it's so hard to be good
Title: Damn You Look Good and I’m Drunk
Disclaimer: real people caught in fictional situations
Characters: David Villa, David Silva, La Selección
Rating: PG
Summary: Highly unrealistic. Inspired by David Silva’s amusing post-Euro celebration photos. (Title credit to Cobra Starship.)
David thought Silva should stay away from alcohol from now on, even if he had to personally make sure of it. He and Puyol had made a bet of no monetary value on who would be the first to get sloshed. David had picked Torres out at first, thinking he was a light-weight. Then he remembered Torres would probably cut short on the bar shenanigans to lock himself up in the hotel room and have phone sex with his girlfriend. And probably the boring kind of phone sex too.
David settled on Íker, who had been in his underwear earlier, waving around cheap champagne. Puyol guessed Silva (“He’s still in the young and foolish stage of his life!” argued Puyol), which made David scoff. He and Silva played on the same team, and he definitely knew Silva better than Carles Puyol.
Except alcohol had no boundaries when an entire nation was coming off a 44 year sobriety stint.
And Silva, apparently, could hold his alcohol as well as a bottomless cup.
David’s only 26, but he already felt too old to be playing babysitter for the inebriated. But then he saw various strangers, mostly male, start getting grabby with Silva, who just kept laughing in a stupor at whatever dumb joke they made. And David definitely did not like that.
“Come here, you little fucker,” David snarled, slipping an arm around Silva’s waist.
He made up some excuse about teammates taking care of each other, and a loyalty to both country and club, to explain his sudden feeling of protectiveness.
“What, where are we going?” Silva asked, confused, but still nestling into David’s side.
“Taking you somewhere safe, where you won’t get molested or doing something you regret,” David explained with the patience of a parent who was impatient and easily irritated.
Silva rolled his eyes dramatically (or at least he tried to, he knew his eyeballs were moving in some manner) and said, “A little too late for the molesting part. Some woman shoved my face in her tits and I swear her boyfriend just laughed and then patted my ass.”
“That,” David said as he roughly shoved Silva into a booth, “would be called an invitation to a threesome.”
“Oh,” Silva said. And then, a beat later, and perkier, “Oh!”
David could see Puyol smirking at him from across the room and he kinda sorta wanted to walk over there and yank Puyol’s hair out.
“You made me lost a bet,” David grumbled, ignoring the fact it was a bet of no monetary value. Still, there was his pride and the smirking face of Carles Puyol.
“I’m sorry,” Silva said with convincing sincerity. “If it makes you feel any better, I watched Ramos get his ass waxed once.”
“Oh, ew. Please let me dig my fingernails into my skull in hopes of scratching that mental image out.”
“He said he likes having company when he gets waxed. I know, weird, right? Maybe it’s like related to some sort of repressed sex kink.”
“God, you’re so weird when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk!” Silva defended, blinking drunkenly. Then, a moment later-“I’m not!”
David rubbed Silva’s back soothingly and said, “You keep telling yourself that.”
The night progressed rather quickly, and rather memorably. They were, after all, the new kings of European football. At some point David left Silva’s side to get slightly drunk himself. Silva used the opportunity to drown shots like water and let fans take as many pictures as they wanted. It was a very good night to be Spanish.
It got not so good around three o’ clock in the morning when Silva threw up on Íker’s pants. Drunk, enraged Íker with vomit down the front of his pants was a pretty intimidating sight. David, only buzzed now, whisked Silva away from impending danger.
“I feel like shit,” Silva later moaned as the pair sat outside on the curv and his body slumped against David’s.
“You look like shit too,” David added unhelpfully.
“But Íker will forgive me, right?” Silva asked earnestly, gazing up at David’s face.
And David, as unforgiving as he could be, simply stroked Silva’s head and said, “He will. You’re too damn forgivable.”
And then, as unforgiving as he could be, he added, “Which is incredibly annoying. Cut it out and man up to your fuck-ups.”
But Silva was already nodding off to sleep.
“That little fucker,” David said to no one in particular.
Disclaimer: real people caught in fictional situations
Characters: David Villa, David Silva, La Selección
Rating: PG
Summary: Highly unrealistic. Inspired by David Silva’s amusing post-Euro celebration photos. (Title credit to Cobra Starship.)
David thought Silva should stay away from alcohol from now on, even if he had to personally make sure of it. He and Puyol had made a bet of no monetary value on who would be the first to get sloshed. David had picked Torres out at first, thinking he was a light-weight. Then he remembered Torres would probably cut short on the bar shenanigans to lock himself up in the hotel room and have phone sex with his girlfriend. And probably the boring kind of phone sex too.
David settled on Íker, who had been in his underwear earlier, waving around cheap champagne. Puyol guessed Silva (“He’s still in the young and foolish stage of his life!” argued Puyol), which made David scoff. He and Silva played on the same team, and he definitely knew Silva better than Carles Puyol.
Except alcohol had no boundaries when an entire nation was coming off a 44 year sobriety stint.
And Silva, apparently, could hold his alcohol as well as a bottomless cup.
David’s only 26, but he already felt too old to be playing babysitter for the inebriated. But then he saw various strangers, mostly male, start getting grabby with Silva, who just kept laughing in a stupor at whatever dumb joke they made. And David definitely did not like that.
“Come here, you little fucker,” David snarled, slipping an arm around Silva’s waist.
He made up some excuse about teammates taking care of each other, and a loyalty to both country and club, to explain his sudden feeling of protectiveness.
“What, where are we going?” Silva asked, confused, but still nestling into David’s side.
“Taking you somewhere safe, where you won’t get molested or doing something you regret,” David explained with the patience of a parent who was impatient and easily irritated.
Silva rolled his eyes dramatically (or at least he tried to, he knew his eyeballs were moving in some manner) and said, “A little too late for the molesting part. Some woman shoved my face in her tits and I swear her boyfriend just laughed and then patted my ass.”
“That,” David said as he roughly shoved Silva into a booth, “would be called an invitation to a threesome.”
“Oh,” Silva said. And then, a beat later, and perkier, “Oh!”
David could see Puyol smirking at him from across the room and he kinda sorta wanted to walk over there and yank Puyol’s hair out.
“You made me lost a bet,” David grumbled, ignoring the fact it was a bet of no monetary value. Still, there was his pride and the smirking face of Carles Puyol.
“I’m sorry,” Silva said with convincing sincerity. “If it makes you feel any better, I watched Ramos get his ass waxed once.”
“Oh, ew. Please let me dig my fingernails into my skull in hopes of scratching that mental image out.”
“He said he likes having company when he gets waxed. I know, weird, right? Maybe it’s like related to some sort of repressed sex kink.”
“God, you’re so weird when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk!” Silva defended, blinking drunkenly. Then, a moment later-“I’m not!”
David rubbed Silva’s back soothingly and said, “You keep telling yourself that.”
The night progressed rather quickly, and rather memorably. They were, after all, the new kings of European football. At some point David left Silva’s side to get slightly drunk himself. Silva used the opportunity to drown shots like water and let fans take as many pictures as they wanted. It was a very good night to be Spanish.
It got not so good around three o’ clock in the morning when Silva threw up on Íker’s pants. Drunk, enraged Íker with vomit down the front of his pants was a pretty intimidating sight. David, only buzzed now, whisked Silva away from impending danger.
“I feel like shit,” Silva later moaned as the pair sat outside on the curv and his body slumped against David’s.
“You look like shit too,” David added unhelpfully.
“But Íker will forgive me, right?” Silva asked earnestly, gazing up at David’s face.
And David, as unforgiving as he could be, simply stroked Silva’s head and said, “He will. You’re too damn forgivable.”
And then, as unforgiving as he could be, he added, “Which is incredibly annoying. Cut it out and man up to your fuck-ups.”
But Silva was already nodding off to sleep.
“That little fucker,” David said to no one in particular.