Ficlet: Untitled (NC-17; Henke/Zlatan)
No title, because I'm not even sure why I'm posting this. Rating about NC-17, if you feel you need a rating. No summary, because all you need to know is it's Henrik Larsson/Zlatan Ibrahimovic and my summaries tend to be rather inept anyway.
***
There are only so many times he can stand there and give interviews in halting, fumbling Italian, trying to look like it doesn't get to him at all, without feeling like all he wants to do is curse and duck away from the cameras. It's not something that he's used to, this - he likes being the centre of attention, always has and probably always will. He even likes interviews, has always found a perverse kind of satisfaction in rattling on in Swedish or Dutch or English and not just dazzling on the pitch in a way that's often just as noteable for his fire as his footwork. And if he's honest, feeling this way, feeling this sort of aversion, is really rather disconcerting.
But there he is, trying to speak. It's been months now since the move and he's getting better, but there are times when the words he hears are so fast that they blend into each other and he's left there trying to reply in a jumble of his own words that are every language he knows but Italian. It's all he can do to muster a half-hearted "abbiamo gioccato bene, penso" with a self-deprecating smile and a ruffle of his hand over his hair before he casts what's not quite a pleading look toward the changing room door; usually when he gets like this there'll be someone waiting in the wings to swoop in and save him - it's usually his captain, Alessandro Del Piero, with that cheeky smile and a voice that doesn't quite seem to suit his body. This time it's not, though; it's Pavel Nedved, who always sounds infinitely more sedate and sensible than Alex, possibly because he really is more sensible, at least when they're off the pitch. Zlatan gives a grateful little grin as Pavel steps in, all dazzling blond hair and irritatingly good Italian as he pats him on the back and gives him a look that on anyone else would mean something not unlike "you owe me one". But Pavel won't ask for anything in return, not like Alex would. He can't count the number of times he's ended up getting the drinks.
He retreats. Back in the changing room there's nothing remotely like a hurry to get changed and out of there but Zlatan manages it even slower than the rest. He loiters, not completely on purpose, while the rest of the room chatters on loudly about... well, if he's honest then Zlatan couldn't actually care less what it's about exactly, and he doesn't feel like wasting the effort it'd take to decipher the blur of words he hears, roughly five conversations at once all buzzing there in his head. So he wanders off to shower slowly and then dresses even slower than that, mostly ignoring the pats on the back and whathaveyou until the others leave him be. They probably think he's sulking because of the goal he should've scored but he couldn't give a toss about that, he's not sulking. Not at all. He's just all Italianed out.
In the end he's not quite the last person left in the room when his phone rings. He doesn't get great reception in there and he's surprised that the phone's even ringing, especially when he teases it from his pocket and finds out who it is, knowing the network that his caller's on. He looks around, gets a weird and questioning look from Gigi Buffon who's pulling on a horrendous orange sweater, because he's just standing there with his phone in his hand, letting it ring and ring and ring. It's not that he doesn't want to answer it, it's just that he can't answer it, only partially because he feels like an idiot picking it up and talking there even when the only people around are Gigi (and his retina-searing sweater), Mauro Camoranesi who's trying to get his increasingly disorderly hair back into a ponytail and Gianluca Zambrotta who's putting on a tie for some inexplicable reason despite the fact that the rest of them aren't actually wearing suits. He looks at the screen of his phone, sitting down on the bench that runs around the circumference of the room to watch it as it lights up and shows an absolutely appalling picture, playing the theme from Mission: Impossible that he set as Henrik's ringtone roughly an age ago. It seemed fitting at one point - he's got Capello in there as something suitably doomy and Wagnerian that he thinks might be Ride of the Valkyries, Alex Del Piero's is a silly, beaming picture taken after training one day and set to the sound of some Avril Lavigne song, the title of which Zlatan's happy to say he can't recall, and Henke is Mission: Impossible, dressed in a tuxedo and doing his best - and conversely also his worst - James Bond impression. He'd use the Bond theme but he doesn't have it and can't be bothered to download it. Mission: Impossible works just as well and besides, he thinks Ethan Hunt's cooler than James Bond.
The phone stops ringing and he can't decide whether he's bothered by that or not. He keeps looking at it for a minute, at the notice that tells him he's missed a call though he knows he's missed a call and he didn't miss it so much as he just didn't accept it, but it doesn't ring again so he slips it back into his pocket, having to shift slightly so he can get it into his jeans while he's sitting. Then he leaves and he's not the last one - when he walks out he's half sure he catches a glimpse of Gigi helping Zambrotta with his tie and that's slightly surreal because he's not totally convinced that Gigi actually knows how to tie a tie. And he walks out into the car park, locates his car, walks past Pavel who's leaning against the driver's side door of his own car and speaking in what's almost an animated tone for him in what Zlatan's fairly sure must be Czech; he's heard Pavel speak Czech before and it's odd just how different he sounds when he speaks it, not just because Zlatan doesn't understand a word he's saying. Pavel's always so much more subdued in Italian, which is odd in a way considering the Italians in the team and how they are, on the whole, so much more expressive than the rest of them. Zlatan thinks that has something to do with the language but he can't put his finger on exactly what it is about the language. He tells himself he might have more of an idea when he can say more than "mine's a beer" and the obligatory first-learned swear-words.
Pavel raises a hand to him as he walks on past all the Czechness and he nods back as he unlocks his car, slips inside, starts it up. It's not far from the Delle Alpi to his place, the place he's actually still just renting because he can't decide on a place he wants to buy and he just can't be bothered with househunting. Some of his teammates have suggested, jokingly, that he didn't buy because he didn't expect to stay but that's not the case, he came over to Italy thoroughly expecting to fit right in and make himself a bit of a first team fixture within weeks. He's done that, he just hasn't bought a house yet. Maybe it's also got something to do with the fact that he actually likes the place he's renting - it's convenient for both the stadium and the training ground, not too far from town, big enough for him and next to no one knows where he's living. Okay, so it's a flat and not the perfect picture of a sprawling Italian villa that he's got in his head, but it's functional and not far away though that almost counts against it; he actually likes driving, wouldn't have the cars he has if he didn't like it. And with the quiet roads between the Delle Alpi and his flat, it's not long before he's home, taking the lift up to his fourth floor apartment. It's fine, though - sometimes he wants to be home quickly and there are enough quiet roads outside the city to satisfy even his need for speed on the days when he feels like taking a detour. Today, he doesn't.
He tosses his bag onto the nearest chair and bats the door closed with the back of one hand, wincing slightly as his knuckles rap against the wood before he wanders over to the couch and just... sprawls. It's not quite big enough for this if he's honest, though there's a section at the far end with no arm so he's not painfully cramped, but his feet dangle off the end of it when he lies down so he toes off his trainers and pulls up his knees. He thinks about reaching out to the coffee table and grabbing the TV remote but he's not really in the mood for the Simpsons dubbed in Italian or tacky and seemingly pointless gameshows so he doesn't bother, just curls one arm up behind his head and settles back, eyes on the ceiling for a moment before he lets them close. He's not going to sleep, he knows that - he's too wound up from the game and probably won't calm down for couple of hours yet. He always gets like this but lately he has no real way to wind down short of hitting the gym and if he's honest, that's not quite the sort of action he's looking for. Not that he's looking. He bars his other arm over his eyes. He's definitely not looking.
And then the phone rings. Again. It's in his hip pocket, vibrating against him, sending weird little tingles through his thigh, but he doesn't answer it. He's slightly gratified that it's ringing again, finds himself lying there smiling oddly as he tucks one leg in under the other and listens to the ringtone that he knows is Henrik's simply because he doesn't use it for anyone else. It's not that he has a different ringtone for everyone in his phonebook because he doesn't - Freddie, Olof and half the Swedish national team whose numbers he has in there play this terrible monophonic version of the Swedish national anthem to accompany the rather silly pictures they all sat around taking of each other while they were together last, for example, and his old teammates in Holland, the ones he feels like keeping in touch with, all have this truly dreadful tone that he thinks was one of Rafael van der Vaart's slightly more genius ideas.
He can't even say why he's not picking up, exactly. He wants to say that he just hasn't got any interest in talking to him but if that were true he could turn off his phone or cancel the call and he'd get the idea eventually, but he's letting it ring. Maybe he's doing it to see just how many times he'll call before he gets fed up and stops bothering. Maybe he just hasn't got anything to say. Maybe that's it, but he doesn't really know. The smile drops from his face and he wonders what on earth he's doing, why he's ignoring his calls like a bratty teenager when he thought he was past that, but he's still doing it. Still. Because this isn't the first time he's done it, probably won't be the last, and he still can't honestly say why. Usually he tries not to think about the why of it, just lies around and ignores the call knowing that Henrik's at the other end, somewhere, somewhere that's not here, somewhere that's usually another country completely. For a minute while the phone rings he'll know what Henrik's doing, sitting there in his living room or standing by the tinned soup shelves in the local shop or drinking with friends in a bar... it doesn't matter where he is, really, because he knows what he's doing wherever he is. He's waiting for Zlatan to pick up the phone. But he never does.
He knows that if anyone were to find out about this, they'd assume he doesn't care anything for Henrik. He knows that but he also knows that it's not true; he thinks about him sometimes, more often than he'll admit, and he does so with affection. He likes him, has done since they met - he likes to think it's because Henrik never treated him any differently from anyone else, because he never treated him like he was that much younger or like he doesn't fit in, has never been condescending when he does something silly out there, which he'll admit he does rather more often than he really should and even more so when Henrik's not around to keep him in check the way he always seems to. No, Henke's not difficult to get along with. He likes him. They like each other. He's taught him so much. They get on well. So maybe the problem is that they get on better than well.
He's got this image in his head, as he lies there. It's something that actually happened, one night while they were back in Sweden and they were sharing a room, mostly by accident because Freddie was pissed off with him for a reason he's never been able to work out and the next thing he knew, Olof was muttering at him about team spirit and Henke was lounging on the bed where Freddie had been whinging at him just a few minutes before. He still doesn't think that he did anything wrong, even if he doesn't usually think that he's done anything wrong, but Henke actually agreed with him when he tried to explain. He nodded and shrugged and said something vaguely cryptic about how he guessed that it was more about Olof for Freddie than it was about Zlatan; that made absolutely no sense to him and he said so, and so Henrik explained rather patiently, a mischeivous little smile on his face that almost seemed out of place. Olof and Freddie. They were probably going at it right then and there.
He remembers his rather scornful disbelief, and how Henke seemed absolutely sure about it, almost nonchalant as he tugged him up from the bed by one wrist and told him to be absolutely silent as they left the room. He propped the door open with Zlatan's kit bag then took him down the hall, stopped outside the room he'd just swapped out of and motioned for him to listen, so he did; he frowned and then quirked his brows at what he heard. That definitely sounded like Freddie, definitely sounded like Olof, definitely sounded like the two of them together. That was a bit of an eye-opener, to say the least.
What happened next he doesn't really remember well. He remembers walking back to the room with those sounds in his head, wondering exactly what this meant and coming to the conclusion that he was more amused by it than anything, that he was actually surprised he hadn't realised when he thought about it. He remembers looking at Henrik as he closed the door, suddenly feeling every last second of the age difference between them more acutely than he ever had, feeling almost like he was blushing, his cheeks hot. He knows he doesn't blush delicately (so thank God he doesn't blush often), and if he was blushing it must've been a shade of bright tomato-red and would definitely account for the smile Henrik had on his face as he pulled off his shirt. He remembers asking him what he was doing and feeling like an idiot when Henke just shrugged and said he was getting ready for bed, asked him what he'd thought he was doing. And casually, like it wasn't a big deal at all, Henrik gestured at the bulge swelling against the front of his standard-issue national team sweats, asked him if he'd like some help with that.
He felt like a complete fool standing there, his back to the door, which was ridiculous. He was quite aware of how good he was, quite aware that people found him attractive and shouldn't have been blushing like a schoolgirl at the prospect of Henrik Larsson of all people jerking him off or whatever it was that he was proposing to do. He remembers the way his eyebrows crawled up toward his hairline as he found himself wondering exactly what Henrik was proposing. And he nodded. Dry-mouthed and awkward despite himself, despite every other sexual encounter he'd had and enjoyed and usually dominated completely, he nodded and told him yes.
It wasn't like he hadn't done it with a guy before but somehow this was different. Everything else had been a quick fumble in the changing rooms after training or the back room of a bar back at Ajax and no, not this, not Henrik's hands warm on his skin as he inched down the waist of his sweats, looked up at him with a smile of vague amusement as he wrapped his hand around him, stroked him slowly. He only did it once, twice, before he pulled back his hand and tugged up Zlatan's shirt, raising his brows and looking at him pointedly until he got the hint and pulled off his shirt himself. Henrik flicked idly at one newly-exposed nipple and Zlatan couldn't quite manage a smirk, stood there bewildered by his lack of self-control; he couldn't even manage his usual swagger to move over to the bed as if he didn't really care about this one way or the other, actually strode over quickly, pulled off his sweats without Henrik having to say a word about it and lay down on his choice of the twin beds. He tried to affect that breezy, nonchalant look, the same one that Henrik had had since he'd entered the room the first time, the same one he usually had himself, but he just couldn't do it, not with Henrik standing there at the end of the bed looking so damn amused by it all and pulling off the rest of his clothes.
He'd been naked around him before, of course - it's the sort of thing you can't really avoid when you play on the same team and occasionally end up sharing a room. Still, this was different. A hell of a lot different, for various reasons, not the least of which being that he had a hard-on and so did Henrik. He felt so damn far from balanced, not really comfortable at all but that was okay because it felt like a good idea somehow, though he wasn't entirely sure how that could be if he actually felt strangely nervous when Henrik knelt on the edge of the mattress then moved over him. He didn't expect that Henrik thought he was a virgin because the thought was obviously absurd... he didn't really know what to expect, if he was honest, because he'd never thought he could end up in a situation like this with him; Freddie, maybe, and he'd have liked to do him, but it'd never happened and he guessed he knew why then considering what he'd heard going on in Olof's room. And God, was he really desperate enough to fuck Henke? Apparently so, even though he'd never really seen him as even remotely sexual before. And it didn't dawn on him for a good couple of minutes after that that Henrik wasn't the one on his back, that Henrik was going to be the one doing the fucking.
Zlatan has a clear memory of the moment he realised. The look on his face must've been absolutely priceless, blank for a second before a quirk of his brows and a surprised "oh" that made Henrik laugh out loud. He doesn't think he was apprehensive about it, just shocked - he'd never really considered the possibility of, well... that; not like this, at least, because he might've had a go a couple of times before, just quick ones on the losing end of a bet or after a match, not in a bed, not face to face, not even naked and definitely not with the way Henrik was gliding his palms up over his shins, over his thighs, shifting his knees apart. He'd never had anyone nudge him like that, with an oddly sardonic grin that wasn't actually meant to be sardonic at all, until he parted his thighs and shifted his hips - he'd never really felt anyone's thighs against the back of his own as they knelt there and ran their hands over his stomach and lower, letting their thumbs come round to circle the base of his cock. Being with a guy never excited him that much, like a fluttering in his stomach, a tingle, a shiver as he felt Henke's breath against his already heated skin.
This is where his memory becomes somewhat fuzzy. He remembers the way Henrik leant down off the bed and searched around in his bag, remembers the way he watched him as he coated himself with the lube he'd been carrying around with him for some reason that Zlatan's never been able to discern even though he's asked him since - Henrik's always insisted that he wasn't seeing anyone else and Zlatan believes him because he's got no real reason not to. He remembers the way his stomach clenched tight as Henrik moved closer, stroked his thighs and positioned himself right up against him, the sensation of it different from every other time somehow, maybe in the position of it, maybe because it wasn't going to be the hard-and-fast(-and-usually-fairly-painful) affair that he was used to. Henrik looked at him and leant down, over him; Zlatan remembers the odd feeling then of being penetrated, the way Henrik felt in those first moments as he slipped inside him, pushed into him, knowing how tight he was around him and wondering how he felt to him, wondering if he was pleased though usually he had so much confidence brimming in him that he wouldn't have to wonder at all. From the look on his face he guessed that he was pleased, though. And himself... God, well, the least he could say is it didn't hurt. Not really. Not when Henrik settled down inside him, right up against him, leaning down at an almost awkward angle so that their faces were inches apart, not when he somehow managed to brush his lips against his jaw and heard the slight rasp it made against his unshaven skin. He doesn't know how he managed to hear it over the insistent thudding of his own heart as he tried to relax, or his breath that he couldn't keep from coming in that slightly ragged way.
Then Henrik moved. He remembers that, the first movement, because it was so damn intense, making his breath catch. He might've cursed, he thinks, but he doesn't really know; he thinks he squeezed at Henrik's arms just a little too tightly and made him curse, but he can't really remember. He does remember that he bit down on his lip hard enough that he tasted blood and he'd never done that before, not intentionally, and hasn't done it since. He remembers how it felt even if he can't remember the time scale, doesn't know how long it was from closing the door to Henrik pushing inside him, doesn't know how long from that first shift of Henrik's hips and thrust inside him to the moment he came, one leg somehow having found its way up around Henrik's waist and his fingers grasping hard at the sheets, tensing right down the length of his spine and through his thighs, his calves, right down to his toes. Henrik had managed to steady himself on one forearm and thrust into him, harder, faster, as he slipped one hand between them, jerking Zlatan completely out of time with everything else. He gasped and came so damn hard with his back arched, and Henrik wasn't long after, with a sound that wasn't quite like anything Zlatan had ever heard from him but still completely and inimitably him, just like the whole thing was somehow.
But the image he has in his head is actually of what happened after all of that. Henrik looked down at him, breathing hard; he shifted, pulled out of him carefully, kneeling up and pulling something from the side of the bed to wipe them both off, with little more than a cursory little flick or two though it still seemed fairly successful. Then he looked at him again, still kneeling there between Zlatan's thighs, and eventually he moved again, rearranged them both until they were both lying on their sides and Zlatan somehow ended up spooned up behind him, one arm slung over his waist. He thinks about that now, how they managed to lie there together in a single bed that was almost too small for Zlatan as it was even without the extra body, how he felt perfectly calm even though he was still very much naked and pressed right up against the back of another man. A particular man. He didn't realise at the time that Henrik must've done that on purpose, known how he was closing in on the edge of freaking out at having given up control so willingly, and the gesture... it ostensibly put him back where he thought he ought to be even though technically it was still Henke's idea. It calmed him down and Henrik seemed to like it, twisted in his arms slightly and looked at him just far enough away that Zlatan's vision didn't quite blur to look him in the eye. He didn't expect his mouth on his, not really, and didn't expect to like it. But he did.
That's what he sees. That moment, not lifted from context, not as a snapshot but with everything that went before it and everything he knows that came after, all there at once. But mostly he does see that moment, how he brushed his fingers against Henke's stomach, how after a while he pulled back, how he reached over and turned off the lights, how he smirk-smiled against the back of his neck, his nose pressed to the odd prickle of Henrik's shaved head. He remembers how it felt, pressed to him in that way instead of there being a bright yellow football shirt or two between them and an audience of thousands. It was a revelation. They didn't have to be just teammates, roommates, something close to friends - they could have this, too, and he liked it. He actually wanted it and maybe that was the odd thing about it, that he'd done it once and hadn't had enough, thought maybe he'd like to do it again, maybe again after that. Maybe he could get used to it, because everything with Henke was so familiar anyway.
Of course, he always knew it couldn't last. He's always known it, even in that moment, definitely knows it now as he lies there and lifts his arm from over his eyes, blinks to get rid of the blur. It's getting dark but he can't be bothered to move, stand and go turn on the lights, so he lies there and watches the shadows as they fall across the room, watches the space turn dark at a rate that seems just a little too fast to be normal. He doesn't do this often, mostly because he doesn't like to be alone with his thoughts and spends a lot of time out with other people, and because he's so damn active, spends so much time in the gym that's only a couple of minutes' walk from his flat. But sometimes all he wants to do is lie there and think about it, wonder why he doesn't pick up the phone. He pulls it from his pocket, looks at the screen and sees that little message on the screen again, reminding him of the missed call. He just cancels it, reaches over and puts the phone on the table, not tilting his head because he'd rather not be brought back quite yet by the sight of the room itself, the things in it that connect him to his everyday life like the bag in the chair and the television that spends its life on standby because he learned quite quickly that he'll never remember to turn it on at the set before flopping heavily onto the couch. He wants to clear his head. He's really not sure how to do it.
Eventually, he gives up. The room's too warm for him to really let everything spill out of his head and if he moves from the couch then he'll lose everything he's already worked out and be right back at the beginning. So, he gives up, just a little, turning his head far enough to see over to the television, the little red standby light seeming rather brighter than usual in the relative dark; he almost reaches over for the remote but he still doesn't feel like immersing himself in Italian television any more than he wants to read that Italian car magazine that's sitting on the table right by the remote. Maybe there's something in Swedish or Dutch or something he'll stand a better chance of understanding in another room but he doesn't want to move, just wants to lie there and stop trying to form sentences in Italian in his head when he knows that he doesn't know the words and he's not about to resort to digging out the dictionary quite yet. Sometimes it's so damn frustrating to feel like he's the only one around who isn't Italian or doesn't speak the language almost fluently at least. And he tells himself that's why he picks up the phone from the table.
It's not, of course, but he's not thinking about that as he scrolls through his phonebook, past Alex, Capello, Freddie, Gigi, so many others that he's not entirely sure he knows who all of them are anymore, and finds the number he's got saved as Henrik though he doesn't usually call him that. He wonders if he thought it'd be less suspicious that way or if he was just in a weird mood when he set up the phonebook entry and hasn't bothered to change it since, because he has no idea how it could seem suspicious at all unless he'd saved him as "Zlatan's homosexual lover" or words to that effect and he doesn't think that'd fit in the name field. He looks at it, long enough that the screen light goes off and he has to press a button to bring it back on before he lets his forefinger linger over the button to call. He hates this phone but doesn't want to change it even though the buttons are a bit too small - he never thought he'd be saying that he'd found a gadget too small, probably because he's got fairly abnormally large hands. They're the right size for his body so it's not like he notices that he has large hands most of the time, only when he's trying to send a text message in a hurry or he has Henrik playing with his fingers in that slightly obnoxious way that amuses them both rather than annoying him. Henrik says he likes his hands, his fingers, likes to watch as Zlatan strokes him or himself, likes to feel his fingers inside him to the point where he's perfectly capable of getting off just from that. Once he told him he thinks about that sometimes, while he jerks himself off, and now sometimes Zlatan gets off on thinking about him getting off thinking about it.
"Pronto."
Zlatan blinks, frown, shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Stop fucking joking, Henke," he says. "You don't want to speak Italian any more than I do." And Henrik chuckles almost smugly, except Henrik's never really smug and if he were then Zlatan probably wouldn't wouldn't mind anyway.
"You're right." He knows he's right, and he mutters something to that effect. "Zlatan, Do you think you could pick up the phone when I call? Just once? Maybe?"
His lips quirk slightly. He's missed the way he says his name, the way that no one he's met in Turin can quite manage. "Maybe."
"I'll take that as a no, then." He can almost hear the eyeroll in Henke's voice, but it's nothing to worry about, this is just how they are, playful in their sparring, familiar as ever. They both like it. This is the sort of thing he misses, what he can't do yet in Italian and which ends up being lost if he tries it around here in any other language. God, he misses this. Every time, he misses this. Maybe more acutely now, he thinks. Maybe more acutely than ever.
"So, where are you?" he asks, after a short, comfortable silence.
"Guess."
He shrugs, knowing full well he can't be seen and doing it anyway. "I don't know. Barça?"
"Nope. Guess again."
"So you're in Sweden."
"Nope. You're not even close."
"You're... uh. Where the fuck are you?" He frowns, rubs the bridge of his nose; he's never been fond of guessing but he does it for Henrik because he knows he's not supposed to be right anyway, and he very rarely is right with him when he's not supposed to be. It's not supposed to be vindictive, just playful, though Zlatan does usually tire of it rather quickly and Henrik knows that, Zlatan guesses, because he always seems to know everything else. He's like an open book to him and maybe that would bother him if he'd ever used it against him. He hasn't. He doubts he ever will.
"Try your door."
Zlatan's heart skips and he frowns, sitting up and hauling himself from the couch; he strides across the room just a little too quickly, the phone still pressed to his ear as he walks and reaches for the handle. But he's not at the door, and Zlatan realises that he really was almost expecting it, maybe even from the moment he asked where he was. He knows he shouldn't be disappointed but he is, doesn't really know how he could've expected it when he's not sure that Henrik even knows where he lives, is probably just ribbing him in that way that's not quite cruel but not quite not cruel. He's got an odd sense of humour sometimes.
"You're not at the door."
"Did I say I was?"
He sighs, closes the door, rests his forehead against the back of it as he answers that question. "No, you didn't." He takes a deep breath and sighs again, turning, resting his back against the door as he runs a hand over his hair. Sometimes he wishes he hadn't cut it - it was great for tugging melodramatically when he felt frustrated. "Look, where are you?"
"Try your front door."
"You're not funny."
"I know I'm not. Just try it, would you? Humour me."
So he does, just to humour him. He pushes himself away from the door and walks over to the window, not really walking so much as half-stamping and flinging himself along with a long-suffering huff. He steps around the couch and up to the window, pulling down a slat of the Venetian blind and peering down as if he's actually going to see anything apart from the road and the small park at the other side, maybe a few pedestrians or the annoying kid from the ground floor flat who keeps so nearly running into him on a beaten-up skateboard. But he doesn't see that. He sees the road and he sees a taxi, sees the door open and sees... a man in a wooly hat. A man in a wooly hat who looks up, a mobile phone held to his ear. And the wooly-hatted man smiles, waves.
"Why don't you come down now?" He's not on crutches anymore, not that he expected he would be, but he was the last time he saw him. It's been too long. God, it's been so long. His face breaks into a grin and he laughs, shaking his head.
"I'll be right there," he says, and he hangs up, watches from his window just long enough to see Henke do the same, slipping his phone into his pocket. Then he turns and he dodges back around the end of the couch, jogs across the room, grabs his keys. He lets himself out and he stops for a moment, thinks: the stairs or the elevator? He looks between the two and heads for the stairs - he doesn't want to wait. He can't believe he's here. He's not supposed to be here, he's supposed to be calling from a bar in Stockholm or physio in... he doesn't even know where he's having the physio. He'll have to ask, he thinks. That and how on earth he knows his address, not that he really cares how he found him without asking him. He doesn't even care how long he can stay. He's just glad he's there.
He slips his phone into his jeans pocket as he jogs down the stairs, almost dropping it as he does so, and he wonders again, can't help but do it. Maybe he'd have seen him sooner if he'd picked up this time instead of making him wait they way he always does, but he'll never know that for sure because he's not going to ask when Henke got there and he's got a feeling he won't tell. Maybe, he thinks as he moves down, faster, almost fast enough to trip if he's not careful, he doesn't pick up because he misses him, and this makes sense in a way even if it makes no sense, even if he does call back every time. Maybe he's just acting the way everyone says he acts, like a big, bratty, sulking kid. And he shouldn't be surprised by that, not at all. It's the way he always is when Henrik's not around, like he steadies him when he's there, like he balances him out. And now he's just downstairs.
It'll be good to see him; it'll be good to hear his voice. It'll be good to hear his language, too, because maybe now he'll be able to switch off the Italian, recharge before he starts back in on it again that way that always leaves him drained more often than he'd like to admit. And it's ridiculous, he knows, all of this. Because all he really needs to do is pick up the phone.
***
***
There are only so many times he can stand there and give interviews in halting, fumbling Italian, trying to look like it doesn't get to him at all, without feeling like all he wants to do is curse and duck away from the cameras. It's not something that he's used to, this - he likes being the centre of attention, always has and probably always will. He even likes interviews, has always found a perverse kind of satisfaction in rattling on in Swedish or Dutch or English and not just dazzling on the pitch in a way that's often just as noteable for his fire as his footwork. And if he's honest, feeling this way, feeling this sort of aversion, is really rather disconcerting.
But there he is, trying to speak. It's been months now since the move and he's getting better, but there are times when the words he hears are so fast that they blend into each other and he's left there trying to reply in a jumble of his own words that are every language he knows but Italian. It's all he can do to muster a half-hearted "abbiamo gioccato bene, penso" with a self-deprecating smile and a ruffle of his hand over his hair before he casts what's not quite a pleading look toward the changing room door; usually when he gets like this there'll be someone waiting in the wings to swoop in and save him - it's usually his captain, Alessandro Del Piero, with that cheeky smile and a voice that doesn't quite seem to suit his body. This time it's not, though; it's Pavel Nedved, who always sounds infinitely more sedate and sensible than Alex, possibly because he really is more sensible, at least when they're off the pitch. Zlatan gives a grateful little grin as Pavel steps in, all dazzling blond hair and irritatingly good Italian as he pats him on the back and gives him a look that on anyone else would mean something not unlike "you owe me one". But Pavel won't ask for anything in return, not like Alex would. He can't count the number of times he's ended up getting the drinks.
He retreats. Back in the changing room there's nothing remotely like a hurry to get changed and out of there but Zlatan manages it even slower than the rest. He loiters, not completely on purpose, while the rest of the room chatters on loudly about... well, if he's honest then Zlatan couldn't actually care less what it's about exactly, and he doesn't feel like wasting the effort it'd take to decipher the blur of words he hears, roughly five conversations at once all buzzing there in his head. So he wanders off to shower slowly and then dresses even slower than that, mostly ignoring the pats on the back and whathaveyou until the others leave him be. They probably think he's sulking because of the goal he should've scored but he couldn't give a toss about that, he's not sulking. Not at all. He's just all Italianed out.
In the end he's not quite the last person left in the room when his phone rings. He doesn't get great reception in there and he's surprised that the phone's even ringing, especially when he teases it from his pocket and finds out who it is, knowing the network that his caller's on. He looks around, gets a weird and questioning look from Gigi Buffon who's pulling on a horrendous orange sweater, because he's just standing there with his phone in his hand, letting it ring and ring and ring. It's not that he doesn't want to answer it, it's just that he can't answer it, only partially because he feels like an idiot picking it up and talking there even when the only people around are Gigi (and his retina-searing sweater), Mauro Camoranesi who's trying to get his increasingly disorderly hair back into a ponytail and Gianluca Zambrotta who's putting on a tie for some inexplicable reason despite the fact that the rest of them aren't actually wearing suits. He looks at the screen of his phone, sitting down on the bench that runs around the circumference of the room to watch it as it lights up and shows an absolutely appalling picture, playing the theme from Mission: Impossible that he set as Henrik's ringtone roughly an age ago. It seemed fitting at one point - he's got Capello in there as something suitably doomy and Wagnerian that he thinks might be Ride of the Valkyries, Alex Del Piero's is a silly, beaming picture taken after training one day and set to the sound of some Avril Lavigne song, the title of which Zlatan's happy to say he can't recall, and Henke is Mission: Impossible, dressed in a tuxedo and doing his best - and conversely also his worst - James Bond impression. He'd use the Bond theme but he doesn't have it and can't be bothered to download it. Mission: Impossible works just as well and besides, he thinks Ethan Hunt's cooler than James Bond.
The phone stops ringing and he can't decide whether he's bothered by that or not. He keeps looking at it for a minute, at the notice that tells him he's missed a call though he knows he's missed a call and he didn't miss it so much as he just didn't accept it, but it doesn't ring again so he slips it back into his pocket, having to shift slightly so he can get it into his jeans while he's sitting. Then he leaves and he's not the last one - when he walks out he's half sure he catches a glimpse of Gigi helping Zambrotta with his tie and that's slightly surreal because he's not totally convinced that Gigi actually knows how to tie a tie. And he walks out into the car park, locates his car, walks past Pavel who's leaning against the driver's side door of his own car and speaking in what's almost an animated tone for him in what Zlatan's fairly sure must be Czech; he's heard Pavel speak Czech before and it's odd just how different he sounds when he speaks it, not just because Zlatan doesn't understand a word he's saying. Pavel's always so much more subdued in Italian, which is odd in a way considering the Italians in the team and how they are, on the whole, so much more expressive than the rest of them. Zlatan thinks that has something to do with the language but he can't put his finger on exactly what it is about the language. He tells himself he might have more of an idea when he can say more than "mine's a beer" and the obligatory first-learned swear-words.
Pavel raises a hand to him as he walks on past all the Czechness and he nods back as he unlocks his car, slips inside, starts it up. It's not far from the Delle Alpi to his place, the place he's actually still just renting because he can't decide on a place he wants to buy and he just can't be bothered with househunting. Some of his teammates have suggested, jokingly, that he didn't buy because he didn't expect to stay but that's not the case, he came over to Italy thoroughly expecting to fit right in and make himself a bit of a first team fixture within weeks. He's done that, he just hasn't bought a house yet. Maybe it's also got something to do with the fact that he actually likes the place he's renting - it's convenient for both the stadium and the training ground, not too far from town, big enough for him and next to no one knows where he's living. Okay, so it's a flat and not the perfect picture of a sprawling Italian villa that he's got in his head, but it's functional and not far away though that almost counts against it; he actually likes driving, wouldn't have the cars he has if he didn't like it. And with the quiet roads between the Delle Alpi and his flat, it's not long before he's home, taking the lift up to his fourth floor apartment. It's fine, though - sometimes he wants to be home quickly and there are enough quiet roads outside the city to satisfy even his need for speed on the days when he feels like taking a detour. Today, he doesn't.
He tosses his bag onto the nearest chair and bats the door closed with the back of one hand, wincing slightly as his knuckles rap against the wood before he wanders over to the couch and just... sprawls. It's not quite big enough for this if he's honest, though there's a section at the far end with no arm so he's not painfully cramped, but his feet dangle off the end of it when he lies down so he toes off his trainers and pulls up his knees. He thinks about reaching out to the coffee table and grabbing the TV remote but he's not really in the mood for the Simpsons dubbed in Italian or tacky and seemingly pointless gameshows so he doesn't bother, just curls one arm up behind his head and settles back, eyes on the ceiling for a moment before he lets them close. He's not going to sleep, he knows that - he's too wound up from the game and probably won't calm down for couple of hours yet. He always gets like this but lately he has no real way to wind down short of hitting the gym and if he's honest, that's not quite the sort of action he's looking for. Not that he's looking. He bars his other arm over his eyes. He's definitely not looking.
And then the phone rings. Again. It's in his hip pocket, vibrating against him, sending weird little tingles through his thigh, but he doesn't answer it. He's slightly gratified that it's ringing again, finds himself lying there smiling oddly as he tucks one leg in under the other and listens to the ringtone that he knows is Henrik's simply because he doesn't use it for anyone else. It's not that he has a different ringtone for everyone in his phonebook because he doesn't - Freddie, Olof and half the Swedish national team whose numbers he has in there play this terrible monophonic version of the Swedish national anthem to accompany the rather silly pictures they all sat around taking of each other while they were together last, for example, and his old teammates in Holland, the ones he feels like keeping in touch with, all have this truly dreadful tone that he thinks was one of Rafael van der Vaart's slightly more genius ideas.
He can't even say why he's not picking up, exactly. He wants to say that he just hasn't got any interest in talking to him but if that were true he could turn off his phone or cancel the call and he'd get the idea eventually, but he's letting it ring. Maybe he's doing it to see just how many times he'll call before he gets fed up and stops bothering. Maybe he just hasn't got anything to say. Maybe that's it, but he doesn't really know. The smile drops from his face and he wonders what on earth he's doing, why he's ignoring his calls like a bratty teenager when he thought he was past that, but he's still doing it. Still. Because this isn't the first time he's done it, probably won't be the last, and he still can't honestly say why. Usually he tries not to think about the why of it, just lies around and ignores the call knowing that Henrik's at the other end, somewhere, somewhere that's not here, somewhere that's usually another country completely. For a minute while the phone rings he'll know what Henrik's doing, sitting there in his living room or standing by the tinned soup shelves in the local shop or drinking with friends in a bar... it doesn't matter where he is, really, because he knows what he's doing wherever he is. He's waiting for Zlatan to pick up the phone. But he never does.
He knows that if anyone were to find out about this, they'd assume he doesn't care anything for Henrik. He knows that but he also knows that it's not true; he thinks about him sometimes, more often than he'll admit, and he does so with affection. He likes him, has done since they met - he likes to think it's because Henrik never treated him any differently from anyone else, because he never treated him like he was that much younger or like he doesn't fit in, has never been condescending when he does something silly out there, which he'll admit he does rather more often than he really should and even more so when Henrik's not around to keep him in check the way he always seems to. No, Henke's not difficult to get along with. He likes him. They like each other. He's taught him so much. They get on well. So maybe the problem is that they get on better than well.
He's got this image in his head, as he lies there. It's something that actually happened, one night while they were back in Sweden and they were sharing a room, mostly by accident because Freddie was pissed off with him for a reason he's never been able to work out and the next thing he knew, Olof was muttering at him about team spirit and Henke was lounging on the bed where Freddie had been whinging at him just a few minutes before. He still doesn't think that he did anything wrong, even if he doesn't usually think that he's done anything wrong, but Henke actually agreed with him when he tried to explain. He nodded and shrugged and said something vaguely cryptic about how he guessed that it was more about Olof for Freddie than it was about Zlatan; that made absolutely no sense to him and he said so, and so Henrik explained rather patiently, a mischeivous little smile on his face that almost seemed out of place. Olof and Freddie. They were probably going at it right then and there.
He remembers his rather scornful disbelief, and how Henke seemed absolutely sure about it, almost nonchalant as he tugged him up from the bed by one wrist and told him to be absolutely silent as they left the room. He propped the door open with Zlatan's kit bag then took him down the hall, stopped outside the room he'd just swapped out of and motioned for him to listen, so he did; he frowned and then quirked his brows at what he heard. That definitely sounded like Freddie, definitely sounded like Olof, definitely sounded like the two of them together. That was a bit of an eye-opener, to say the least.
What happened next he doesn't really remember well. He remembers walking back to the room with those sounds in his head, wondering exactly what this meant and coming to the conclusion that he was more amused by it than anything, that he was actually surprised he hadn't realised when he thought about it. He remembers looking at Henrik as he closed the door, suddenly feeling every last second of the age difference between them more acutely than he ever had, feeling almost like he was blushing, his cheeks hot. He knows he doesn't blush delicately (so thank God he doesn't blush often), and if he was blushing it must've been a shade of bright tomato-red and would definitely account for the smile Henrik had on his face as he pulled off his shirt. He remembers asking him what he was doing and feeling like an idiot when Henke just shrugged and said he was getting ready for bed, asked him what he'd thought he was doing. And casually, like it wasn't a big deal at all, Henrik gestured at the bulge swelling against the front of his standard-issue national team sweats, asked him if he'd like some help with that.
He felt like a complete fool standing there, his back to the door, which was ridiculous. He was quite aware of how good he was, quite aware that people found him attractive and shouldn't have been blushing like a schoolgirl at the prospect of Henrik Larsson of all people jerking him off or whatever it was that he was proposing to do. He remembers the way his eyebrows crawled up toward his hairline as he found himself wondering exactly what Henrik was proposing. And he nodded. Dry-mouthed and awkward despite himself, despite every other sexual encounter he'd had and enjoyed and usually dominated completely, he nodded and told him yes.
It wasn't like he hadn't done it with a guy before but somehow this was different. Everything else had been a quick fumble in the changing rooms after training or the back room of a bar back at Ajax and no, not this, not Henrik's hands warm on his skin as he inched down the waist of his sweats, looked up at him with a smile of vague amusement as he wrapped his hand around him, stroked him slowly. He only did it once, twice, before he pulled back his hand and tugged up Zlatan's shirt, raising his brows and looking at him pointedly until he got the hint and pulled off his shirt himself. Henrik flicked idly at one newly-exposed nipple and Zlatan couldn't quite manage a smirk, stood there bewildered by his lack of self-control; he couldn't even manage his usual swagger to move over to the bed as if he didn't really care about this one way or the other, actually strode over quickly, pulled off his sweats without Henrik having to say a word about it and lay down on his choice of the twin beds. He tried to affect that breezy, nonchalant look, the same one that Henrik had had since he'd entered the room the first time, the same one he usually had himself, but he just couldn't do it, not with Henrik standing there at the end of the bed looking so damn amused by it all and pulling off the rest of his clothes.
He'd been naked around him before, of course - it's the sort of thing you can't really avoid when you play on the same team and occasionally end up sharing a room. Still, this was different. A hell of a lot different, for various reasons, not the least of which being that he had a hard-on and so did Henrik. He felt so damn far from balanced, not really comfortable at all but that was okay because it felt like a good idea somehow, though he wasn't entirely sure how that could be if he actually felt strangely nervous when Henrik knelt on the edge of the mattress then moved over him. He didn't expect that Henrik thought he was a virgin because the thought was obviously absurd... he didn't really know what to expect, if he was honest, because he'd never thought he could end up in a situation like this with him; Freddie, maybe, and he'd have liked to do him, but it'd never happened and he guessed he knew why then considering what he'd heard going on in Olof's room. And God, was he really desperate enough to fuck Henke? Apparently so, even though he'd never really seen him as even remotely sexual before. And it didn't dawn on him for a good couple of minutes after that that Henrik wasn't the one on his back, that Henrik was going to be the one doing the fucking.
Zlatan has a clear memory of the moment he realised. The look on his face must've been absolutely priceless, blank for a second before a quirk of his brows and a surprised "oh" that made Henrik laugh out loud. He doesn't think he was apprehensive about it, just shocked - he'd never really considered the possibility of, well... that; not like this, at least, because he might've had a go a couple of times before, just quick ones on the losing end of a bet or after a match, not in a bed, not face to face, not even naked and definitely not with the way Henrik was gliding his palms up over his shins, over his thighs, shifting his knees apart. He'd never had anyone nudge him like that, with an oddly sardonic grin that wasn't actually meant to be sardonic at all, until he parted his thighs and shifted his hips - he'd never really felt anyone's thighs against the back of his own as they knelt there and ran their hands over his stomach and lower, letting their thumbs come round to circle the base of his cock. Being with a guy never excited him that much, like a fluttering in his stomach, a tingle, a shiver as he felt Henke's breath against his already heated skin.
This is where his memory becomes somewhat fuzzy. He remembers the way Henrik leant down off the bed and searched around in his bag, remembers the way he watched him as he coated himself with the lube he'd been carrying around with him for some reason that Zlatan's never been able to discern even though he's asked him since - Henrik's always insisted that he wasn't seeing anyone else and Zlatan believes him because he's got no real reason not to. He remembers the way his stomach clenched tight as Henrik moved closer, stroked his thighs and positioned himself right up against him, the sensation of it different from every other time somehow, maybe in the position of it, maybe because it wasn't going to be the hard-and-fast(-and-usually-fairly-painful) affair that he was used to. Henrik looked at him and leant down, over him; Zlatan remembers the odd feeling then of being penetrated, the way Henrik felt in those first moments as he slipped inside him, pushed into him, knowing how tight he was around him and wondering how he felt to him, wondering if he was pleased though usually he had so much confidence brimming in him that he wouldn't have to wonder at all. From the look on his face he guessed that he was pleased, though. And himself... God, well, the least he could say is it didn't hurt. Not really. Not when Henrik settled down inside him, right up against him, leaning down at an almost awkward angle so that their faces were inches apart, not when he somehow managed to brush his lips against his jaw and heard the slight rasp it made against his unshaven skin. He doesn't know how he managed to hear it over the insistent thudding of his own heart as he tried to relax, or his breath that he couldn't keep from coming in that slightly ragged way.
Then Henrik moved. He remembers that, the first movement, because it was so damn intense, making his breath catch. He might've cursed, he thinks, but he doesn't really know; he thinks he squeezed at Henrik's arms just a little too tightly and made him curse, but he can't really remember. He does remember that he bit down on his lip hard enough that he tasted blood and he'd never done that before, not intentionally, and hasn't done it since. He remembers how it felt even if he can't remember the time scale, doesn't know how long it was from closing the door to Henrik pushing inside him, doesn't know how long from that first shift of Henrik's hips and thrust inside him to the moment he came, one leg somehow having found its way up around Henrik's waist and his fingers grasping hard at the sheets, tensing right down the length of his spine and through his thighs, his calves, right down to his toes. Henrik had managed to steady himself on one forearm and thrust into him, harder, faster, as he slipped one hand between them, jerking Zlatan completely out of time with everything else. He gasped and came so damn hard with his back arched, and Henrik wasn't long after, with a sound that wasn't quite like anything Zlatan had ever heard from him but still completely and inimitably him, just like the whole thing was somehow.
But the image he has in his head is actually of what happened after all of that. Henrik looked down at him, breathing hard; he shifted, pulled out of him carefully, kneeling up and pulling something from the side of the bed to wipe them both off, with little more than a cursory little flick or two though it still seemed fairly successful. Then he looked at him again, still kneeling there between Zlatan's thighs, and eventually he moved again, rearranged them both until they were both lying on their sides and Zlatan somehow ended up spooned up behind him, one arm slung over his waist. He thinks about that now, how they managed to lie there together in a single bed that was almost too small for Zlatan as it was even without the extra body, how he felt perfectly calm even though he was still very much naked and pressed right up against the back of another man. A particular man. He didn't realise at the time that Henrik must've done that on purpose, known how he was closing in on the edge of freaking out at having given up control so willingly, and the gesture... it ostensibly put him back where he thought he ought to be even though technically it was still Henke's idea. It calmed him down and Henrik seemed to like it, twisted in his arms slightly and looked at him just far enough away that Zlatan's vision didn't quite blur to look him in the eye. He didn't expect his mouth on his, not really, and didn't expect to like it. But he did.
That's what he sees. That moment, not lifted from context, not as a snapshot but with everything that went before it and everything he knows that came after, all there at once. But mostly he does see that moment, how he brushed his fingers against Henke's stomach, how after a while he pulled back, how he reached over and turned off the lights, how he smirk-smiled against the back of his neck, his nose pressed to the odd prickle of Henrik's shaved head. He remembers how it felt, pressed to him in that way instead of there being a bright yellow football shirt or two between them and an audience of thousands. It was a revelation. They didn't have to be just teammates, roommates, something close to friends - they could have this, too, and he liked it. He actually wanted it and maybe that was the odd thing about it, that he'd done it once and hadn't had enough, thought maybe he'd like to do it again, maybe again after that. Maybe he could get used to it, because everything with Henke was so familiar anyway.
Of course, he always knew it couldn't last. He's always known it, even in that moment, definitely knows it now as he lies there and lifts his arm from over his eyes, blinks to get rid of the blur. It's getting dark but he can't be bothered to move, stand and go turn on the lights, so he lies there and watches the shadows as they fall across the room, watches the space turn dark at a rate that seems just a little too fast to be normal. He doesn't do this often, mostly because he doesn't like to be alone with his thoughts and spends a lot of time out with other people, and because he's so damn active, spends so much time in the gym that's only a couple of minutes' walk from his flat. But sometimes all he wants to do is lie there and think about it, wonder why he doesn't pick up the phone. He pulls it from his pocket, looks at the screen and sees that little message on the screen again, reminding him of the missed call. He just cancels it, reaches over and puts the phone on the table, not tilting his head because he'd rather not be brought back quite yet by the sight of the room itself, the things in it that connect him to his everyday life like the bag in the chair and the television that spends its life on standby because he learned quite quickly that he'll never remember to turn it on at the set before flopping heavily onto the couch. He wants to clear his head. He's really not sure how to do it.
Eventually, he gives up. The room's too warm for him to really let everything spill out of his head and if he moves from the couch then he'll lose everything he's already worked out and be right back at the beginning. So, he gives up, just a little, turning his head far enough to see over to the television, the little red standby light seeming rather brighter than usual in the relative dark; he almost reaches over for the remote but he still doesn't feel like immersing himself in Italian television any more than he wants to read that Italian car magazine that's sitting on the table right by the remote. Maybe there's something in Swedish or Dutch or something he'll stand a better chance of understanding in another room but he doesn't want to move, just wants to lie there and stop trying to form sentences in Italian in his head when he knows that he doesn't know the words and he's not about to resort to digging out the dictionary quite yet. Sometimes it's so damn frustrating to feel like he's the only one around who isn't Italian or doesn't speak the language almost fluently at least. And he tells himself that's why he picks up the phone from the table.
It's not, of course, but he's not thinking about that as he scrolls through his phonebook, past Alex, Capello, Freddie, Gigi, so many others that he's not entirely sure he knows who all of them are anymore, and finds the number he's got saved as Henrik though he doesn't usually call him that. He wonders if he thought it'd be less suspicious that way or if he was just in a weird mood when he set up the phonebook entry and hasn't bothered to change it since, because he has no idea how it could seem suspicious at all unless he'd saved him as "Zlatan's homosexual lover" or words to that effect and he doesn't think that'd fit in the name field. He looks at it, long enough that the screen light goes off and he has to press a button to bring it back on before he lets his forefinger linger over the button to call. He hates this phone but doesn't want to change it even though the buttons are a bit too small - he never thought he'd be saying that he'd found a gadget too small, probably because he's got fairly abnormally large hands. They're the right size for his body so it's not like he notices that he has large hands most of the time, only when he's trying to send a text message in a hurry or he has Henrik playing with his fingers in that slightly obnoxious way that amuses them both rather than annoying him. Henrik says he likes his hands, his fingers, likes to watch as Zlatan strokes him or himself, likes to feel his fingers inside him to the point where he's perfectly capable of getting off just from that. Once he told him he thinks about that sometimes, while he jerks himself off, and now sometimes Zlatan gets off on thinking about him getting off thinking about it.
"Pronto."
Zlatan blinks, frown, shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Stop fucking joking, Henke," he says. "You don't want to speak Italian any more than I do." And Henrik chuckles almost smugly, except Henrik's never really smug and if he were then Zlatan probably wouldn't wouldn't mind anyway.
"You're right." He knows he's right, and he mutters something to that effect. "Zlatan, Do you think you could pick up the phone when I call? Just once? Maybe?"
His lips quirk slightly. He's missed the way he says his name, the way that no one he's met in Turin can quite manage. "Maybe."
"I'll take that as a no, then." He can almost hear the eyeroll in Henke's voice, but it's nothing to worry about, this is just how they are, playful in their sparring, familiar as ever. They both like it. This is the sort of thing he misses, what he can't do yet in Italian and which ends up being lost if he tries it around here in any other language. God, he misses this. Every time, he misses this. Maybe more acutely now, he thinks. Maybe more acutely than ever.
"So, where are you?" he asks, after a short, comfortable silence.
"Guess."
He shrugs, knowing full well he can't be seen and doing it anyway. "I don't know. Barça?"
"Nope. Guess again."
"So you're in Sweden."
"Nope. You're not even close."
"You're... uh. Where the fuck are you?" He frowns, rubs the bridge of his nose; he's never been fond of guessing but he does it for Henrik because he knows he's not supposed to be right anyway, and he very rarely is right with him when he's not supposed to be. It's not supposed to be vindictive, just playful, though Zlatan does usually tire of it rather quickly and Henrik knows that, Zlatan guesses, because he always seems to know everything else. He's like an open book to him and maybe that would bother him if he'd ever used it against him. He hasn't. He doubts he ever will.
"Try your door."
Zlatan's heart skips and he frowns, sitting up and hauling himself from the couch; he strides across the room just a little too quickly, the phone still pressed to his ear as he walks and reaches for the handle. But he's not at the door, and Zlatan realises that he really was almost expecting it, maybe even from the moment he asked where he was. He knows he shouldn't be disappointed but he is, doesn't really know how he could've expected it when he's not sure that Henrik even knows where he lives, is probably just ribbing him in that way that's not quite cruel but not quite not cruel. He's got an odd sense of humour sometimes.
"You're not at the door."
"Did I say I was?"
He sighs, closes the door, rests his forehead against the back of it as he answers that question. "No, you didn't." He takes a deep breath and sighs again, turning, resting his back against the door as he runs a hand over his hair. Sometimes he wishes he hadn't cut it - it was great for tugging melodramatically when he felt frustrated. "Look, where are you?"
"Try your front door."
"You're not funny."
"I know I'm not. Just try it, would you? Humour me."
So he does, just to humour him. He pushes himself away from the door and walks over to the window, not really walking so much as half-stamping and flinging himself along with a long-suffering huff. He steps around the couch and up to the window, pulling down a slat of the Venetian blind and peering down as if he's actually going to see anything apart from the road and the small park at the other side, maybe a few pedestrians or the annoying kid from the ground floor flat who keeps so nearly running into him on a beaten-up skateboard. But he doesn't see that. He sees the road and he sees a taxi, sees the door open and sees... a man in a wooly hat. A man in a wooly hat who looks up, a mobile phone held to his ear. And the wooly-hatted man smiles, waves.
"Why don't you come down now?" He's not on crutches anymore, not that he expected he would be, but he was the last time he saw him. It's been too long. God, it's been so long. His face breaks into a grin and he laughs, shaking his head.
"I'll be right there," he says, and he hangs up, watches from his window just long enough to see Henke do the same, slipping his phone into his pocket. Then he turns and he dodges back around the end of the couch, jogs across the room, grabs his keys. He lets himself out and he stops for a moment, thinks: the stairs or the elevator? He looks between the two and heads for the stairs - he doesn't want to wait. He can't believe he's here. He's not supposed to be here, he's supposed to be calling from a bar in Stockholm or physio in... he doesn't even know where he's having the physio. He'll have to ask, he thinks. That and how on earth he knows his address, not that he really cares how he found him without asking him. He doesn't even care how long he can stay. He's just glad he's there.
He slips his phone into his jeans pocket as he jogs down the stairs, almost dropping it as he does so, and he wonders again, can't help but do it. Maybe he'd have seen him sooner if he'd picked up this time instead of making him wait they way he always does, but he'll never know that for sure because he's not going to ask when Henke got there and he's got a feeling he won't tell. Maybe, he thinks as he moves down, faster, almost fast enough to trip if he's not careful, he doesn't pick up because he misses him, and this makes sense in a way even if it makes no sense, even if he does call back every time. Maybe he's just acting the way everyone says he acts, like a big, bratty, sulking kid. And he shouldn't be surprised by that, not at all. It's the way he always is when Henrik's not around, like he steadies him when he's there, like he balances him out. And now he's just downstairs.
It'll be good to see him; it'll be good to hear his voice. It'll be good to hear his language, too, because maybe now he'll be able to switch off the Italian, recharge before he starts back in on it again that way that always leaves him drained more often than he'd like to admit. And it's ridiculous, he knows, all of this. Because all he really needs to do is pick up the phone.
***