just keep coming. “I could make an agreement with … your grandfather. Some kind of non-aggression agreement that you would be off limits. You could stay in Barcelona again and he wouldn’t be able to bother you there.”
Bojan stares, but slowly a light of hope enters his eyes. Pep sees that hope and curses himself, even as his heart sings. “Seriously? Do you really think that would work?”
“The only way to know is to try it,” Pep says as he pulls out his BlackBerry, glancing at the time. It’s evening in Spain right now. Quickly, he pulls up a number. Before he can press send though, Bojan is reaching out, touching Pep’s wrist to stop him.
“Are you really willing to do this for me?” Bojan questions. When Pep nods, Bojan frowns. “Why?”
Pep looks away, licking his lips as he struggles to verbalize an explanation that even he doesn’t understand. Some kind of madness has gripped him, but he can’t tell Bojan that. “I told you once,” he says slowly, “that it wasn’t my intent to make your life miserable. … It still isn’t.”
Bojan’s staring, almost glaring. “My life is my own,” he says. “Nothing about it is your fault, your responsibility. I control what I want to do.”
“I know,” Pep says inwardly chastising himself for how much he’s loving the fight, the pride in Bojan’s voice and eyes. “And if you want to go to Barcelona … then I’m just making that possible.”
“I don’t need your charity, or your pity,” Bojan says, still looking at Pep with flinty eyes.
“This isn’t charity, and it isn’t pity.” This, Pep is sure of. “You don’t seem like you have a life to pity, do you? You seem to have done pretty well for yourself.”
Bojan nods reluctantly. “But, you don’t somehow magically redeem yourself just by doing this,” he says firmly.
That, Pep can 100% agree with. “I didn’t think I did.” Pep looks Bojan in the eye. “I told you once that I was a bad man, but I wasn’t a cruel man. I hate watching anything needless. You staying out of Spain is needless. Let me help.” Inwardly he’s holding his breath, waiting for Bojan’s approval.
Bojan sinks back into the plastic molded bench he’s sitting on with a sigh. “Fine,” he says. “Call my grandfather.”
Pep presses send. A continent away, Carles picks up the phone. “I need you to put me in touch with Perez,” Pep tells him.
Author: foot_faults
Characters/Pairing this chapter: Pep Guardiola/Bojan Krkić, Danny Agger, Glen Johnson, Sergio Ramos, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, Carles Puyol, Florentino Pérez
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,760
Disclaimer: this is an entirely fictional story with fictional characters. Any resemblance to real life is a coincidence.
Summery: Pep Guardiola is the head of one of the largest mafia groups in Spain. But what’s a gangster to do when he gets his own personal hostage in the form of the grandson of his biggest enemy?
Disclaimer part 2: I don’t know anything about the mafia, Spanish or otherwise. This is all made up like a made up thing. Also I realize that Bojan is not really Pérez’s grandson, but see the disclaimer about this being made up. These are not real people; they are fictional characters with fictional families and fictional lives.
Note: Omg hallelujah, LJ is back! Here’s a chapter to celebrate! This chapter is dedicated to liroa15 who is the best pre-reader ever. Ilu bb.
Previous chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4a | 4b | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10a | 10b
5 years later …
Madrid, Paris, London, and Tokyo are all great, but if you really want to do some business, you go to New York City. This is a truth Pep Guardiola has long known. He’s been out of prison for several months now, but this is his first trip back to New York. He was able to do some work while in jail, and of course his lieutenants are competent and trustworthy people, who had taken care of business in his absence. Business like getting rid of Victor, who had bribed one of his bodyguards into being a spy, a spy who had ultimately betrayed Pep to the police. Pep’s still not sure how he had misjudged Zlatan so badly. He had known the bodyguard hadn’t liked him, but Pep had assumed the man was a professional who knew how to be loyal. It seemed Zlatan’s loyalty had only extended as far as his paycheck. To bad for Zlatan, Pep thinks, that he won’t be able to work ever again. No one betrays Josep Guardiola like that without being made an example of. That was something Carles had made sure was taken care of right away. There was a convenient accident, and the police could have their suspicions all they wanted, but there was nothing to link the crime on Pep’s organization.
Still, while his lieutenants had been able to take care of a lot of things while Pep was locked up, there were certain aspects of the business that required his specific touch. The fact that Pep had been sent to jail had hurt his organization’s reputation as well. Perez had muscled into Pep’s territory heavily with Pep out of the action, so there were plenty of things for Pep to work on, plenty to fix, once he was free. But now that he had things more under control, it was time to go to New York and do some real business.
It’s mid afternoon and he’s standing on a teaming with humanity, both tourists and locals going about their day. It’s almost a little almost comforting, Pep thinks, that he’s anonymous here, that his face is so little known in the US that he can blend into the crowd. Pep’s just finished one meeting and has some time before the next one, so he’s decided to take a walk, his ever-vigilant bodyguards unobtrusively at his sides.
He’s idly looking at something on his BlackBerry when something catches his eye ahead of him in the crowd. He slows down, letting himself be carried forward by the movement of the bodies around him, then …
“Bojan?”
The person ahead of him turns, and Pep sees it is indeed a familiar profile. Bojan is scanning the crowd, looking for the source of the sound of his name, when his eyes finally alight on Pep. He goes still, looking slightly surprised. Pep’s about to step forward, about to say something, he doesn’t know what, when appearing seemingly out of nowhere, a tall, tan-skinned man with long brown hair in a ponytail steps between Pep and Bojan. If Pep doesn't know a trained bodyguard when he sees one, then he isn't the head of his organization. Danny has stepped between Pep and the strange bodyguard in response, while Glen has stepped to the side, scanning the crowd for other threats. All three men are going for their guns.
"Sergio, stop," he hears Bojan's voice. It's deeper than it was 5 years ago, more resonant. "It's alright." Bojan comes from around the taller man, patting his shoulder. "Guardiola isn't going to do anything to me in a crowded street in broad daylight, are you?" he directs the question at Pep.
The crowds are now streaming around the five of them, like they're an island of stillness in the middle of the sidewalk. "I'm not," Pep agrees, motioning Danny to the side.
“Hey, Danny,” Bojan waves a little.
Danny quirks a bit of a smile and gives a small wave back, but keeps his eyes on Sergio. “Hey kid.”
From the other side of Pep, Glen waves as well. “Whatsup.”
“Hey, Glen,” Bojan says.
Pep takes the time Bojan and the bodyguards are exchanging greetings to allow himself to get a good look at Bojan. Still the same brown hair, still the same distinctive cheekbones and nose, but his face looks older now, more mature. He must be 24 now, Pep muses to himself. His clothes look scruffy, well worn- they could be second hand, which surprises Pep. He won’t comment on that though. Out loud he says, "you look well." And Bojan does. A little skinnier than 5 years ago, more wrinkles around the eyes, but over all, he looks good.
Bojan tilts his head slightly as if this statement from Pep is a surprise. "I am well," he agrees. "And you ..." Bojan chuckles, and Pep sees a glimpse of what must have been the boy that was there all the time, underneath the fear and suspicion, the boy he never got to meet. "You look balder."
Pep runs a hand over his close shaved hair, which does not do much to hide the large bald spot he has. He's suddenly, unaccountably self-conscious. "It happens, with age, I'm told," he says. "And with stress."
It’s the first mention in this short conversation of what happened between them, of why they haven’t seen each other in five years. Bojan doesn’t respond though, instead 'mm'ing in agreement. He glances away and Pep is struck by the knowledge that there's nothing keeping Bojan here, nothing keeping this conversation going. He's also struck by an inexplicable desire for the conversation to continue. "Are you here visiting?" he wants to know. "Or...?"
Sergio makes a small gesture, and Bojan tilts his head to the side. "Now why would you want to know that?" he says, and it’s more like he’s musing than asking a question.
The suspicion is warranted, Pep supposes, but still, he suppresses the urge to sigh. "No nefarious purpose, I assure you.” Why does he want to know? Why, really? If his subconscious has the answer, it’s not telling. “... Look, can we talk?" The offer is out of his lips before he realizes he's gong to make it, and maybe his subconscious is talking, talking more than he wants it to. But now that the offer’s been made, Pep’s not going to go back on it. "Somewhere public, somewhere ... you chose where. I don't have any kind of plan to hurt you or anything, I just ... want to talk."
Bojan looks considering. The bodyguard, Sergio, leans over, whispering something in his ear. "Fuck my grandfather," Pep is surprised to hear Bojan say. Sergio looks displeased, but resigned. "Sure," Bojan continues, turning back to Pep. “Sure, I can…" he looks at his watch, "give you 20 minutes of my time. Over there?" He points across the street to the two story McDonalds housed in a building facing them.
Pep honestly can't remember the last time he had McDonalds, but he must have been very young. It’s certainly not likely he’s going to find anything he would want to eat there now. This isn’t about eating though, it’s about making Bojan feel comfortable enough he’ll stick around to talk to Pep, and Pep can hopefully satisfy whatever crazy urge his subconscious has to see the younger man. "That's fine," he says, feature neutral, betraying none of his inner turmoil.
They cross the street together, bodyguards eyeing each other warily. Bojan walks next to Pep, and Pep can’t help watching the younger man out of the corner of his eye. It no longer feels right to call him a ‘boy’ as it did 5 years ago. He’s grown into his manhood. There’s a confidence in the way he moves, a quiet, restful, calm in his eyes, which seem to watch the world with curiosity and mild amusement. Bojan’s smiling to himself, just a little, mouth quirked in such a way that makes Pep long to know what Bojan’s thinking, what he’s seeing that makes him smile like that.
Once inside the McDonalds, they discover that even though it’s not a meal time, there’s still fairly extensive lines, so they settle in to wait. Pep keeps watching Bojan covertly until Bojan unexpectedly looks up, catching Pep’s gaze. Pep quickly looks away, and though he hasn’t blushed in a long time, he almost feels like his cheeks might heat up, just a fraction. Bojan laughs.
“You know,” he says, turning to look forward again, “I used to think about what it would be like to meet you again. I used to imagine it, though I would try not to. It was pretty hard not to think about.” Pep makes a noise of inquiry, and Bojan laughs again. “You left a pretty big impression on my life,” he says, glancing up at Pep again.
“… I’m sorry,” Pep says. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“Really? Do you honestly mean that?” Bojan’s looking up at Pep again, face curious. There’s nothing malicious in his words, nothing sarcastic. Pep has no idea what Bojan sees in his face, but Bojan ‘hmm’s at something. “You just might,” he concludes.
“I do mean it,” Pep finds himself saying. This is not at all where he expected this conversation to be going. “I certainly never asked Valdes to put either of us in that position.”
Beside him, Bojan stiffens minutely. Pep wouldn’t have caught the movement if his livelihood didn’t depend on being able to read people, being able to pick up the smallest changes in body language. Bojan lets out a long, slow breath, as if consciously forcing himself to relax. “No, I suppose you didn’t.” When he speaks his tone is even, voice conversational. Still, Pep makes a mental note that the topic must bother Bojan in some way.
“So how did you imaging meeting me again would go?” Pep can’t help but asking, honestly curious.
Bojan laughs again. “It depends on what point in my therapy you’re asking about,” he says with a sly, teasing smile up at Pep.
“Therapy?”
Bojan shrugs. “Boat loads and boat loads of therapy. As much therapy as my grandfather could afford, which was quite a lot.”
“… Oh.” Pep isn’t quite sure what to do with that information, so he does nothing with it, for now.
Bojan glances up at him again. “What, did you think I wouldn’t need therapy?”
“I didn’t think about it, I guess,” Pep admits. That’s not entirely true. He had spent many nights in his prison cell turning over how things had gone wrong, playing a what-if game, wondering if there was some way he could have made what had happened better. Pep’s not usually a man who ruminates or engages in wishful thinking, but prison leaves little time for anything but. He’s saved from having to say anything that might reveal how much Bojan really had been on his mind, by the fact that it’s now their turn to order.
Pep requests a Coke, diet, then turns to Bojan, tilting his head expectantly. Bojan tuts up at him. “I don’t accept a single cent of my grandfather’s money, so I’m certainly not going to accept yours,” he says as he indicates to the teen behind the cash register that he should ring Pep’s order up.
Bojan orders fries and a chocolate milkshake, and pays for it with worn dollar bills from his scruffy looking wallet. “Sometimes, I have a sweet tooth,” he tells Pep with a small smile.
Pep’s certainly not filing this information away. It isn’t of any use to him at all. Still, he can’t help asking, “isn’t there a better way to satisfy that then a milkshake from McDonalds?”
Bojan shrugs, a smile playing over his lips. “It’s cheap, and it’s high calorie.”
Pep raises an eyebrow as he collects his diet Coke and Bojan waits for the workers behind the counter to make his shake. “Those aren’t usually considered good things.”
Bojan snorts softly. “They are when you’re a starving artist.”
This time both of Pep’s eyebrows shoot up. “A starving artist?” he repeats carefully.
Bojan’s food is finally ready, so he collects his tray, then starts to negotiate his way towards the stairs. “Come on,” he says over his shoulder, apparently avoiding the question, “I want to get a good seat.”
Pep dutifully follows, impressed by how agilely Bojan is able to negotiate his way through the crowd. Sergio is apparently used to this, for he follows quickly after his small charge. All the bodyguards have gotten sodas for themselves, so that they don’t draw attention to themselves by sitting in a restaurant with no food.
Once on the second floor, Bojan moves with alacrity so that he’s able to snag a booth next to one of the two-story windows that dominate the storefront. Moving at a more sedate pace, Pep follows after him. “A good seat?” he questions, looking down at the street below them. “Everyone down there can see us, you know.”
Bojan shrugs. “I like to people watch. It doesn’t bother me.”
Sergio, Glen, and Danny meanwhile are sliding into the booths that surround the one Bojan has chosen, giving Pep and Bojan illusion of privacy while at the same time creating a security perimeter. Bojan seems to take it for granted that Pep will sit down across from him, for he pops the plastic lid off his milkshake, and dips one of his fries into it. Bojan’s expectations are accurate, for Pep has seated himself at Bojan’s booth, though he’s now watching with bemused horror as Bojan pops the ice cream covered fry into his mouth. Noticing the look, Bojan laughs. “It’s good, you should try it.”
“No thank you, I think I’ll pass.” Bojan shrugs, and eats another chocolaty fry. Hating how it makes him sound like he cares, yet needing to know, Pep prompts Bojan again. “Starving artist?”
Bojan shrugs once more, smiling lopsidedly. “Who else walks around with paint permanently embedded under their fingernails?” He holds out his hand for Pep’s inspection, and indeed, there is a rainbow of colorful staining around the nails.
Pep touches Bojan’s fingers for the briefest second, before thinking better of it and pulling his hand away. “You do art now?” he asks carefully.
“Yep,” Bojan says as he pulls his hand back. If Pep’s touch sent a shiver down his spine, Bojan certainly doesn’t show it. “When I went back to uni, I was an engineering student, but when they made me do ‘creative self expression’ in therapy, I found out that I really loved art.”
There’s a mention of therapy again. Pep doesn’t wince, but it’s a close thing. “So you do art now.” Bojan nods. “And you’re happy?” It’s a stupid question, Pep knows it as soon as he asks it. What right does he, the man who held Bojan hostage for over a month, have to ask such a question. Still, he feels like he’s almost pathetically invested in the answer to this question, like some part of him deep down is really hoping Bojan will say yes.
Bojan shrugs. “As happy as any 24 year old has a right to be.”
His tone is upbeat, but Pep frowns. “That doesn’t sound like a yes.”
Bojan shrugs again, turning so he’s staring out the window. “New York City is great, but …”
“But?” Pep prompts. He feels like his entire role in this conversation is prompting. He thinks he should feel bad, that he’s so blatantly fishing for information about the younger man’s life, but at the same time, he can’t help himself.
Bojan sighs, staying silent for a long moment before he turns back to stare at his milkshake. “I miss Spain.”
“Why aren’t you in Spain?” It’s a question that’s been in the back of Pep’s mind this whole time. Why did he bump into Bojan here, of all places?
Bojan stares at his milkshake for another long moment, before lifting his eyes to Pep. “You could have been in jail for years longer if they had prosecuted you for sexual assault,” he says casually.
Pep stiffens. “What?” he says carefully.
Bojan’s staring down at his shake again. His tongue runs over his lips. “Do you know why they didn’t?” he asks without looking at Pep. “They didn’t because my grandfather used his influence to pressure them not to. You see,” he looks up at Pep again and this time his eyes are hooded, so Pep can’t see the expression in them. “If you had sexually assaulted me, that would make me a fag. And my grandfather didn’t want his grandson to be known as a fag, even if I had no choice in the matter.”
“Jesus,” Pep mumbles under his breath. He knows most of the criminal underground is deeply homophobic, which is why his own sexual orientation is a secret outside of his organization. But still, sometimes he allows himself to forget how homophobic it really is. “I didn’t assault you,” he says next, glad that they’re speaking Spanish, glad that probably none of the Americans in the restaurant around them can understand what they’re saying.
Bojan’s eyes have grown flinty. “I was a hostage. I couldn’t consent to anything in that position. Even if I said yes, even if I thought I was saying yes, that would be just Stockholm Syndrome.” When Pep looks at him with faint surprise in his eyes, Bojan shrugs. “We talked about this a lot in therapy.”
“Ah,” Pep says, because what else do you say to that? “… Did it help?”
“Therapy?” Pep nods. “Yeah,” Bojan says after a pause, “yeah, it helped.”
“I’m glad,” Pep says softly. The idea that he would leave some kind of lasting scar on the man in front of him is frankly abhorrent. “And your grandfather …?”
A sort of smile crosses Bojan’s face, but there’s a tiredness in his eyes. “I got back at him by turning out to be gay anyway.”
“… Ah.” Pep’s careful not to show any reaction. It’s not relevant to him after all. Not relevant at all … “Is that why you’re in America? Did your grandfather kick you out?” Pep frowns at the thought.
“No.” Bojan sighs. “It wasn’t anything like that- I wasn’t openly gay until I got to New York.” He grimaces. “I got tired of being watched 24 hours a day, of having my life controlled. He had bodyguards on me constantly, paranoid I would get kidnapped again. I couldn’t live like that, so I left, and came to the States. Sergio here,” and he nods at his bodyguard, “was the compromise. I tolerate a guard following me around, and my grandfather tolerates me being in another country.”
“Ah,” Pep says. “So you can’t go back to Spain without falling back under Perez’s thumb.”
Bojan sighs, slumping in his seat. “Something like that.”
Pep is silent for a long moment, watching Bojan as he sips at his diet Coke. It’s not very good, but then he doesn’t drink soda often: mostly only in rum and Cokes. It’s not that he’s feeling guilty, it’s just … It’s true he never seduced Bojan, but it’s also true that he intended to, and from where Pep is sitting, any distinction between the two seems pretty negligible. Really, the best thing for him to do would to be to get back out of Bojan’s life and stay the hell as far away from him as possible. If there’s one thing Pep doesn’t want, it’s putting Bojan through another five years of therapy. Yes, the best course of action is to wish Bojan a good life and to walk away, never to see him again.
Pep’s subconscious clearly has other ideas. “You could come back to Barcelona,” he hears himself saying, as if it’s someone else who’s moving his mouth, someone else who’s producing the words.
Bojan’s head jerks up. “What?”
Pep’s desperately trying to stop himself, but the words just keep coming. “I could make an agreement with … your grandfather. Some kind of non-aggression agreement that you would be off limits. You could stay in Barcelona again and he wouldn’t be able to bother you there.”
Bojan stares, but slowly a light of hope enters his eyes. Pep sees that hope and curses himself, even as his heart sings. “Seriously? Do you really think that would work?”
“The only way to know is to try it,” Pep says as he pulls out his BlackBerry, glancing at the time. It’s evening in Spain right now. Quickly, he pulls up a number. Before he can press send though, Bojan is reaching out, touching Pep’s wrist to stop him.
“Are you really willing to do this for me?” Bojan questions. When Pep nods, Bojan frowns. “Why?”
Pep looks away, licking his lips as he struggles to verbalize an explanation that even he doesn’t understand. Some kind of madness has gripped him, but he can’t tell Bojan that. “I told you once,” he says slowly, “that it wasn’t my intent to make your life miserable. … It still isn’t.”
Bojan’s staring, almost glaring. “My life is my own,” he says. “Nothing about it is your fault, your responsibility. I control what I want to do.”
“I know,” Pep says inwardly chastising himself for how much he’s loving the fight, the pride in Bojan’s voice and eyes. “And if you want to go to Barcelona … then I’m just making that possible.”
“I don’t need your charity, or your pity,” Bojan says, still looking at Pep with flinty eyes.
“This isn’t charity, and it isn’t pity.” This, Pep is sure of. “You don’t seem like you have a life to pity, do you? You seem to have done pretty well for yourself.”
Bojan nods reluctantly. “But, you don’t somehow magically redeem yourself just by doing this,” he says firmly.
That, Pep can 100% agree with. “I didn’t think I did.” Pep looks Bojan in the eye. “I told you once that I was a bad man, but I wasn’t a cruel man. I hate watching anything needless. You staying out of Spain is needless. Let me help.” Inwardly he’s holding his breath, waiting for Bojan’s approval.
Bojan sinks back into the plastic molded bench he’s sitting on with a sigh. “Fine,” he says. “Call my grandfather.”
Pep presses send. A continent away, Carles picks up the phone. “I need you to put me in touch with Perez,” Pep tells him.