i hear your sighs, i hear your heartbeat pounding on my back.
title: treat your life like a tragedy
pairing: cristiano ronaldo/ruud van nistelrooy (cristiano ronaldo/other)
rating: nc-17
warnings: prostitution, mentioned violence.
notes: for mina_pak, who asked for something else and got this instead.
There's something inherently wrong about this. Ruud feels it at the back of his neck, the odd prickle of hair standing on end, feels it in the sweaty palms of his hands, the soursick taste in the back of his mouth. He downed beer after beer, one, two, three, in quick succession before he arrived, trying to find some courage, liquid or not; if only it had stayed down. He threw up in the alley outside the building (his vomit mixing with piss and a few other unsavory liquids on the dirty cement) before taking the lift up, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, and now he's here, in a stranger's home, stone cold sober and completely unsure what he's supposed to do. The only thing he is sure of is that this is wrong, wrong, wrong.
The flat is nice enough, decorated to look expensive, but Ruud can see the rough edges: the ashtray full of cigarette butts on the coffee table, the scuffed trainers half-shoved under the couch, a glimpse into the dim kitchen that shows a sinkful of dirty dishes. There's a distinctly feminine touch to the decor, all reds and golds, but these things, these small objects, are all man. Or more specifically: boy.
The boy in question is standing before Ruud, only a few feet away. He's dressed in a loose pair of silk pants and nothing else, all gleaming skin and dark hair in the pale lamplight, shadows highlighting the definition in his arms and chest. Boy is the correct term; he can't be anything more than nineteen, still possessing the elusive slenderness that edges away at twenty-five and seems gone forever at thirty. But his eyes, his impossibly dark eyes, look at Ruud and seem to say everything he's ever wanted to hear, all of that and more. He's beautiful and inviting and so clearly a prostitue that Ruud almost wants to laugh.
He doesn't. Instead, he says, "I think there's been some mistake."
The boy tilts his head to the side like an animal, like a dog, his eyes never leaving Ruud. His hands drop down to his waist, fingers curling and twisting in the ties of his pants, drawing Ruud's attention down to the flat expanse of stomach. "Mistake?"
"Yeah. Um, yes. I just - I'm not supposed to be here."
"Ruud, your friend show me picture." The boy moves forward, just a step, and Ruud takes two back, frowning. "Not that he need to. Who doesn't know Ruud van Nistelrooy?"
Ruud doesn't speak, doesn't move. The boy just keeps coming closer, his movements slow, easy, careful not to startle Ruud, to scare him off, though something tells him the kid's not really worried about that. His eyes glitter with knowledge and if Ruud wanted to know anything about the boy's abilities, he doesn't need Neville's dirty whisper in his ear, he only needs this, this look, this moment between them. Ruud means to step back, means to retreat to the door and escape entirely, write this whole night off as a nightmare, but he's too slow, doesn't even have his feet moving before the boy is there, just a touch away. He drops the ties of his pants, hands brushing close, rustling Ruud's clothing lightly, and then everything is moving so quickly he simply forgets to leave.
The boy leans in or maybe he does, or maybe they meet somewhere in the middle, lips open and damp. The kiss isn't awkward or chaste or anything Ruud might have expected, it's sloppy and wet and intense, and he loses his shirt sometime between the first time their lips meet and the seventh. Only when he finds himself in the bedroom, the boy pushing him back onto satin sheets, eyes sparkling in the dark, does he pause.
"Wait, wait," he breathes. "I don't even know your name."
His answer is another kiss, this one low on his body, blurred syllables murmured into the crease where thigh meets hip: "Ronnie."
*
It's so sordid, so embarrassing to think about that Ruud simply doesn't.
The morning after isn't what he expects, just the way Ronnie's kiss (and all that came after) wasn't what he expected. There's tea and toast waiting for him when he rises, and a sticky note on the counter beside it all. Jogging, it reads, stay as long as you like. He does. Ronnie comes back on Ruud's third glass of orange juice, cheeks flushed, dark hair glossy with sweat, wet under Ruud's fingers when he pulls the boy close. They shower together, the boy dropping to his knees beneath the stream of water, looking up with those eyes the entire time, while he closes his lips around the head of Ruud's cock, while he slips one hand between Ruud's thighs and all the way back, while Ruud's breath hitches and he comes. It's only afterwards, when Ruud finds himself alone in the quiet of his car, pondering just what exactly he's supposed to say to his wife when he gets home, that he realizes he's slept with a hooker. A possibly underage hooker.
He just can't let himself think about it.
"Have a nice night?" Leontien chirps when he comes through the front door. Ruud looks at her for a moment, silent; she's wearing his favorite dress, a simple, white garment that reminds him of their wedding day. When he doesn't respond, she continues, "Don't look so surprised. Gary called this morning while you were still asleep on his couch, explained it all. He tried to wake you up to talk but apparently someone went a little overboard last night."
She comes closer, one of her hands reaching out for his hip. He shudders. There's a bruise there, a bruise in the shape of some kid's mouth, some kid who fucks men for a living, a kid who fucked her husband, and she has her hand right on it.
"I don't mind if you have a boys night out, honey, you know that. Just call me next time, alright? Let me know that you're not coming home."
Ruud nods, grunts something that could be yes, and watches her walk away. He slides his jacket off of his shoulders, hangs it carefully, heads up to his bedroom (their bedroom) to change his clothes. He counts the stairs up, one, two, three, and doesn't think about how easy it all was.
*
"So," Gary grins.
Ruud doesn't look at him. "So?"
"Don't give me that. How was he?"
A pause.
"He wasn't what I was expecting."
Laughter. "He never is, Ruud. Make sure to go back for seconds, he's even better once you wear him in."
*
The second time isn't anywhere near as dramatic. The guilt is worse, stronger, but he doesn't need alcohol to get him there, up in that same dirty lift, into that same apartment. He knows he shouldn't do it but he knows he's capable of it. He wonders if it gets better each time, easier to handle, like the dull pain of a headache, something you can push to the back of your mind until it becomes static, just another thing you don't think about. He wonders if he can write his infidelities off that easily, wonders if he already has.
Ronnie answers in a pair of jeans, the denim clinging to the lines of his thighs, and a shirt worn so thin Ruud can almost see his chest through it. His hair is soft and unstyled and the television is playing in the living room, a bowl of cereal sitting forgotten on the coffee table when Ruud's let in, but the boy smiles like he was expected. "I, uh, hope I'm not interrupting. I would have called but I don't have your number. I suppose I could have asked Gary," he mumbles, but Ronnie shushes him with a soft click of his tongue as he tugs Ruud's coat down of his shoulders, urging him further into the room.
"Do you want anything?" the boy asks in a language so clearly not his first, smiling. "Tea?"
Ruud shakes his head. They're standing on opposite sides of the room, Ruud near the couch and the coffee table with the half-full bowl of cereal, Ronnie still by the door, an ocean of carpet between them. Ronnie steps forward, just one step, and Ruud flinches. The boy notices, his lips tilting down in the shadow of a frown, but he doesn't say anything, just continues on. He picks up the bowl, spoon clinking against the side, reaches for the remote to flip the television off.
"You're a very strange man, Ruud," Ronnie says as he tidies the room, not looking at Ruud, focused on his task. "Not like others. I think maybe you do not enjoy our time together the other night but then here you are. I think maybe you not come back, but." He stops, frown broadening. The bowl is placed on top of the television, hands curled around the kid's hips as he turns to Ruud, shaking his head. After a beat, a slow, considering minute, he asks, "What do you want?"
"You know what I want," Ruud replies, his voice gruff.
The boy's eyes spark. There's something graceful about him, something almost elegant despite his surroundings, his cheap clothes, but his movements are unusually jerky as he crosses the room on quick feet, stopping only a breath away from Ruud. Ruud moves to step back but Ronnie's hands are at his waist, keeping him there, his body pressing in close until Ruud can feel the heat of his skin through the thin material of his shirt. His words are angry, a dare. "Then take it."
Ruud shakes his head. "I can't. Don't you see? I have a life, I have a career and a family, a wife. If anyone were to find out about this, it would ruin me."
"You think I tell."
"No. No, that's not it. I just." Ruud tries to pull away, tries to back up once more, but Ronnie doesn't let him go. He breathes in, shudders, sighs. Shakes his head "I don't know why I'm doing this."
Ronnie doesn't smile or laugh at him, just looks at Ruud with his calm, understanding eyes. "I'll tell you why," he promises.
*
He looks ethereal in the moonlight, otherworldly, not like an angel but a demon, dark and gorgeous, made of sin. In the afternoon sun he's even more beautiful, light catching on the sharp angles of his shoulderblades, turning the curves and twists of his body soft, gentle, his skin warm beneath Ruud's open palms. They try to find some understanding like this, sprawled out across the scratchy carpet of the living room floor, searching for some middle ground between Ruud's hesitation and Ronnie's complete willingness. Ronnie hitches one leg up around Ruud's waist, heel settling in the small of back, and Ruud presses into the space between the boy's thighs.
Ruud doesn't have much experience with this, clearly, but he thinks this boy is different from the others. He seems so sincere, so eager to please, so wanting, and Ruud can't convince himself that it's all an act. Maybe Ronnie's just that good, maybe he was made for this and Ruud's just another stupid john, handing over his wallet for one fleeting moment of this beautiful, beautiful boy's affection. Maybe it's really all as dirty as Ruud thinks it would sound if he ever voiced it. Maybe he's just fooling himself into thinking it's not.
But Ronnie gasps when he pushes in, back arching, skin slick between Ruud's fingers, and he's hard and trembling when Ruud reaches down between them. Bom, bom, he whispers against Ruud's mouth. He's balanced over Ruud's thighs, one arm hooked behind his neck, Ruud's hands sliding down to his back to hold him there, and there's no space between them, not even a breath, and even if the words are spoken in a language he doesn't understand, he knows what they mean. He's never felt this close to someone. His hips rock up and Ronnie shudders so violently Ruud flinches, stops, mutters, Did I-? The boy shakes his head, says, sharply, No, no. Please, keep going. Please.
The boy comes with a cry that Ruud muffles with his mouth. His body is tight, perfect, damp against Ruud's chest, and Ruud follows quickly after him, dropping his head to the curve of the boy's neck. Their heartbeats are loud in the silence, thundering, echoing, and it takes a while before Ronnie's breathing settles, before they finally pull apart, separating sticky bodies with a laugh, a kiss.
Later, at the door, Ruud fists a hand in Ronnie's hair, pulls him close and kisses him fiercely, and knows, knows, the tremble in the naked body against him is real. "Thank you," he murmurs. He pays, doesn't even think about not, and Ronnie takes the money with a smile. The boy leans against the frame of the open door, still bare, unconcerned with who might see, watching until Ruud slips into the lift, the doors closing behind him.
On the ride down, Ruud smiles faintly. He has his answer.
*
A part of Ruud expects it to end after that, thinks that once was just a taste, not enough, but twice was all that he needed, all it took to sate him. Another part knows that's a lie, knows that there isn't enough to satisfy him and that there never will be. He doesn't know which one is right, thinks maybe he never even needed this in the first place and that they're both wrong, that he just goes back to punish himself because some dark streak inside of him refuses to let him be happy, wants to ruin his marriage and his career, and Ronnie was simply the first weapon it found. He doesn't know the answers to these questions, doesn't know his own intentions, but he goes back. He always goes back.
The boy gives Ruud his story in bits and pieces. Sometimes Ruud thinks these brief stories, the offhanded comments about his past Ronnie makes without even seeming to realize it, are what bring him back, not just the sex - though the sex is undoubtedly the best he's ever had, certainly worth the price he pays. They're never much, most of the time Ronnie closes off when Ruud asks a question, but sometimes, sometimes he'll talk.
"Portugal," he answers. They're lying in bed together, the dim light of the moon filtering in through the open window and the burning point of Ronnie's cigarette the only light in the room, Ruud's fingertips rubbing slow circles on the inside of the boy's thighs. "Madeira Island. My parents worked in the banana plantations but I lived in the city with my uncle. He was a writer, a poet. Not very good, but he make a living. Enough to send me to school."
Ruud's hands scale the slope of Ronnie's body, past his hips and up his chest, moving up to brush across the faint smile-lines around the boy's mouth. "How did you end up in Manchester?"
Ronnie purses his lips around the filter of the cigarette. His eyes are veiled, unfathomable, and Ruud doesn't think he'll get anything this time. But a minute later, Ronnie shrugs, a curl of smoke drifting between them as he looks at Ruud. "A promise," he says, "but things, I don't know. Things don't always work out the way you expect. What can you do?"
Ruud doesn't have an answer for him.
There are things he can trick himself into believing (that this is okay, that he's not a horrible person, that no one will ever find out) but that he'll stop coming back, stop wantingneedingcraving this, is not one of them. Whether it's the stories or the sex or something else entirely, days, weeks, months pass and Ruud still goes. His wife doesn't suspect often, but when she does, when she smells Ronnie on him, when she wonders where all his time is spent, it's easy for him to lead her off the trail. Maybe he's ruining his life with this, intentionally or not, but the one thing he knows with all certainty he can muster is that he'll always, always go.
*
The line goes staticky and Ruud coughs, thinks he's misheard.
"What?"
"I'm going back to Holland."
"What, you're - why? When?"
Leontien sighs. "You know why. You're so distant, Ruud. I tried to give you a chance but you're always running off, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and you're gone. What do you expect me to think?"
"It's not. I'm not-"
"No," she interrupts. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to stay with my mother, I'll be back in a week. Until then, Ruud-"
He holds his breath.
"-don't call."
*
At first, Ronnie refuses. He tenses when Ruud suggests it, muscles coiling, pulling too-long limbs out of reach, scooting up towards the head of the bed. "No," he says, shaking his head, "this is a very bad idea, Ruud. No."
Ruud frowns, no, pouts, his lower lip jutting out, his eyebrows drawing together. Ronnie glares. A change of tactics and Ruud dips his head down, lips pressing a kiss just above the band of Ronnie's briefs, ghosts his nose against the dusky skin there. There's a sigh above him. He continues on, fingers slipping beneath the white material, brushing past more skin and tight curls, and Ronnie's legs come open so easy, like they always do. "Say yes," Ruud whispers, his thumb dragging the band of elastic down.
"No," Ronnie groans.
Cotton slides down over his hips, Ronnie lifting up to help, and Ruud licks a hot stripe down his belly, listens to the boy's low, shuddery moan. He takes him in his mouth, just barely, the tip hot and heavy against his tongue, Ronnie's eyes screwed shut when he looks up. Ruud drags his nails down Ronnie's thighs, edges his mouth down a bit farther, then pulls away completely.
"Say yes."
Ronnie lets out an inarticulate yell and before Ruud can even think to get out of the way, he's greeted by a face-full of pillow. He laughs, laughs harder than he has in years, all while he's beaten repeatedly with the pillow, face red with amusement by the time he finally rolls off the bed. Ronnie glares at him from his place amid the messy sheets, drops the pillow down to cover his lap, says, "Go, you horrible man. Go and leave me be."
Ruud's still laughing as he pulls on his jeans. "Come on, give me a break. How about if we win, eh? If I win my match will you say yes?"
Ronnie settles back against the other pillows, brushing a hand through his messy hair, over his swollen mouth. He looks at Ruud, silent for a moment before he gives a half-shrug, one shoulder tilting up as he says, "I will think about it."
Ruud grins; that's enough. He drops the notes on the top of the dresser, pauses briefly by the bed to stretch across the mattress, brush a kiss across Ronnie's pliant mouth, and then he's out the door, celebration already on his mind.
*
"We won," Ruud says, expectant.
"Yes, I watch. That Rooney was very good, no? You think maybe you get me his autograph?"
"Ronnie."
A beat. "What?"
"You know what. Say yes."
"I said I think about it."
"Don't. Don't turn me down. I can, I. I'll pay you double. Triple, if you want. Just tell me yes."
Ruud can hear the boy shake his head.
"Stop. It's not money, you know it's not"
Exasperated. "Then what? We won, we won for you. Just, please. I want you here. With me."
"You make it sound easy, Ruud. It’s not," Ronnie says, voice tired. "What if she comes back? You think of that?"
"She won't."
Silence. A sigh, then, "Pick me up in an hour."
*
Ruud can see Ronnie's hesitancy in the tense lines of his shoulders, the vaguely apprehensive look on his face, the way his fingers curl tight around the strap of his overnight bag. He stares at the house in front of him like it's a ghost, a monster, something dangerous, and Ruud has to tug his hand a few times before he'll move again, let himself be lead up to the door. Ruud realizes, as he turns the key, glancing back over his shoulder at the boy, that this is the first time Ronnie has ever balked, the only time he's ever not given Ruud what he wants explicitly.
"It's okay," Ruud soothes once they're inside, taking the bag from him, taking his coat, kissing the bend of his neck and the curve of his shoulder. "She's not here, no one's here. It's just us."
The boy turns around, steps back, looks at him with those dark eyes sterner than Ruud's ever seen them. "I have rule. No going in the bedroom. I will do whatever you want anywhere else, but you don't touch me in her room. You agree?"
Ruud answers him with a kiss. Ronnie makes a brief noise of protest, fingers digging into Ruud's sides, trying to push him away, but Ruud doesn't move, just pushes the lithe body in his arms up against the wall, pins him there. He gets a thigh between Ronnie's legs, rubs just right, and the protest dissolves, Ronnie moaning into his mouth as he bucks up, hands no longer pushing but clinging, pulling Ruud closer.
"Strip," Ruud orders when they part, breathing hard into the space between them. "I'm going to bend you over the back of the couch and fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked before, until you beg me to stop, until you can't sit or stand or move a fucking inch without feeling me there inside you. And then, then you're going to promise me that you'll never make me wait for an answer that long again."
The boy trembles. His eyes are wide, staring at Ruud like he's never seen him before, and Ruud might regret it, might regret treating Ronnie like every other man in his life must treat him, like fucking Neville must treat him, but the boy moves before he can, peeling off shirt and jeans and underwear until he's bare before Ruud, completely naked, and hard; his erection looks almost painful. He bites his lip to stifle a moan when Ruud reaches forward, but the hand only goes to his hip, slapping as he whispers harshly, "Move."
Maybe this is pushing a line, one that was never meant to be crossed, but Ruud feels no remorse as he follows the kid down the hall. The living room's decorated in the paint his wife picked out and the furniture they bought together, pictures of them litter the mantel, some from their wedding, some from their honeymoon, some from the years after. Ronnie drapes himself over the back of the couch like he's used to this, spreading his legs wide, fingers gripping the fabric tight. The muscles in his back flex, tense, when Ruud presses up behind him, denim rough against his bare skin. Ruud leans his body flush against Ronnie's back, hands sliding down the boy's arms to his wrists, holding them down, biting the back of his neck like an animal showing its dominance, and nothing has ever felt this good.
He fucks the kid there, just like he said he would, hardfastdeep, rougher than he's ever been before, and Ronnie comes without even being touched, muffling his sobs against one of the matching throw pillows Leontien had insisted on buying. He leaves a perfect imprint of his teeth on Ronnie's shoulder on his last thrust, a tattoo, a brand, and when he looks at it later, when they're on the couch, not fucking or even touching, just watching a football match on the television, he isn't thinking about his wife.
Don't call, she'd said, and he doesn't.
*
They sleep in the guestroom since Ronnie won't (absolutely refuses to) go into Ruud's bedroom. It's nicer than Ruud could have hoped for, somehow intimate in a way they've never been. He wakes up with his face pressed to the nape of Ronnie's neck, breathing in the sweet scent of the boy's skin mingling with sweat from the night before, his cock full against the warm curve of Ronnie's back. He doesn't do anything, just waits until Ronnie stirs, until the body next to him turns and Ronnie slides on top of him, rocking their hips together in a slow, lazy rhythm until they both come. They do all the usual morning things together, shower, brush their teeth, but Ronnie won't let Ruud do anything once his shaving kit comes out, plucks the razor from his fingers and slides onto the counter, lets Ruud's hands roam over his thighs absently while he slowly drags the sharp edge across Ruud's jaw.
Breakfast comes next, and Ronnie cooks, Ruud watching from the kitchen table while the boy fixes the tea, gets out the eggs. "As a boy, I had to learn. My uncle was a, uh, what is the word? Bachelor?" Ronnie looks for confirmation over his shoulder while he slices a tomato, and Ruud nods, smiles. "I suspect that he never marry because my mama scared him away from women completely as a boy. So I cook for us. I pick recipes up here and there, the women on our street were always willing to help out. They all love me, what can I say." He brings the food over along with their tea. Ruud catches him around the wrist before he can sit, pulling him in for a kiss, muttering thank you into the curve of his mouth.
The first few days, when Ruud has nothing to do, the time they don't spend fucking, they spend outside. Ronnie, Ruud is surprised to find out, plays football, and plays it rather well. He plays barefoot in the grass, stealing the ball away from Ruud and whizzing down to one end of the yard before Ruud even sees the play coming, laughing when they collide, using tricks that Ruud has never been able to do. He looks even younger with the ball at his feet, more the boy that Ruud so often thinks of him as. His laughter is pure, open. You wouldn't expect him to make his money the way he does, to know the things he knows, not when he's playing. Ruud almost asks him about it, the kid's clearly got talent if not perfect technique, but he's smart enough to stop the question before it passes his lips. Besides, he knows enough of Ronnie's story to already have the answer.
Only on the last day of the time Ronnie has agreed to stay does the quasi-domestic haze they've been drifting in crack. Ronnie watches from the bed, a thin sheet draped across his hips, chest bare, his eyes heavy with sleep, as Ruud pulls on his training clothes, sits down on the edge of the mattress to put on his shoes. With his back turned, Ruud voices the one question that's been bothering him, the one question he hasn't dared to ask until now: "Tell me your name."
"What?" comes the boy's voice, warm with a smile.
"Your name," Ruud says. "I want to know it."
A foot nudges him in the back, the mattress dipping as the boy shifts. "You seem to know it last night. Oh, Ronnie. Yes, Ronnie, yes, just like that.”
Ruud doesn’t laugh. “Your real name,” he says, soft.
There’s no answer. Ruud waits, his eyes closed, counting his breaths. Finally, the boy moves behind him, his bare feet slapping against floor as he slides out of the bed, the bathroom door closing quietly behind him. When he opens his eyes, Ruud gets up, glances back to the warm spot in the bed, then leaves.
*
"Sir Alex told me about final. Sorry about that one, mate. But you'll be on the bench, yeah? We're sure to use you."
Ruud glances up from his bag, fingers stilling on the zipper. He's already in his streetclothes, ready to go, the boy he left in the bathroom on his mind, and the locker room has cleared out almost completely, just him and Neville left. Gary walks over to an open locker, his bag on the bench behind him, rubbing his hair dry with a towel, his eyes on Ruud. His face is unreadable.
"Yeah, maybe," Ruud mumbles. He closes his bag, slings the strap over his shoulder. This is the last thing he needs right now, to be talking about the goals he's not scoring (and now, the games he's not playing) and he's sure that Gary's just doing his job as captain, reassurance and all that, but Ruud can't take it, not now. He's almost to the door, hand reaching out to push it open, when Gary stops him.
"Before you go," he says, and when Ruud turns around, he's stepped away from the locker, pulled a shirt over his head, "you haven't seen Ronnie around lately by any chance, have you? You see, we had an appointment yesterday but when I showed up, he wasn't there. He hasn't answered my calls either."
He hasn't even thought about what the past few days have meant for Ronnie, Ruud realizes. He knows Ronnie still has other clients - a word Ruud hesitates to use, but can't find a decent substitute for - he's not dense enough to fool himself into thinking he's the only one these days, even if he does take up most of the boy's time, but he's never put it into context, not like this. He doesn't know what to say, so he just shrugs, "No, sorry."
Gary nods. "Well, if you do see him, tell him I don't much like being kept waiting. It's been a while since I've had that boy on his knees and I might be tempted to come looking for him if he doesn't show up soon. I'd hate if anything untoward were to happen to him, losing a gem like that. It's hard to find one that uses his mouth as well as our Ronnie."
The door is just a step away, in reach, and Ruud knows he should go, knows that doing anything else will send the last of his crumbling calm to pieces. This is Gary, his teammate, his captain, and he should go, he really should, but he's already crossed so many lines that this one hardly seems to matter. He's across the room before he even realizes it, invading Neville's space, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists. He's not touching the other man yet, but he's close.
"Don't you fucking talk about him like that."
"Like what?" Gary asks, stepping closer, unimpressed. "Like a whore? I don't know what's got your head so twisted but that's what he is. So he bats his eyes, plays the innocent schoolboy for you? He's just playing you, Ruud, playing you like all the rest. He only fucks you for what's in your wallet. Don't fool yourself just because he moans pretty."
There's some doubt inside Ruud, some part of him that believes Gary even as he tries not to (the part of him that asks questions, the part of him that digs for answers he doesn't deserve, the ones Ronnie won't give) and it only makes him angrier. He grabs the front of Gary's shirt, yanks him forward until they're chest to chest, voice calm, steady, as he says, "Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you."
Gary only laughs.
"Oh, is that how it is? Be a big man, Ruud, use your fists. Ronnie likes that too, you know. You should hear him when I-"
Ruud hits him. Pain shoots through Ruud's fist like an explosion, but he hears Gary's shocked sound of pain, feels the fabric of his shirt twist free as he falls back, landing sprawled on the floor, and it's worth it. He feels like going after Gary again, shutting that mouth for good, but he's not that far gone. He just shakes his hand, trying to ease the pain, and turns away. He's at the door again, palm touching the wood this time, when Gary's voice sounds again, strained but clear.
"You're just another mark, Ruud. You better realize that before he takes you for all your worth. The boy's not stupid, he's playing you like a fiddle. I suggest you give him one last fuck then get out of there before it's too late. He'll ruin you, Ruud, he'll ruin you and he'll enjoy it."
This time, he leaves.
*
The boy is back in bed when Ruud returns, his prone form covered by a pile of blankets and sheets, only one foot sticking out near the end of the bed. He has his head propped up on a pillow, one hand holding a book a few inches from his face, though Ruud can see his eyelids drooping, half-asleep. There's something building inside Ruud, something low and deep in his gut, and the sight of Ronnie placid and doozy like this doesn't calm him like he thinks it should; it only makes it worse.
"I'm back," he says into the silence. Ronnie jerks awake.
He rubs at his eyes with a fist, closes the book, tosses it to the side of the mattress. It tips over the edge and the bang the spine makes when it hits the floor is loud in the quiet room. Ronnie turns onto his back, sitting half-up, blankets sagging around his waist to show bare skin, too much bare skin, and Ruud wonders if he's been waiting like this, waiting for him to come home. Ronnie's ankle is fragile when he catches it, bones close to the surface. "You startle me," Ronnie hums, then laughs, toes curling as Ruud runs his finger along the arch of the boy's foot.
"Get up," Ruud says softly, "but don't get dressed."
The boy nods, does as told, sliding out from beneath the covers. He's completely bare, his skin sleep-warm as he slides up against Ruud, arms hooking around his waist, leaning up to press a kiss to Ruud's throat. His usual compliancy is back; he's not the boy that thought this was a bad idea, not the boy that grows cold and turns away from questions. He's the first one, the boy that lured Ruud in, that whispered his name against Ruud's skin so soft, like a secret, before fucking him on silk sheets. He's the boy that's been with Ruud the past few days, the one that Ruud's had in almost every room of the house, who rode him in the backyard with his hands fisted in the grass, his face turned up towards the sun; who sucked him off on the kitchen table once they'd both had dessert; who settled against him in the bathtub, slippery and laughing, and kissed Ruud like it meant something. He smiles at Ruud, eyes open and warm, and Ruud almost gives in, almost pulls Ronnie into his arms and kisses him and forgets about everything else. But he can't. Neville's words are still ringing in his ears, and he just can't.
He takes Ronnie by the wrist instead, leads him out of the guestroom and down the hall. Only once they turn the corner and continue past the stairs, only once they pass the bathroom, nearing the one door they've never gone in, does Ronnie show some resistance. "Ruud," he pauses, stumbles, and Ruud keeps going, tugging him along behind. "Ruud, no. I told you, we agree, I. No."
Once they're inside, Ruud locks the door behind him, not that it matters, not that Ronnie's trying to get away. His wrist is still in Ruud's hand, limp, his eyes wide as he looks around the room, takes in everything, the open closet door, the bottles of perfume on the dresser. His gaze comes back to Ruud and he looks so wounded, so fucking hurt, and it's fake, all just an act, a lie. Ruud knows that now and he feels like an idiot for ever thinking otherwise. Ruud steps in, closing the space between them, his free hand dropping down to Ronnie's stomach, fingertips tracing over the flat muscles there, watching the shiver ripple across his skin.
"You've been laughing at me the entire time, haven't you?" Ruud asks. His grip on Ronnie's wrist tightens and the boy frowns, shakes his head. "I was a prime mark, even I can see that. Rich, famous, married. Oh yeah, I bet I was a real challenge. But just fucking me wasn't enough for you, was it? No, no, you wanted more. You wanted to ruin me, to break up my marriage, to make me fall in love with you. Well guess what, you fucking succeeded. Now, get on the bed."
"What? Ruud, no, I-"
"I said, get on the bed."
Ronnie opens his mouth, looks like he's going to protest, to give Ruud a fight, but he doesn't. He just nods, the barest dip of his head, then turns away, his wrist slipping free as he steps across the room. He pauses before getting on the bed and it just fuels Ruud's anger; he doesn't, can't, understand why the kid is still going, still pushing this act, even after Ruud's called him on it. The mattress sinks beneath his knees, Ronnie sliding toward the top of the bed. He sits back against the pillows, his legs stretched out in front of him, dark eyes flickering over to Ruud, his hands fidgetting over his thighs like he doesn't know what to do with them.
"Please, Ruud. I haven't been laughing, not at you," he says, his eyes dipping away. "I'm not. I, I don't know why you think this a game, but I, no, I haven't been playing. I don't lie to you."
Ruud follows him onto the bed, crawling up until he's hovering over the boy, knees on either side of him. He curls a finger beneath Ronnie's chin, tilts his head up, and his gaze comes slowly, hesitantly, but it does come. "Tell me your name and I'll believe you."
The words strike like a blow. Ronnie flinches, closing his eyes, squeezing them shut tight, but he doesn't move away. He leans into Ruud's touch, enfolding the hand on his face with one of his own, pressing it against his cheek. The answer is already there on his face, even with his eyes closed Ruud can tell that he's not going to hear what he wants, not going to get the one answer that he needs. The look of agony on the boy's face when he pulls his hand away is the last step, the last betrayal he can stand.
"Turn around," and his voice is hard, steel. Ronnie's eyes are wet when they flicker open, bright, but he's unmoved. "I don't want to see your face when I fuck you."
"Ruud, please," the boy begs.
But it's too late now, far, far too late. Ruud doesn't believe it, can't. His fingers drop to his belt, pulling leather through metal, murmuring, "Do it." Ronnie makes a harsh sound, a choked, sobbing sound, turning his face away, but after a minute, he moves, shifting over onto his hands and knees. He doesn't move, doesn't say or do anything after that. Ruud undresses slowly, makes him wait, and doesn't think about the way the boy's arms shake as he holds himself up, doesn't think about how he keeps his face down, hidden. It's what he wants, what he's paying for.
The fuck is quick and brutal. Ruud doesn't take much time for preparation and Ronnie drops down to his elbows when he thrusts in, biting back a grunt that Ruud hears anyway, his fingers twisting tight in his hair, forehead pressed flat against the mattress. There's nothing pleasureable about it, each jerk of his hips hollows Ruud out, leaves him empty until there's nothing between them but lies. Neville was right, Neville was right and the joke's on him, but it doesn't matter, not really. Not when Ruud still wants this stranger beneath him, not when he looks at the delicate curve of his spine, the dark curl of hair at the nape of his neck, and aches, feels a loss so deep he doesn't even know how to describe it. He leaves bruises on Ronnie's hips and the minute, the second, he's done, he pulls out.
"You're wrong," Ronnie whispers, and he's finally moved, if only to curl tighter in on himself. He's still facing away and it's some small relief, the only one, because his voice is thick, wet, and Ruud can't look at his face now, knows it's something he just can't handle. "You're wrong."
Ruud gets up from the bed, pushing the sheets down, tossing the condom in the trash. His pants are on the floor in a pile with the rest of his clothes and Ruud picks them up, digs his wallet out of the back pocket. Ronnie's moved when he looks back to the bed, sat up, his legs swung over the side, hands curled around the edge of the mattress, his face still turned down. Ruud puts the money down beside him, sees the jerk in Ronnie's shoulders but doesn't watch long enough to see the look on his face, retreating to the bathroom before it can get that far.
He doesn't recognize himself in the mirror, runs a hand across his face, his eyes, but it doesn't change anything. He can't still the horrible feelings in the pit of his stomach, the apology stuck in the back of his throat. If he stopped to let himself think, he might be able to see it all clearly, the entire story presented to him from beginning to end, but he hasn't thought in so long. Actions are the only thing he has left, and he's had his fill of them.
When he comes back out, the door clicking shut behind him, he's not surprised to see that Ronnie's gone.
*
It takes him a few days to muster up the courage it takes to pick up the phone. It's just, he doesn't know where to begin. His anger has faded, along with the warmth in the bed, the dark stain of cigarette smoke in the air, but that's not enough, it doesn't make up for what he's done. He still can't see the full picture, has Gary's words and Ronnie's small, hurt noises, but they don't add up to anything that makes sense in Ruud's head, he can't tell who's playing who, can't find the liar in the bunch. All he knows, all he cares about, is how big his bed feels at night, how empty and lonely and fucking awful he feels once the sun sets, and it's not his wife he's missing.
On the fourth day he cracks and maybe it's not courage that makes him pick up the phone, maybe it's desperation, pure desperation. "Hello," he says to the answering machine, not surprised that Ronnie left then, not surprised that he doesn't answer now. "It's me. I, well, I haven't heard from you in a few days and I just, I don't know. I've been thinking about what happened, what I did, and I'm an asshole, I know that. But can you just call me or something? I just need to hear from you."
On the fifth day, after he watches the team win from the bench and comes home to an empty machine, he tries again. His voice sticks in his throat, choking, before he can get out: "Ronnie, it's me. You haven't called back, obviously. Look, I'm a bastard and I don't deserve to even hear the sound of your voice, let alone speak to you, but I just, I. I need to know that you're okay. I didn't mean for things to go the way they did, I should have just talked with you instead of, you know, but I fucked up. So, call me back. Please."
Ruud barely remembers the third message at all, only phrases like sorry, so fucking sorry and please, Ronnie, the rest blurred out by the sheer overwhelming panic twisting his insides. He gives the boy one more day, one day to return the messages he might not even be listening to, before he gives up. He can't just sit around, he may be a horrible excuse for a man, but if there's one thing he's not, it's patient. He just can't take the waiting.
The lift's broken, so he takes the stairs up, two at a time.
*
The kid looks like hell when he opens the door. He clearly hasn't been sleeping, his face drawn with exhaustion, the circles under his eyes almost black, and he's not put together like he usually is, wearing a pair of worn pajama bottoms that hang off his hips, hair messy, not even brushed. His mouth though, his mouth is the worst part, swollen, the skin around the corners bruised, his bottom lip split open. There are fingerprints on his neck and of all the things Ruud expected to see, it wasn't this.
"I called," he says.
Ronnie shrugs, "I know."
He stares at Ruud and his eyes say nothing. Ruud expects to be turned away, expects to be denied yet again, but Ronnie only steps back, leaving the door open behind him. Ruud steps in, isn't about to question the gift, just goes inside, takes off his coat, tries to act like everything isn't falling apart.
"What happened?"
Ronnie looks at him over his shoulder, a frown twisting his swollen mouth. "What you think?"
"Who did this?"
"You would not believe me, why should I tell? I playing, right? I lie." His voice is dark, bitter. The living room is a mess, Ruud sees, Ronnie stepping over a torn magazine, a broken bottle, pieces of glass sparkling near his bare feet. He slides onto the couch, pulling his legs up, an arm circling around them, turns his eyes to the window. Ruud watches him finger the bruises on his neck, the sore spots. "I only wish you had warn me. What did you do? Threaten him, hit him? It has never been that bad before."
Ruud wants to cross the room, wants to kiss him and apologize and take it all back, but he doesn't let himself. Instead, he says, "I'll kill him, I'll fucking kill him," and it sounds like a promise.
"No, you won't," Ronnie tilts his head, glances over, "I mean, he pay afterwards. Just like you, no? You can take what you like as long as you pay, isn't that how it works?"
Ruud flinches. "It's not like that. He told me this was a game to you, he made me think you were playing with me. I was confused, I - I didn't know who to believe."
It sounds weak now, hollow. Ronnie turns away again and everything is ruined, so torn and twisted, nothing like the way it began. The space between them seems more like miles than just a few steps, too far, much too far. It's nothing like the movies, Ruud doesn't have the perfect line to say, Ronnie won't even look at him, won't do anything to fill the unbearable silence. He can't help but think, staring down at the dirty carpet, that there's just no happy ending, not for them. Ruud's not the hero, the curtains aren't going to close on a kiss. It's just them, them and the space between, the glittering edge of broken glass.
Finally, Ronnie speaks, his voice dull, flat. "Leave, Ruud. Go home and call your wife."
The words don't translate, they drift across the room but all Ruud hears is the end. It's all said and done, his exit is already scripted, ready to go. He can see the exhaustion in the lines of Ronnie's shoulders, knows it's the smart thing, the good thing, to go, but his feet won't carry him away. Suddenly the miles between them seems like nothing, nothing at all, and glass is crunching beneath the soles of his shoes, the couch cushions sagging beneath his weight. He grabs the boy from behind, pulls him into his arms, against his chest, and he can feel Ronnie struggling, twisting against him, but he doesn't let go.
He drops his mouth to Ronnie's ear, keeps his voice low and careful, unwilling to make this another mistake. "No, listen to me. You listen. I'm sorry, I was stupid and I'm sorry. I don't want to go home and I don't want my wife, I want you. I love you, Ronnie. I know I've messed up along the way but I love you, I need you. Things don't have to change, I'll just, I'll divorce her, and you can come live with me. No one has to know. We can by happy together, just you and me."
Ruud doesn't know what he's saying but he keeps going, Ronnie shaking against him, trying to tear away. Eventually it stops, both the whispers and the struggles. Ruud turns him around, fingers digging tight into his arms, using his force, whatever it takes, to make the boy understand. Goodbye hurts too much, cuts like a knife, and Ruud knows he isn't strong enough for it. Ronnie looks at him and his face is wet, his eyes red, and he makes a pained noise when Ruud kisses him, but he kisses back, harder. They kiss until they're both breathless, until they can't take any more, and then they kiss again. Ruud pulls him close, keeps him there, and somehow they end up lying down, curled together on the small couch, Ronnie's breath hot against his neck, Ruud's fingers twisted in the boy's hair, too tired to move or fuck or do anything else.
The light filtering through the window fades out and before Ruud falls asleep, the boy whispers against his skin one more time, and to his sleep-hazy brain, it sounds like I love you.
*
Ruud opens his eyes, winces into the sunlight, frowning. After a blink, he closes them again. He waits a few seconds to open them once more but the cold is already sinking into his skin, and there's still no one beside him.
The apartment is quiet around him, no running water, no footsteps in the other rooms, nothing. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself up. The mess on the floor is still there, the half-full ashtray still on the coffee table, but the trainers that always seem to be a permanent fixture beside the couch are gone. There's a note too, a single sheet of paper folded in half. Ruud stares at it for a moment, unmoving, then gets up, stepping around the table. The bedroom is empty, not that Ruud expects otherwise, the bed unmade. He pauses before the closet, head bowed in the closest thing to a prayer he's come to in years, and knows before he opens it that it's empty.
He's right.
The room is spinning and Ruud barely makes it to the bed before his knees give out. He lays there for a long time, minutes, hours maybe, until the dark spots in his vision fade, until he can bear to peel himself away from the sheets that still smell like Ronnie. He checks each room, the bathroom, the kitchen, before he finally comes back to the table, fingers shaking as he picks up the note.
Ruud's eyes scan the paper, his fingers crumpling the edges. I can't let you keep your promise, it says, but that's not the part that tightens his chest, that stings his eyes. There's one more word at the bottom of the page, sitting alone, the one word more important than the rest above it. It's what he takes with him once he balls up the paper, dropping it on the table next to the ashes, what he takes with him as he lets himself out, closing the door behind him for the last time.
When he gets home, he changes the sheets on both the beds, opens the windows to chase out the last of the smoke from the air. He vacuums and washes the dishes, and then, then he does the last thing the boy ever asked him to do. He calls his wife. Once he's apologized, once he's come clean and she's forgiven him, once she agrees to come home, he finally lets himself rest.
Only then does Ruud let himself admit that the boy is really gone. But he doesn't think, not even for a minute, that it's over. It's not, nowhere close, and he's almost sure it never will be.
*
The grass in the backyard has grown long, strands tickling his neck as he lays back. Above him the sky is clear, a perfect blue, and the air carries a nice breeze, gentle. He closes his eyes and sees a boy with tan skin, dark hair that curls perfectly around fingertips, and dark eyes, eyes that look black, endless, eyes that hold a promise. It will all disappear when he opens them again, so he doesn't, just twists his fingers in the grass and whispers a name the wind carries away before anyone can hear: "Cristiano."
pairing: cristiano ronaldo/ruud van nistelrooy (cristiano ronaldo/other)
rating: nc-17
warnings: prostitution, mentioned violence.
notes: for mina_pak, who asked for something else and got this instead.
There's something inherently wrong about this. Ruud feels it at the back of his neck, the odd prickle of hair standing on end, feels it in the sweaty palms of his hands, the soursick taste in the back of his mouth. He downed beer after beer, one, two, three, in quick succession before he arrived, trying to find some courage, liquid or not; if only it had stayed down. He threw up in the alley outside the building (his vomit mixing with piss and a few other unsavory liquids on the dirty cement) before taking the lift up, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, and now he's here, in a stranger's home, stone cold sober and completely unsure what he's supposed to do. The only thing he is sure of is that this is wrong, wrong, wrong.
The flat is nice enough, decorated to look expensive, but Ruud can see the rough edges: the ashtray full of cigarette butts on the coffee table, the scuffed trainers half-shoved under the couch, a glimpse into the dim kitchen that shows a sinkful of dirty dishes. There's a distinctly feminine touch to the decor, all reds and golds, but these things, these small objects, are all man. Or more specifically: boy.
The boy in question is standing before Ruud, only a few feet away. He's dressed in a loose pair of silk pants and nothing else, all gleaming skin and dark hair in the pale lamplight, shadows highlighting the definition in his arms and chest. Boy is the correct term; he can't be anything more than nineteen, still possessing the elusive slenderness that edges away at twenty-five and seems gone forever at thirty. But his eyes, his impossibly dark eyes, look at Ruud and seem to say everything he's ever wanted to hear, all of that and more. He's beautiful and inviting and so clearly a prostitue that Ruud almost wants to laugh.
He doesn't. Instead, he says, "I think there's been some mistake."
The boy tilts his head to the side like an animal, like a dog, his eyes never leaving Ruud. His hands drop down to his waist, fingers curling and twisting in the ties of his pants, drawing Ruud's attention down to the flat expanse of stomach. "Mistake?"
"Yeah. Um, yes. I just - I'm not supposed to be here."
"Ruud, your friend show me picture." The boy moves forward, just a step, and Ruud takes two back, frowning. "Not that he need to. Who doesn't know Ruud van Nistelrooy?"
Ruud doesn't speak, doesn't move. The boy just keeps coming closer, his movements slow, easy, careful not to startle Ruud, to scare him off, though something tells him the kid's not really worried about that. His eyes glitter with knowledge and if Ruud wanted to know anything about the boy's abilities, he doesn't need Neville's dirty whisper in his ear, he only needs this, this look, this moment between them. Ruud means to step back, means to retreat to the door and escape entirely, write this whole night off as a nightmare, but he's too slow, doesn't even have his feet moving before the boy is there, just a touch away. He drops the ties of his pants, hands brushing close, rustling Ruud's clothing lightly, and then everything is moving so quickly he simply forgets to leave.
The boy leans in or maybe he does, or maybe they meet somewhere in the middle, lips open and damp. The kiss isn't awkward or chaste or anything Ruud might have expected, it's sloppy and wet and intense, and he loses his shirt sometime between the first time their lips meet and the seventh. Only when he finds himself in the bedroom, the boy pushing him back onto satin sheets, eyes sparkling in the dark, does he pause.
"Wait, wait," he breathes. "I don't even know your name."
His answer is another kiss, this one low on his body, blurred syllables murmured into the crease where thigh meets hip: "Ronnie."
*
It's so sordid, so embarrassing to think about that Ruud simply doesn't.
The morning after isn't what he expects, just the way Ronnie's kiss (and all that came after) wasn't what he expected. There's tea and toast waiting for him when he rises, and a sticky note on the counter beside it all. Jogging, it reads, stay as long as you like. He does. Ronnie comes back on Ruud's third glass of orange juice, cheeks flushed, dark hair glossy with sweat, wet under Ruud's fingers when he pulls the boy close. They shower together, the boy dropping to his knees beneath the stream of water, looking up with those eyes the entire time, while he closes his lips around the head of Ruud's cock, while he slips one hand between Ruud's thighs and all the way back, while Ruud's breath hitches and he comes. It's only afterwards, when Ruud finds himself alone in the quiet of his car, pondering just what exactly he's supposed to say to his wife when he gets home, that he realizes he's slept with a hooker. A possibly underage hooker.
He just can't let himself think about it.
"Have a nice night?" Leontien chirps when he comes through the front door. Ruud looks at her for a moment, silent; she's wearing his favorite dress, a simple, white garment that reminds him of their wedding day. When he doesn't respond, she continues, "Don't look so surprised. Gary called this morning while you were still asleep on his couch, explained it all. He tried to wake you up to talk but apparently someone went a little overboard last night."
She comes closer, one of her hands reaching out for his hip. He shudders. There's a bruise there, a bruise in the shape of some kid's mouth, some kid who fucks men for a living, a kid who fucked her husband, and she has her hand right on it.
"I don't mind if you have a boys night out, honey, you know that. Just call me next time, alright? Let me know that you're not coming home."
Ruud nods, grunts something that could be yes, and watches her walk away. He slides his jacket off of his shoulders, hangs it carefully, heads up to his bedroom (their bedroom) to change his clothes. He counts the stairs up, one, two, three, and doesn't think about how easy it all was.
*
"So," Gary grins.
Ruud doesn't look at him. "So?"
"Don't give me that. How was he?"
A pause.
"He wasn't what I was expecting."
Laughter. "He never is, Ruud. Make sure to go back for seconds, he's even better once you wear him in."
*
The second time isn't anywhere near as dramatic. The guilt is worse, stronger, but he doesn't need alcohol to get him there, up in that same dirty lift, into that same apartment. He knows he shouldn't do it but he knows he's capable of it. He wonders if it gets better each time, easier to handle, like the dull pain of a headache, something you can push to the back of your mind until it becomes static, just another thing you don't think about. He wonders if he can write his infidelities off that easily, wonders if he already has.
Ronnie answers in a pair of jeans, the denim clinging to the lines of his thighs, and a shirt worn so thin Ruud can almost see his chest through it. His hair is soft and unstyled and the television is playing in the living room, a bowl of cereal sitting forgotten on the coffee table when Ruud's let in, but the boy smiles like he was expected. "I, uh, hope I'm not interrupting. I would have called but I don't have your number. I suppose I could have asked Gary," he mumbles, but Ronnie shushes him with a soft click of his tongue as he tugs Ruud's coat down of his shoulders, urging him further into the room.
"Do you want anything?" the boy asks in a language so clearly not his first, smiling. "Tea?"
Ruud shakes his head. They're standing on opposite sides of the room, Ruud near the couch and the coffee table with the half-full bowl of cereal, Ronnie still by the door, an ocean of carpet between them. Ronnie steps forward, just one step, and Ruud flinches. The boy notices, his lips tilting down in the shadow of a frown, but he doesn't say anything, just continues on. He picks up the bowl, spoon clinking against the side, reaches for the remote to flip the television off.
"You're a very strange man, Ruud," Ronnie says as he tidies the room, not looking at Ruud, focused on his task. "Not like others. I think maybe you do not enjoy our time together the other night but then here you are. I think maybe you not come back, but." He stops, frown broadening. The bowl is placed on top of the television, hands curled around the kid's hips as he turns to Ruud, shaking his head. After a beat, a slow, considering minute, he asks, "What do you want?"
"You know what I want," Ruud replies, his voice gruff.
The boy's eyes spark. There's something graceful about him, something almost elegant despite his surroundings, his cheap clothes, but his movements are unusually jerky as he crosses the room on quick feet, stopping only a breath away from Ruud. Ruud moves to step back but Ronnie's hands are at his waist, keeping him there, his body pressing in close until Ruud can feel the heat of his skin through the thin material of his shirt. His words are angry, a dare. "Then take it."
Ruud shakes his head. "I can't. Don't you see? I have a life, I have a career and a family, a wife. If anyone were to find out about this, it would ruin me."
"You think I tell."
"No. No, that's not it. I just." Ruud tries to pull away, tries to back up once more, but Ronnie doesn't let him go. He breathes in, shudders, sighs. Shakes his head "I don't know why I'm doing this."
Ronnie doesn't smile or laugh at him, just looks at Ruud with his calm, understanding eyes. "I'll tell you why," he promises.
*
He looks ethereal in the moonlight, otherworldly, not like an angel but a demon, dark and gorgeous, made of sin. In the afternoon sun he's even more beautiful, light catching on the sharp angles of his shoulderblades, turning the curves and twists of his body soft, gentle, his skin warm beneath Ruud's open palms. They try to find some understanding like this, sprawled out across the scratchy carpet of the living room floor, searching for some middle ground between Ruud's hesitation and Ronnie's complete willingness. Ronnie hitches one leg up around Ruud's waist, heel settling in the small of back, and Ruud presses into the space between the boy's thighs.
Ruud doesn't have much experience with this, clearly, but he thinks this boy is different from the others. He seems so sincere, so eager to please, so wanting, and Ruud can't convince himself that it's all an act. Maybe Ronnie's just that good, maybe he was made for this and Ruud's just another stupid john, handing over his wallet for one fleeting moment of this beautiful, beautiful boy's affection. Maybe it's really all as dirty as Ruud thinks it would sound if he ever voiced it. Maybe he's just fooling himself into thinking it's not.
But Ronnie gasps when he pushes in, back arching, skin slick between Ruud's fingers, and he's hard and trembling when Ruud reaches down between them. Bom, bom, he whispers against Ruud's mouth. He's balanced over Ruud's thighs, one arm hooked behind his neck, Ruud's hands sliding down to his back to hold him there, and there's no space between them, not even a breath, and even if the words are spoken in a language he doesn't understand, he knows what they mean. He's never felt this close to someone. His hips rock up and Ronnie shudders so violently Ruud flinches, stops, mutters, Did I-? The boy shakes his head, says, sharply, No, no. Please, keep going. Please.
The boy comes with a cry that Ruud muffles with his mouth. His body is tight, perfect, damp against Ruud's chest, and Ruud follows quickly after him, dropping his head to the curve of the boy's neck. Their heartbeats are loud in the silence, thundering, echoing, and it takes a while before Ronnie's breathing settles, before they finally pull apart, separating sticky bodies with a laugh, a kiss.
Later, at the door, Ruud fists a hand in Ronnie's hair, pulls him close and kisses him fiercely, and knows, knows, the tremble in the naked body against him is real. "Thank you," he murmurs. He pays, doesn't even think about not, and Ronnie takes the money with a smile. The boy leans against the frame of the open door, still bare, unconcerned with who might see, watching until Ruud slips into the lift, the doors closing behind him.
On the ride down, Ruud smiles faintly. He has his answer.
*
A part of Ruud expects it to end after that, thinks that once was just a taste, not enough, but twice was all that he needed, all it took to sate him. Another part knows that's a lie, knows that there isn't enough to satisfy him and that there never will be. He doesn't know which one is right, thinks maybe he never even needed this in the first place and that they're both wrong, that he just goes back to punish himself because some dark streak inside of him refuses to let him be happy, wants to ruin his marriage and his career, and Ronnie was simply the first weapon it found. He doesn't know the answers to these questions, doesn't know his own intentions, but he goes back. He always goes back.
The boy gives Ruud his story in bits and pieces. Sometimes Ruud thinks these brief stories, the offhanded comments about his past Ronnie makes without even seeming to realize it, are what bring him back, not just the sex - though the sex is undoubtedly the best he's ever had, certainly worth the price he pays. They're never much, most of the time Ronnie closes off when Ruud asks a question, but sometimes, sometimes he'll talk.
"Portugal," he answers. They're lying in bed together, the dim light of the moon filtering in through the open window and the burning point of Ronnie's cigarette the only light in the room, Ruud's fingertips rubbing slow circles on the inside of the boy's thighs. "Madeira Island. My parents worked in the banana plantations but I lived in the city with my uncle. He was a writer, a poet. Not very good, but he make a living. Enough to send me to school."
Ruud's hands scale the slope of Ronnie's body, past his hips and up his chest, moving up to brush across the faint smile-lines around the boy's mouth. "How did you end up in Manchester?"
Ronnie purses his lips around the filter of the cigarette. His eyes are veiled, unfathomable, and Ruud doesn't think he'll get anything this time. But a minute later, Ronnie shrugs, a curl of smoke drifting between them as he looks at Ruud. "A promise," he says, "but things, I don't know. Things don't always work out the way you expect. What can you do?"
Ruud doesn't have an answer for him.
There are things he can trick himself into believing (that this is okay, that he's not a horrible person, that no one will ever find out) but that he'll stop coming back, stop wantingneedingcraving this, is not one of them. Whether it's the stories or the sex or something else entirely, days, weeks, months pass and Ruud still goes. His wife doesn't suspect often, but when she does, when she smells Ronnie on him, when she wonders where all his time is spent, it's easy for him to lead her off the trail. Maybe he's ruining his life with this, intentionally or not, but the one thing he knows with all certainty he can muster is that he'll always, always go.
*
The line goes staticky and Ruud coughs, thinks he's misheard.
"What?"
"I'm going back to Holland."
"What, you're - why? When?"
Leontien sighs. "You know why. You're so distant, Ruud. I tried to give you a chance but you're always running off, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and you're gone. What do you expect me to think?"
"It's not. I'm not-"
"No," she interrupts. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to stay with my mother, I'll be back in a week. Until then, Ruud-"
He holds his breath.
"-don't call."
*
At first, Ronnie refuses. He tenses when Ruud suggests it, muscles coiling, pulling too-long limbs out of reach, scooting up towards the head of the bed. "No," he says, shaking his head, "this is a very bad idea, Ruud. No."
Ruud frowns, no, pouts, his lower lip jutting out, his eyebrows drawing together. Ronnie glares. A change of tactics and Ruud dips his head down, lips pressing a kiss just above the band of Ronnie's briefs, ghosts his nose against the dusky skin there. There's a sigh above him. He continues on, fingers slipping beneath the white material, brushing past more skin and tight curls, and Ronnie's legs come open so easy, like they always do. "Say yes," Ruud whispers, his thumb dragging the band of elastic down.
"No," Ronnie groans.
Cotton slides down over his hips, Ronnie lifting up to help, and Ruud licks a hot stripe down his belly, listens to the boy's low, shuddery moan. He takes him in his mouth, just barely, the tip hot and heavy against his tongue, Ronnie's eyes screwed shut when he looks up. Ruud drags his nails down Ronnie's thighs, edges his mouth down a bit farther, then pulls away completely.
"Say yes."
Ronnie lets out an inarticulate yell and before Ruud can even think to get out of the way, he's greeted by a face-full of pillow. He laughs, laughs harder than he has in years, all while he's beaten repeatedly with the pillow, face red with amusement by the time he finally rolls off the bed. Ronnie glares at him from his place amid the messy sheets, drops the pillow down to cover his lap, says, "Go, you horrible man. Go and leave me be."
Ruud's still laughing as he pulls on his jeans. "Come on, give me a break. How about if we win, eh? If I win my match will you say yes?"
Ronnie settles back against the other pillows, brushing a hand through his messy hair, over his swollen mouth. He looks at Ruud, silent for a moment before he gives a half-shrug, one shoulder tilting up as he says, "I will think about it."
Ruud grins; that's enough. He drops the notes on the top of the dresser, pauses briefly by the bed to stretch across the mattress, brush a kiss across Ronnie's pliant mouth, and then he's out the door, celebration already on his mind.
*
"We won," Ruud says, expectant.
"Yes, I watch. That Rooney was very good, no? You think maybe you get me his autograph?"
"Ronnie."
A beat. "What?"
"You know what. Say yes."
"I said I think about it."
"Don't. Don't turn me down. I can, I. I'll pay you double. Triple, if you want. Just tell me yes."
Ruud can hear the boy shake his head.
"Stop. It's not money, you know it's not"
Exasperated. "Then what? We won, we won for you. Just, please. I want you here. With me."
"You make it sound easy, Ruud. It’s not," Ronnie says, voice tired. "What if she comes back? You think of that?"
"She won't."
Silence. A sigh, then, "Pick me up in an hour."
*
Ruud can see Ronnie's hesitancy in the tense lines of his shoulders, the vaguely apprehensive look on his face, the way his fingers curl tight around the strap of his overnight bag. He stares at the house in front of him like it's a ghost, a monster, something dangerous, and Ruud has to tug his hand a few times before he'll move again, let himself be lead up to the door. Ruud realizes, as he turns the key, glancing back over his shoulder at the boy, that this is the first time Ronnie has ever balked, the only time he's ever not given Ruud what he wants explicitly.
"It's okay," Ruud soothes once they're inside, taking the bag from him, taking his coat, kissing the bend of his neck and the curve of his shoulder. "She's not here, no one's here. It's just us."
The boy turns around, steps back, looks at him with those dark eyes sterner than Ruud's ever seen them. "I have rule. No going in the bedroom. I will do whatever you want anywhere else, but you don't touch me in her room. You agree?"
Ruud answers him with a kiss. Ronnie makes a brief noise of protest, fingers digging into Ruud's sides, trying to push him away, but Ruud doesn't move, just pushes the lithe body in his arms up against the wall, pins him there. He gets a thigh between Ronnie's legs, rubs just right, and the protest dissolves, Ronnie moaning into his mouth as he bucks up, hands no longer pushing but clinging, pulling Ruud closer.
"Strip," Ruud orders when they part, breathing hard into the space between them. "I'm going to bend you over the back of the couch and fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked before, until you beg me to stop, until you can't sit or stand or move a fucking inch without feeling me there inside you. And then, then you're going to promise me that you'll never make me wait for an answer that long again."
The boy trembles. His eyes are wide, staring at Ruud like he's never seen him before, and Ruud might regret it, might regret treating Ronnie like every other man in his life must treat him, like fucking Neville must treat him, but the boy moves before he can, peeling off shirt and jeans and underwear until he's bare before Ruud, completely naked, and hard; his erection looks almost painful. He bites his lip to stifle a moan when Ruud reaches forward, but the hand only goes to his hip, slapping as he whispers harshly, "Move."
Maybe this is pushing a line, one that was never meant to be crossed, but Ruud feels no remorse as he follows the kid down the hall. The living room's decorated in the paint his wife picked out and the furniture they bought together, pictures of them litter the mantel, some from their wedding, some from their honeymoon, some from the years after. Ronnie drapes himself over the back of the couch like he's used to this, spreading his legs wide, fingers gripping the fabric tight. The muscles in his back flex, tense, when Ruud presses up behind him, denim rough against his bare skin. Ruud leans his body flush against Ronnie's back, hands sliding down the boy's arms to his wrists, holding them down, biting the back of his neck like an animal showing its dominance, and nothing has ever felt this good.
He fucks the kid there, just like he said he would, hardfastdeep, rougher than he's ever been before, and Ronnie comes without even being touched, muffling his sobs against one of the matching throw pillows Leontien had insisted on buying. He leaves a perfect imprint of his teeth on Ronnie's shoulder on his last thrust, a tattoo, a brand, and when he looks at it later, when they're on the couch, not fucking or even touching, just watching a football match on the television, he isn't thinking about his wife.
Don't call, she'd said, and he doesn't.
*
They sleep in the guestroom since Ronnie won't (absolutely refuses to) go into Ruud's bedroom. It's nicer than Ruud could have hoped for, somehow intimate in a way they've never been. He wakes up with his face pressed to the nape of Ronnie's neck, breathing in the sweet scent of the boy's skin mingling with sweat from the night before, his cock full against the warm curve of Ronnie's back. He doesn't do anything, just waits until Ronnie stirs, until the body next to him turns and Ronnie slides on top of him, rocking their hips together in a slow, lazy rhythm until they both come. They do all the usual morning things together, shower, brush their teeth, but Ronnie won't let Ruud do anything once his shaving kit comes out, plucks the razor from his fingers and slides onto the counter, lets Ruud's hands roam over his thighs absently while he slowly drags the sharp edge across Ruud's jaw.
Breakfast comes next, and Ronnie cooks, Ruud watching from the kitchen table while the boy fixes the tea, gets out the eggs. "As a boy, I had to learn. My uncle was a, uh, what is the word? Bachelor?" Ronnie looks for confirmation over his shoulder while he slices a tomato, and Ruud nods, smiles. "I suspect that he never marry because my mama scared him away from women completely as a boy. So I cook for us. I pick recipes up here and there, the women on our street were always willing to help out. They all love me, what can I say." He brings the food over along with their tea. Ruud catches him around the wrist before he can sit, pulling him in for a kiss, muttering thank you into the curve of his mouth.
The first few days, when Ruud has nothing to do, the time they don't spend fucking, they spend outside. Ronnie, Ruud is surprised to find out, plays football, and plays it rather well. He plays barefoot in the grass, stealing the ball away from Ruud and whizzing down to one end of the yard before Ruud even sees the play coming, laughing when they collide, using tricks that Ruud has never been able to do. He looks even younger with the ball at his feet, more the boy that Ruud so often thinks of him as. His laughter is pure, open. You wouldn't expect him to make his money the way he does, to know the things he knows, not when he's playing. Ruud almost asks him about it, the kid's clearly got talent if not perfect technique, but he's smart enough to stop the question before it passes his lips. Besides, he knows enough of Ronnie's story to already have the answer.
Only on the last day of the time Ronnie has agreed to stay does the quasi-domestic haze they've been drifting in crack. Ronnie watches from the bed, a thin sheet draped across his hips, chest bare, his eyes heavy with sleep, as Ruud pulls on his training clothes, sits down on the edge of the mattress to put on his shoes. With his back turned, Ruud voices the one question that's been bothering him, the one question he hasn't dared to ask until now: "Tell me your name."
"What?" comes the boy's voice, warm with a smile.
"Your name," Ruud says. "I want to know it."
A foot nudges him in the back, the mattress dipping as the boy shifts. "You seem to know it last night. Oh, Ronnie. Yes, Ronnie, yes, just like that.”
Ruud doesn’t laugh. “Your real name,” he says, soft.
There’s no answer. Ruud waits, his eyes closed, counting his breaths. Finally, the boy moves behind him, his bare feet slapping against floor as he slides out of the bed, the bathroom door closing quietly behind him. When he opens his eyes, Ruud gets up, glances back to the warm spot in the bed, then leaves.
*
"Sir Alex told me about final. Sorry about that one, mate. But you'll be on the bench, yeah? We're sure to use you."
Ruud glances up from his bag, fingers stilling on the zipper. He's already in his streetclothes, ready to go, the boy he left in the bathroom on his mind, and the locker room has cleared out almost completely, just him and Neville left. Gary walks over to an open locker, his bag on the bench behind him, rubbing his hair dry with a towel, his eyes on Ruud. His face is unreadable.
"Yeah, maybe," Ruud mumbles. He closes his bag, slings the strap over his shoulder. This is the last thing he needs right now, to be talking about the goals he's not scoring (and now, the games he's not playing) and he's sure that Gary's just doing his job as captain, reassurance and all that, but Ruud can't take it, not now. He's almost to the door, hand reaching out to push it open, when Gary stops him.
"Before you go," he says, and when Ruud turns around, he's stepped away from the locker, pulled a shirt over his head, "you haven't seen Ronnie around lately by any chance, have you? You see, we had an appointment yesterday but when I showed up, he wasn't there. He hasn't answered my calls either."
He hasn't even thought about what the past few days have meant for Ronnie, Ruud realizes. He knows Ronnie still has other clients - a word Ruud hesitates to use, but can't find a decent substitute for - he's not dense enough to fool himself into thinking he's the only one these days, even if he does take up most of the boy's time, but he's never put it into context, not like this. He doesn't know what to say, so he just shrugs, "No, sorry."
Gary nods. "Well, if you do see him, tell him I don't much like being kept waiting. It's been a while since I've had that boy on his knees and I might be tempted to come looking for him if he doesn't show up soon. I'd hate if anything untoward were to happen to him, losing a gem like that. It's hard to find one that uses his mouth as well as our Ronnie."
The door is just a step away, in reach, and Ruud knows he should go, knows that doing anything else will send the last of his crumbling calm to pieces. This is Gary, his teammate, his captain, and he should go, he really should, but he's already crossed so many lines that this one hardly seems to matter. He's across the room before he even realizes it, invading Neville's space, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists. He's not touching the other man yet, but he's close.
"Don't you fucking talk about him like that."
"Like what?" Gary asks, stepping closer, unimpressed. "Like a whore? I don't know what's got your head so twisted but that's what he is. So he bats his eyes, plays the innocent schoolboy for you? He's just playing you, Ruud, playing you like all the rest. He only fucks you for what's in your wallet. Don't fool yourself just because he moans pretty."
There's some doubt inside Ruud, some part of him that believes Gary even as he tries not to (the part of him that asks questions, the part of him that digs for answers he doesn't deserve, the ones Ronnie won't give) and it only makes him angrier. He grabs the front of Gary's shirt, yanks him forward until they're chest to chest, voice calm, steady, as he says, "Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you."
Gary only laughs.
"Oh, is that how it is? Be a big man, Ruud, use your fists. Ronnie likes that too, you know. You should hear him when I-"
Ruud hits him. Pain shoots through Ruud's fist like an explosion, but he hears Gary's shocked sound of pain, feels the fabric of his shirt twist free as he falls back, landing sprawled on the floor, and it's worth it. He feels like going after Gary again, shutting that mouth for good, but he's not that far gone. He just shakes his hand, trying to ease the pain, and turns away. He's at the door again, palm touching the wood this time, when Gary's voice sounds again, strained but clear.
"You're just another mark, Ruud. You better realize that before he takes you for all your worth. The boy's not stupid, he's playing you like a fiddle. I suggest you give him one last fuck then get out of there before it's too late. He'll ruin you, Ruud, he'll ruin you and he'll enjoy it."
This time, he leaves.
*
The boy is back in bed when Ruud returns, his prone form covered by a pile of blankets and sheets, only one foot sticking out near the end of the bed. He has his head propped up on a pillow, one hand holding a book a few inches from his face, though Ruud can see his eyelids drooping, half-asleep. There's something building inside Ruud, something low and deep in his gut, and the sight of Ronnie placid and doozy like this doesn't calm him like he thinks it should; it only makes it worse.
"I'm back," he says into the silence. Ronnie jerks awake.
He rubs at his eyes with a fist, closes the book, tosses it to the side of the mattress. It tips over the edge and the bang the spine makes when it hits the floor is loud in the quiet room. Ronnie turns onto his back, sitting half-up, blankets sagging around his waist to show bare skin, too much bare skin, and Ruud wonders if he's been waiting like this, waiting for him to come home. Ronnie's ankle is fragile when he catches it, bones close to the surface. "You startle me," Ronnie hums, then laughs, toes curling as Ruud runs his finger along the arch of the boy's foot.
"Get up," Ruud says softly, "but don't get dressed."
The boy nods, does as told, sliding out from beneath the covers. He's completely bare, his skin sleep-warm as he slides up against Ruud, arms hooking around his waist, leaning up to press a kiss to Ruud's throat. His usual compliancy is back; he's not the boy that thought this was a bad idea, not the boy that grows cold and turns away from questions. He's the first one, the boy that lured Ruud in, that whispered his name against Ruud's skin so soft, like a secret, before fucking him on silk sheets. He's the boy that's been with Ruud the past few days, the one that Ruud's had in almost every room of the house, who rode him in the backyard with his hands fisted in the grass, his face turned up towards the sun; who sucked him off on the kitchen table once they'd both had dessert; who settled against him in the bathtub, slippery and laughing, and kissed Ruud like it meant something. He smiles at Ruud, eyes open and warm, and Ruud almost gives in, almost pulls Ronnie into his arms and kisses him and forgets about everything else. But he can't. Neville's words are still ringing in his ears, and he just can't.
He takes Ronnie by the wrist instead, leads him out of the guestroom and down the hall. Only once they turn the corner and continue past the stairs, only once they pass the bathroom, nearing the one door they've never gone in, does Ronnie show some resistance. "Ruud," he pauses, stumbles, and Ruud keeps going, tugging him along behind. "Ruud, no. I told you, we agree, I. No."
Once they're inside, Ruud locks the door behind him, not that it matters, not that Ronnie's trying to get away. His wrist is still in Ruud's hand, limp, his eyes wide as he looks around the room, takes in everything, the open closet door, the bottles of perfume on the dresser. His gaze comes back to Ruud and he looks so wounded, so fucking hurt, and it's fake, all just an act, a lie. Ruud knows that now and he feels like an idiot for ever thinking otherwise. Ruud steps in, closing the space between them, his free hand dropping down to Ronnie's stomach, fingertips tracing over the flat muscles there, watching the shiver ripple across his skin.
"You've been laughing at me the entire time, haven't you?" Ruud asks. His grip on Ronnie's wrist tightens and the boy frowns, shakes his head. "I was a prime mark, even I can see that. Rich, famous, married. Oh yeah, I bet I was a real challenge. But just fucking me wasn't enough for you, was it? No, no, you wanted more. You wanted to ruin me, to break up my marriage, to make me fall in love with you. Well guess what, you fucking succeeded. Now, get on the bed."
"What? Ruud, no, I-"
"I said, get on the bed."
Ronnie opens his mouth, looks like he's going to protest, to give Ruud a fight, but he doesn't. He just nods, the barest dip of his head, then turns away, his wrist slipping free as he steps across the room. He pauses before getting on the bed and it just fuels Ruud's anger; he doesn't, can't, understand why the kid is still going, still pushing this act, even after Ruud's called him on it. The mattress sinks beneath his knees, Ronnie sliding toward the top of the bed. He sits back against the pillows, his legs stretched out in front of him, dark eyes flickering over to Ruud, his hands fidgetting over his thighs like he doesn't know what to do with them.
"Please, Ruud. I haven't been laughing, not at you," he says, his eyes dipping away. "I'm not. I, I don't know why you think this a game, but I, no, I haven't been playing. I don't lie to you."
Ruud follows him onto the bed, crawling up until he's hovering over the boy, knees on either side of him. He curls a finger beneath Ronnie's chin, tilts his head up, and his gaze comes slowly, hesitantly, but it does come. "Tell me your name and I'll believe you."
The words strike like a blow. Ronnie flinches, closing his eyes, squeezing them shut tight, but he doesn't move away. He leans into Ruud's touch, enfolding the hand on his face with one of his own, pressing it against his cheek. The answer is already there on his face, even with his eyes closed Ruud can tell that he's not going to hear what he wants, not going to get the one answer that he needs. The look of agony on the boy's face when he pulls his hand away is the last step, the last betrayal he can stand.
"Turn around," and his voice is hard, steel. Ronnie's eyes are wet when they flicker open, bright, but he's unmoved. "I don't want to see your face when I fuck you."
"Ruud, please," the boy begs.
But it's too late now, far, far too late. Ruud doesn't believe it, can't. His fingers drop to his belt, pulling leather through metal, murmuring, "Do it." Ronnie makes a harsh sound, a choked, sobbing sound, turning his face away, but after a minute, he moves, shifting over onto his hands and knees. He doesn't move, doesn't say or do anything after that. Ruud undresses slowly, makes him wait, and doesn't think about the way the boy's arms shake as he holds himself up, doesn't think about how he keeps his face down, hidden. It's what he wants, what he's paying for.
The fuck is quick and brutal. Ruud doesn't take much time for preparation and Ronnie drops down to his elbows when he thrusts in, biting back a grunt that Ruud hears anyway, his fingers twisting tight in his hair, forehead pressed flat against the mattress. There's nothing pleasureable about it, each jerk of his hips hollows Ruud out, leaves him empty until there's nothing between them but lies. Neville was right, Neville was right and the joke's on him, but it doesn't matter, not really. Not when Ruud still wants this stranger beneath him, not when he looks at the delicate curve of his spine, the dark curl of hair at the nape of his neck, and aches, feels a loss so deep he doesn't even know how to describe it. He leaves bruises on Ronnie's hips and the minute, the second, he's done, he pulls out.
"You're wrong," Ronnie whispers, and he's finally moved, if only to curl tighter in on himself. He's still facing away and it's some small relief, the only one, because his voice is thick, wet, and Ruud can't look at his face now, knows it's something he just can't handle. "You're wrong."
Ruud gets up from the bed, pushing the sheets down, tossing the condom in the trash. His pants are on the floor in a pile with the rest of his clothes and Ruud picks them up, digs his wallet out of the back pocket. Ronnie's moved when he looks back to the bed, sat up, his legs swung over the side, hands curled around the edge of the mattress, his face still turned down. Ruud puts the money down beside him, sees the jerk in Ronnie's shoulders but doesn't watch long enough to see the look on his face, retreating to the bathroom before it can get that far.
He doesn't recognize himself in the mirror, runs a hand across his face, his eyes, but it doesn't change anything. He can't still the horrible feelings in the pit of his stomach, the apology stuck in the back of his throat. If he stopped to let himself think, he might be able to see it all clearly, the entire story presented to him from beginning to end, but he hasn't thought in so long. Actions are the only thing he has left, and he's had his fill of them.
When he comes back out, the door clicking shut behind him, he's not surprised to see that Ronnie's gone.
*
It takes him a few days to muster up the courage it takes to pick up the phone. It's just, he doesn't know where to begin. His anger has faded, along with the warmth in the bed, the dark stain of cigarette smoke in the air, but that's not enough, it doesn't make up for what he's done. He still can't see the full picture, has Gary's words and Ronnie's small, hurt noises, but they don't add up to anything that makes sense in Ruud's head, he can't tell who's playing who, can't find the liar in the bunch. All he knows, all he cares about, is how big his bed feels at night, how empty and lonely and fucking awful he feels once the sun sets, and it's not his wife he's missing.
On the fourth day he cracks and maybe it's not courage that makes him pick up the phone, maybe it's desperation, pure desperation. "Hello," he says to the answering machine, not surprised that Ronnie left then, not surprised that he doesn't answer now. "It's me. I, well, I haven't heard from you in a few days and I just, I don't know. I've been thinking about what happened, what I did, and I'm an asshole, I know that. But can you just call me or something? I just need to hear from you."
On the fifth day, after he watches the team win from the bench and comes home to an empty machine, he tries again. His voice sticks in his throat, choking, before he can get out: "Ronnie, it's me. You haven't called back, obviously. Look, I'm a bastard and I don't deserve to even hear the sound of your voice, let alone speak to you, but I just, I. I need to know that you're okay. I didn't mean for things to go the way they did, I should have just talked with you instead of, you know, but I fucked up. So, call me back. Please."
Ruud barely remembers the third message at all, only phrases like sorry, so fucking sorry and please, Ronnie, the rest blurred out by the sheer overwhelming panic twisting his insides. He gives the boy one more day, one day to return the messages he might not even be listening to, before he gives up. He can't just sit around, he may be a horrible excuse for a man, but if there's one thing he's not, it's patient. He just can't take the waiting.
The lift's broken, so he takes the stairs up, two at a time.
*
The kid looks like hell when he opens the door. He clearly hasn't been sleeping, his face drawn with exhaustion, the circles under his eyes almost black, and he's not put together like he usually is, wearing a pair of worn pajama bottoms that hang off his hips, hair messy, not even brushed. His mouth though, his mouth is the worst part, swollen, the skin around the corners bruised, his bottom lip split open. There are fingerprints on his neck and of all the things Ruud expected to see, it wasn't this.
"I called," he says.
Ronnie shrugs, "I know."
He stares at Ruud and his eyes say nothing. Ruud expects to be turned away, expects to be denied yet again, but Ronnie only steps back, leaving the door open behind him. Ruud steps in, isn't about to question the gift, just goes inside, takes off his coat, tries to act like everything isn't falling apart.
"What happened?"
Ronnie looks at him over his shoulder, a frown twisting his swollen mouth. "What you think?"
"Who did this?"
"You would not believe me, why should I tell? I playing, right? I lie." His voice is dark, bitter. The living room is a mess, Ruud sees, Ronnie stepping over a torn magazine, a broken bottle, pieces of glass sparkling near his bare feet. He slides onto the couch, pulling his legs up, an arm circling around them, turns his eyes to the window. Ruud watches him finger the bruises on his neck, the sore spots. "I only wish you had warn me. What did you do? Threaten him, hit him? It has never been that bad before."
Ruud wants to cross the room, wants to kiss him and apologize and take it all back, but he doesn't let himself. Instead, he says, "I'll kill him, I'll fucking kill him," and it sounds like a promise.
"No, you won't," Ronnie tilts his head, glances over, "I mean, he pay afterwards. Just like you, no? You can take what you like as long as you pay, isn't that how it works?"
Ruud flinches. "It's not like that. He told me this was a game to you, he made me think you were playing with me. I was confused, I - I didn't know who to believe."
It sounds weak now, hollow. Ronnie turns away again and everything is ruined, so torn and twisted, nothing like the way it began. The space between them seems more like miles than just a few steps, too far, much too far. It's nothing like the movies, Ruud doesn't have the perfect line to say, Ronnie won't even look at him, won't do anything to fill the unbearable silence. He can't help but think, staring down at the dirty carpet, that there's just no happy ending, not for them. Ruud's not the hero, the curtains aren't going to close on a kiss. It's just them, them and the space between, the glittering edge of broken glass.
Finally, Ronnie speaks, his voice dull, flat. "Leave, Ruud. Go home and call your wife."
The words don't translate, they drift across the room but all Ruud hears is the end. It's all said and done, his exit is already scripted, ready to go. He can see the exhaustion in the lines of Ronnie's shoulders, knows it's the smart thing, the good thing, to go, but his feet won't carry him away. Suddenly the miles between them seems like nothing, nothing at all, and glass is crunching beneath the soles of his shoes, the couch cushions sagging beneath his weight. He grabs the boy from behind, pulls him into his arms, against his chest, and he can feel Ronnie struggling, twisting against him, but he doesn't let go.
He drops his mouth to Ronnie's ear, keeps his voice low and careful, unwilling to make this another mistake. "No, listen to me. You listen. I'm sorry, I was stupid and I'm sorry. I don't want to go home and I don't want my wife, I want you. I love you, Ronnie. I know I've messed up along the way but I love you, I need you. Things don't have to change, I'll just, I'll divorce her, and you can come live with me. No one has to know. We can by happy together, just you and me."
Ruud doesn't know what he's saying but he keeps going, Ronnie shaking against him, trying to tear away. Eventually it stops, both the whispers and the struggles. Ruud turns him around, fingers digging tight into his arms, using his force, whatever it takes, to make the boy understand. Goodbye hurts too much, cuts like a knife, and Ruud knows he isn't strong enough for it. Ronnie looks at him and his face is wet, his eyes red, and he makes a pained noise when Ruud kisses him, but he kisses back, harder. They kiss until they're both breathless, until they can't take any more, and then they kiss again. Ruud pulls him close, keeps him there, and somehow they end up lying down, curled together on the small couch, Ronnie's breath hot against his neck, Ruud's fingers twisted in the boy's hair, too tired to move or fuck or do anything else.
The light filtering through the window fades out and before Ruud falls asleep, the boy whispers against his skin one more time, and to his sleep-hazy brain, it sounds like I love you.
*
Ruud opens his eyes, winces into the sunlight, frowning. After a blink, he closes them again. He waits a few seconds to open them once more but the cold is already sinking into his skin, and there's still no one beside him.
The apartment is quiet around him, no running water, no footsteps in the other rooms, nothing. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself up. The mess on the floor is still there, the half-full ashtray still on the coffee table, but the trainers that always seem to be a permanent fixture beside the couch are gone. There's a note too, a single sheet of paper folded in half. Ruud stares at it for a moment, unmoving, then gets up, stepping around the table. The bedroom is empty, not that Ruud expects otherwise, the bed unmade. He pauses before the closet, head bowed in the closest thing to a prayer he's come to in years, and knows before he opens it that it's empty.
He's right.
The room is spinning and Ruud barely makes it to the bed before his knees give out. He lays there for a long time, minutes, hours maybe, until the dark spots in his vision fade, until he can bear to peel himself away from the sheets that still smell like Ronnie. He checks each room, the bathroom, the kitchen, before he finally comes back to the table, fingers shaking as he picks up the note.
Ruud's eyes scan the paper, his fingers crumpling the edges. I can't let you keep your promise, it says, but that's not the part that tightens his chest, that stings his eyes. There's one more word at the bottom of the page, sitting alone, the one word more important than the rest above it. It's what he takes with him once he balls up the paper, dropping it on the table next to the ashes, what he takes with him as he lets himself out, closing the door behind him for the last time.
When he gets home, he changes the sheets on both the beds, opens the windows to chase out the last of the smoke from the air. He vacuums and washes the dishes, and then, then he does the last thing the boy ever asked him to do. He calls his wife. Once he's apologized, once he's come clean and she's forgiven him, once she agrees to come home, he finally lets himself rest.
Only then does Ruud let himself admit that the boy is really gone. But he doesn't think, not even for a minute, that it's over. It's not, nowhere close, and he's almost sure it never will be.
*
The grass in the backyard has grown long, strands tickling his neck as he lays back. Above him the sky is clear, a perfect blue, and the air carries a nice breeze, gentle. He closes his eyes and sees a boy with tan skin, dark hair that curls perfectly around fingertips, and dark eyes, eyes that look black, endless, eyes that hold a promise. It will all disappear when he opens them again, so he doesn't, just twists his fingers in the grass and whispers a name the wind carries away before anyone can hear: "Cristiano."