the distance between two bodies: part 2

[luxover]

The next day at practice, Pep wants to work on man-up situations-two defense against three offense. They split up into lines and the teams switch around each run, sometimes Andrés and Villa and Bojan, or Villa and Pedro and Javier; whoever happens to be there. Victor saves a lot of them, the defense working well together; Villa recognizes that a lot of this is for him, for him to see how and why Barcelona works.

And then-and then the team is Pedro and Leo and Villa, and it’s just instantaneous, fast passes and perfect crosses and goal, goal, goal.

“Fuck!” Victor yells, and then he says, “Thank God you’re on my team.”

Pep claps and tells them to run it again, and Villa thinks, This is going to be a good season. No one will be able to catch them.

Leo slings an arm around his shoulders as they head inside to the stationary bikes.

“You and me versus the world,” Leo says, and he puts his hand out in front of them like he’s imagining something there.

“Hey, thanks,” Pedro says. “I feel really welcomed right now.”

Leo laughs and makes the hand-gesture again, saying, “You and me and Pedro versus the world.”

“Much better,” Pedro says, and then Dani hollers out for him and so he stops to wait. Leo and Villa keep walking.

“You know, you’re different than I expected,” Villa says, and he immediately wants to take it back. Different than he expected? Jesus Christ, he’s not a girl sitting around, day-dreaming about what Lionel Messi is like in his off time.

“Yeah,” Leo says. “But I only ever saw you filming advertisements and stuff. You have to be serious there.” And that, Villa supposes, is true. He thought Leo would be serious all the time, constantly weighed down by the pressure of what people expect him to be, but that’s not exactly how he is. He’s louder, goofier.

“I guess,” Villa says.

“You know,” Leo says. “You do the same, even if you don’t notice it. All the other times I met you, you never smiled. They guys had to promise me that you knew how.”

“Fuck you,” Villa says, and he flashes a huge, cheesy smiles at Leo.

“Beautiful,” Leo deadpans. “Just stunning. But seriously; with Barcelona, I’m still Messi, but-they all know me. I can be Leo the person and Messi the footballer. No one cares if I joke around from time to time.”

“Plus,” Villa says, “I bet they have a high tolerance for that kind of shit, what with Gerard and all.”

“You don’t even know,” Leo says. “And paired with Dani and Puyi? This team has to have the patience of a saint.”

“Well, shit,” Villa says. “Then I’m screwed.”

Leo just laughs.

When his first match rolls around, Villa’s actually nervous. And it’s so fucking stupid, he knows that, because he’s confident in his skills and he’s confident in his team, but it’s not his crest and it’s not fans, and so he’s nervous.

He steps out onto the pitch at El Sardinero and as they line up, Leo squeezes his elbow as if to tell Villa that everything’s alright because Barcelona will dominate. They kick-off and Villa watches as Leo scores three minutes later and he thinks, What the fuck am I worried about? Because this is Barcelona and he is playing center forward with Leo on his left and Andrés on his right and what could be better than that?

Andrés scores in the thirty-third minute and then Maxwell gives away a penalty-missed, saved by Victor, of course-and this is not Valencia, but it’s fun to be with his friends from La Roja all the time. Villa keeps at it, hopes for a chance to score because nothing could possibly be better than scoring in his debut match, and then-

It’s a perfect cross, curling and coming right at him from where Dani stands at the opposite sideline. And Villa’s all alone, almost, no one around him, and he leans back and fires a header at the keeper and it goes in. It goes in so cleanly and Villa can’t even believe it, how perfect it was, and he goes running at Dani, pointing two fingers at the sky. Dani lifts him up in a hug and Pedro’s right next to him, and Villa grabs Andrés by the back of his head to pull him into the group. He feels hands in his hair and he lowers his head to hide his smile, and he feels Leo mold himself to his back when he gets there, and Villa thinks, This isn’t Valencia, but I fit.

Pep pulls him close with a hand around his shoulders as they walk into the tunnel after the match.

“Good match, David,” he says. “I’m glad we have you.”

“Thanks,” David says, and they head into the locker room. “I’m glad to be here.”

When he gets through the door, everyone starts clapping, and Villa doesn’t know if they’re making fun of him for something or not.

“Here he is!” Gerard yells. “He scored on his debut!”

“The man!” Puyi says.

“The myth!” Gerard again, and Villa rolls his eyes.

“The legend-”

“Davi-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says, although he’s smiling like an idiot. They all cat call as he heads to his locker to grab his stuff-his towel and his flip-flops-and just happens to get there in time to notice that his phone is vibrating.

“Hello?” he says, and he needs to cover his other ear to hear over the noise in the locker room.

“Villa?” Silva asks. “I didn’t think you’d pick up; I was going to leave a message.”

“Everything alright?” Villa asks, because that’s kind of unusual.

“Yeah, yeah, I just-I saw your goal. Really, really nice,” Silva says.

Villa laughs a little because he’s in a good mood and says, “Thanks. I’m good at what I do; what can I say?”

Silva laughs and says something in response, but Villa can’t hear over the noise of his teammates.

“What?” Villa asks. “I can’t hear you.”

“Tell your girlfriend you’ll call her back!” Victor yells, and that’s followed by Xavi asking, “You have a girlfriend?”

Villa ignores them both. Silva says something else and Villa still can’t hear him.

“Hey, Silva,” Villa says, “can I call you back later?” He doesn’t hear any response, but he says, “Alright, bye,” and hangs up anyways.

“Ohh!” Gerard says. “It was Silva!” He slings and arm around Villa’s shoulders and points at Victor and all the other people being loud around them. “You’re doomed!”

“What the fuck?” Villa asks, because he doesn’t know what Gerard’s talking about. “Why?”

Gerard stares at him for a second and then says, “Everyone knows that you and Silva share some weird Valencia bond where you read each other’s minds and interruption of conversation is punishable by death.”

“I didn’t know that,” Dani hollers from across the locker room.

“No one likes you,” Gerard yells back, but doesn’t stop looking at Villa.

“It’s really not a big deal,” Villa says. He starts to head towards the showers but then stops to turn around and snap his towel at Gerard’s legs. Gerard yelps and Villa sprints away as fast as he can in his shower shoes.

Silva seems surprised when Villa actually calls him back.

“I just thought you’d be out celebrating or something,” Silva says.

“Nah,” Villa tells him. “Gerard was going out with Puyi but…”

“I get it,” Silva says. “You’re an old man and you need your rest.”

“Fuck you, I’m young and beautiful,” Villa says, and Silva laughs.

“Must’ve just slipped my mind.”

Villa likes Silva’s laugh. It’s such a fucking lame thing to like, but he like it. It makes Villa wish Silva was there so they could celebrate his goal by fucking lazily on the couch and watching movies together.

“Why do you have to be in Manchester?” Villa asks. “I’m so fucking horny right now.”

“Hazard of the job, I guess,” Silva says. “But I believe in you; you’ll work it out.”

“In more ways than one,” Villa grumbles, and Silva just laughs and laughs.

The next few days are hard; Villa gets called-up for the friendly against Argentina and knowing that he gets to see Silva in less than a week puts an itch under his skin and makes it difficult for him to focus.

“I’m not going to lie,” Dani says, “I’m a little offended you’re this eager to get away from me. I mean, with everyone else, I’m used to it; but you? Et tu, David?” Villa just slaps him lightly in the face and then Pep blows his whistle and he takes off for sprints.

He thinks it’ll be nice to see Silva again, even though it’s not been all that long, only a month or so tops. But still, after being together for almost four years at Valencia, a month is a long time. He’s not used to playing without Silva, even if it’s just practice, because at club or national level, Silva was always just there. So that will be nice.

“David!” Pep yells, and it shakes Villa out of his thoughts. He looks at Pep and Pep’s got his arms spread wide and a look on his face like, What are you doing? Villa looks around and everyone else is heading into the gym; he shakes his head and jogs after them.

“Sorry!” he yells to Pep, and Pep just laughs, rolls his eyes.

When Villa finally gets to see Silva again-as in, in real life, in the flesh, up close and personal-they’re in the airport and so Villa can’t do what he really wants to do. But he hugs Silva, hard and with both arms, and he thinks he feels Silva press a kiss into his neck.

Everyone says hi to everyone else, and Silva is quiet and reserved, just like he always is when he’s not on the pitch and not alone with just Villa.

Raúl comes and says hi, and he’s maybe the exception to Silva’s shy rule, because Silva hugs him and smiles wide and says, “Hey, Raúl. It’s been ages.”

“Tell me about it,” Raúl says, and then he looks back and forth between Villa and Silva. “I can’t believe you guys aren’t at Valencia anymore.” He shoots a look at Villa and then rolls his eyes. “Barcelona; you’re the enemy now!”

Villa tells him to shut up, and Silva laughs.

They sit together on the plane, too, and it’s real nice, just being together again and shooting the shit about everything and nothing at all.

Villa looks at the emergency landing card and asks, “What would you do if you got on the plane and someone had switched the real cards out with the ones from Fight Club?”

“The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club,” Silva says.

“Fuck off,” Villa laughs.

“Seriously, though,” Silva says, “I wouldn’t even notice.”

“I think I would,” Villa says. “I check these cards like six times a flight.”

“I know,” Silva says. He nudges Villa’s side and says, “It almost makes me nervous, watching you be nervous.”

“I’m not fucking nervous,” Villa says.

“Okay.”

They have practice when they land and it’s just like old times, being back with La Roja and with Silva and everything. It’s not been long at all, and so everyone’s still sort of in the pattern of how they all play together. They look good, strong, and after practice, Villa showers even though most of his team skips theirs in order to go eat earlier.

“You guys are fucking disgusting,” he says, but Silva just laughs and Gerard flicks him off.

“I’ll shower with you, David,” Pepe says, and he waggles his eyebrows. Villa just punches him in the arm.

He gets dressed and heads out the door before Pepe even steps out of the shower, and then he heads to the dining room. There’s only one open chair left-between Silva and Cesc-and Ramos is ahead of him, walking towards the table, and so he thinks, Fuck.

But then Ramos doesn’t take the open chair; he leaves it and pulls a free chair up to the corner of their table. Villa sits down between Silva and Cesc, and he’s not sure if people actually know about him and Silva, but things like this make him think that they do. It’s not a secret, especially not from their friends, but Villa is surprisingly private and Silva is like a lockbox when it comes to his personal life, and so Villa’s never exactly sure.

Silva looks at him and smiles, and Villa puts his hand on Silva’s knee underneath the table.

At the end of the day, Del Bosque gives them a few hours of free time and then tells them that they better shut the lights out at a decent hour. Villa somehow manages to convince Alvaro to switch with him so he can room with Silva, and even though Iker makes a face at him for that, Villa doesn’t switch back.

They lie together in one bed and watch tv for a while, some news and some telenovela, but eventually the tv is forgotten because they are together, in one bed, and Silva’s skin is warm next to Villa’s own.

They kiss for a while-just kiss, and Villa’s missed it, missed the way Silva’s mouth felt and how Silva knows exactly when to pull back and when to use more tongue and when to bite down on Villa’s lower lip. And Villa thinks that they’re on the same page-that they’re both building up to getting off-but when he makes the move to palm Silva’s cock, Silva grabs his wrist and stops him.

“No sex before a match,” he says. “Iker even reminded everyone.” He keeps kissing Villa but Villa groans and pulls away.

“Yeah, but he was referring to, like, wives and hookers,” Villa says, pulling away. “So we’re fine.”

And Villa thinks that maybe Silva’s just doing it to mess with him, but either way, he says, “No sex, Villa.”

“Alright,” Villa says. “A handjob, then.” And he says it because Silva is right there, in bed with him, and they haven’t seen each other in ages, it seems, and because Villa is dying to touch every inch of Silva’s skin, to see again how his face looks when he comes.

Silva smiles and right then and says, “No sex.”

“It’s a fucking handjob!” Villa says, and he really can’t believe it. They haven’t seen each other in weeks. “Since when did you become a Catholic school nun?”

Silva makes a face like he’s thinking it over and then he says, “Just a handjob?”

“Not just a handjob,” Villa says. “A handjob from me.”

“Oh, well then, how can I say no?” Silva says with a huge smile, and Villa gets it now. Silva was messing with him.

“Fuck you,” he says.

“I thought we just agreed on a handjob?” Silva laughs, but it turns into a different noise completely when Villa reaches into Silva’s boxers and wraps his fingers around Silva’s cock.

Silva hisses in a breath and Villa says, “Still funny to you?” He doesn’t get an answer, but Silva’s hips stutter into Villa’s hand and Villa takes that as a victory.

When the match comes around, Villa feels weird about the fact that it’s weird to have Leo on the opposite team. It’s even weirder that Spain doesn’t play well, because Villa’s kind of gotten used to winning, but they rest some of their usual starters and so maybe it’s not all that shocking.

Silva’s there, though; there to pass and set up plays and tell Villa not to worry about it when he misses a shot. They’re subbed out too soon, it feels like-both of them at the forty-seventh, barely into the second half-and they sit on the bench, wishing they were back out on the pitch.

“That was too short,” Silva says, and Villa just grunts in agreement. “I don’t want to have to wait until the next friendly.”

Villa doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t want to wait that long, either, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

They lose 4-1. It sucks, the beating that they get, and it sucks having to say goodbye again so soon, but that’s how it goes. In their hotel room, Villa hugs Silva hard and kisses him on the mouth, and Silva says, “This is harder than I thought it would be.” One weekend-one match-is not enough.

They head to the lobby and file onto the team bus and then onto the plane, and they sit there together in silence, the armrest pushed up and the lengths of their arms pressed together. No one bothers them.

“I’ll call you when I’m finally home,” Villa says. They both have connecting flights once they land back in Madrid.

“Okay,” Silva says. “Don’t forget your sunglasses on the plane like you always do.”

“I won’t.”

Villa presses their thighs together.

When Barcelona plays the Herculés match, Villa’s not entirely sure what happens. They play alright, even though they don’t start with Xavi or Pedro or Dani, but nothing works for them. He doesn’t get it. He understands-he’s not a fucking moron-that Pep sat a lot of the usual starters out because of the Panathinaikos match in a few days, but it’s Herculés; it shouldn’t matter.

The locker room is dead silent after the match, and Villa is exhausted. He showers and gets dressed and thinks, What the fuck? What the fuck? And it’s not that he can’t handle losing, because he can, but they are Barcelona and this is Herculés and what else is there for him to say? They wouldn’t have lost like this at Valencia, not when everyone was still there.

He shoulders his bag and he wants to say something-Sorry, maybe-because everyone keeps talking about how important a signing he was and how big a player he is, and maybe he should have done something more than he did. But he doesn’t apologize, doesn’t say anything, just leaves and doesn’t look back, because he didn’t let his club down; he and his club let down everyone else, and Villa is fucking fuming.

Villa gets home and he’s still in a terrible mood. They just lost-to fucking Herculés-and his hip hurts and Silva isn’t there when he gets home, and he’s just wound so tight. He kicks off his shoes at the door and then heads to the laundry room to strip off his shirt and pants, and then he whips out his phone, calls Silva as he paces his house in just his boxer briefs.

“I saw,” Silva says first thing, no hello or anything like that.

“Such bullshit,” Villa snaps, although he’s not mad at Silva. “Such fucking bullshit. I thought that Barcelona meant I didn’t have to deal with this type of complete and utter embarrassment.”

“Hey,” Silva says, because he’s the rational one; the calm one. “It wasn’t embarrassing. Herculés played well and you guys didn’t. There’s nothing else to it. You didn’t make any embarrassing mistakes; they just outplayed you, and that’s football.”

“Fuck,” Villa says, but this time it’s resigned instead of angry. “I know, I just-wasn’t expecting that.”

“I know,” Silva says.

“And I got fucking destroyed on the pitch today, too,” Villa says. “My hip hurts like a bitch.”

Villa walks into his room and stands in front of his mirror that’s above his dresser, pulling his boxer briefs down at the hip just low enough so that he can see the mark.

“Is it bad?” Silva asks.

“Not really,” Villa says. “It’s just a massive bruise. Bigger than the one you got at the Euros.”

“I wish I was there,” Silva says. “I’d kiss it better.”

Villa laughs a little, says, “Would you?”

“No,” Silva says, and something in his voice changes, gets lower. “I wouldn’t. But I’d hold your hips down as I blew you, press my thumb against your bruise.”

And that-Villa forgets, forgets all the time how Silva can be because Silva’s not like this often. And it’s like he rediscovers what Silva’s like when he’s not shy-falls in love with him again and again-every time Silva does something like this, something for Villa and Villa only. His breath hitches.

“I wouldn’t want to,” Silva says. “I don’t like hurting you, but I know it gets you off, and so I would.”

“Fuck, Silva,” Villa says. He watches himself in the mirror as he runs his free hand over his own torso.

“I’d bite your skin, too. Leave marks so red that they’d bruise over and you’d have them for weeks,” Silva says, and Villa wedges his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he shoves his briefs down over his hips. “And everyone would know that you’re taken, that you’re mine. Would you like that, Guaje?”

“Fuck,” Villa says, and it seems like that’s all he can ever say. He wraps his fingers around his cock, and his hips immediately buck a little into his hand; it feels like ages since he last heard Silva’s voice like this. “Yes, Silva. Fuck.”

“We would,” Silva says, “but only when you’re really begging for it. When you really need it.”

And Villa hears it then, hears the way Silva’s breathing hard, and he can picture it in his head, Silva laid out on his bed, his shirt pushed up to his armpits and his phone wedged between his ear and his pillow as he touches himself, his chest and his hips and the front of his thighs. He can picture Silva’s face, too, the way he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip because he doesn’t like making a lot of noise when he comes. Villa can picture it all in his head, and suddenly there are things that he wants to do to Silva that he’s never even thought of before.

“Fuck,” Villa says, and he watches himself in the mirror, but it’s not as sexy as if Silva was there with him. “I wish you were here touching me.”

“What else do you wish I was doing?” Silva asks.

“I don’t know,” Villa says. “Anything. Fuck, Silva, anything.”

“I’d want to suck your cock,” Silva says, and it’s the fact that Silva says cock just as much as it is the idea of Silva sucking him off that has him making a noise in the back of his throat. “God, I miss that. Out of all the things, I didn’t think-but I do. I miss sucking you off, Guaje; the taste of you in my mouth.”

“You look so good on your knees, too,” Villa says, and he leans forward, rests one of his forearms on his dresser and drops his head down. He twists his hand and squeezes his fingers tighter, and he tries but he can’t hold back the groan that leaves his lips. The sound of skin on skin is so loud that he wonders if Silva can hear it through the phone. “The way you just let me fuck your mouth and you don’t even care.”

“I’d let you do more than that, if you wanted,” Silva says. “I’d let you do whatever you wanted to me.”

“I want to-” Villa says, but he cuts himself off. His hips are moving fast now and he’s so close-so fucking close-and he trusts Silva with his life, but he still can’t tell Silva what he wants because they’ve never done that and never talked about it and he’s never even realized that he wanted it until just now, until he thought about the way Silva’s face looks when they fuck, and can’t-

“What do you want, Villa?” Silva asks. “Just tell me what you-” he makes a noise and Villa thinks he’s going to come so soon, so soon. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Fuck,” Villa says, and then he lets it all out in a rush. “I want to come on your face because you’re mine and because I can.”

There’s silence for a second and Villa just listens to the way Silva’s breath hitches, and then Silva says, “I’d let you.”

Villa sees stars.

Practice goes well after that, even though Barcelona just lost to Herculés. Pep doesn’t seem to think that the score line is any indication of how well the team plays, and while Villa agrees with him, he still thinks that they must have been doing something wrong to have lost in the first place. Then again, Villa’s not the manager, so what does he know?

They play foot volley when they get back, and Villa loves that because it’s helpful but not serious. He pairs up with Sergio, and Xavi and Andrés are on the other side of the net; at first they start by showing off, doing tricks that they’re sure will impress the others, but as time goes on, they end up focusing on the score and who is winning.

It’s interesting, too, getting to see how Xavi and Andrés talk without talking; it’s like a midfield hive mind or something, Villa thinks, and he never gets tired of seeing it. And he’s not; he’s not tired of seeing it, just like he’s not tired of playing for Barcelona, but the excitement of being part of a squad that made up of most of his national team friends has worn off. There are some times-most times- that he just misses Valencia, misses Pablo and Mata and Alexis and the roar of the Mestalla around him.

He hangs out with Leo after practice and they play some FIFA.

“Argentina vs. Spain,” Leo says, and he hands Villa a controller. Villa groans.

“Oh my God, you gloating fuck,” Villa says to him, but he talks the controller anyways and throws his body down onto Leo’s couch.

“Gloating?” Leo asks, and he makes this face like he can’t believe what he just heard. “I’m just giving you a chance to redeem yourself.”

“Sure,” Villa says, and then he turns to the screen. He waits a while before speaking again, waits until their game is set up before saying, “But it’s not like I mind you being an asshole.”

“Why?” Leo asks, and he sounds wary. Villa can see out of the corner of his eye that his jaw is slack and his eyes are wide as he plays.

“Did Argentina even qualify for the World Cup? I don’t think I saw you,” Villa says, and Leo starts yelling.

“Oh!” he says. “Oh, that was low!”

“No, I feel bad for you!” Villa says. “I’m just saying I feel bad!”

Leo shakes his head and says, “That was uncalled for.”

Villa just laughs.

He recognizes that it’s been building up inside him for a while, but it only hits him when he's standing in the tunnel at Camp Nou about to play Sporting Gijon; he doesn’t know why, but suddenly he realizes that they lost their home opener to Herculés-a newly-promoted team-and so now, tonight, they have no other choice but to win, to beat his hometown team into the ground in an effort to prove their worth. They don't have any other option. And the thought is just so suffocating, almost, because before he had been on the other side, the fighting side, the side that wanted to win but wasn't necessarily always expected to.

He looks around him, at Puyi and Xavi and Dani, and they're easy, relaxed, No big deal, it's just Sporting Gijon. But it is, it is a big deal and they don't even realize that, have become so accustomed to it all. It's not just Sporting Gijon; it's Barcelona-they're Barcelona-and they have to win, absolutely have to, no other option but leaving it all out there on the pitch for the blaugrana.

He turns and looks at Leo, who's right behind him, still not suited up because of his ankle injury from the Atlético match. Leo smiles easily, and Villa knows that he's trying to say something with the gesture, but Villa has no fucking clue what. Because Leo-Leo is Leo; he's on a completely different plane of existence from everyone else, and Barcelona is all he's ever known, all he will ever know, and everything he does is part of a give-and-take, a dance with the club that no one else knows the steps to. Villa's not like that; he can't compare himself to people like that, like Leo and Xavi and Sergio and Andrés and Victor and everyone else that's not him and that loves this club, deep in their bones.

And suddenly, as he takes the hand of the child next to him and walks out onto the pitch, it hits him: Maybe he didn't make the right choice in coming to Barcelona. Yes, Barcelona is the best, but he's not so sure Barcelona is for him. It wasn't his dream to be here all along; he wanted to stay in Valencia, win La Liga and the Copa del Rey and the Champions League with Valencia, with Silva, however unlikely that may have been. That was what he wanted, and now he's here, under so much pressure, and the only person he wants to talk to is miles away, wearing sky blue.

It's only after he thinks that that Villa realizes what this match really means; Sporting Gijon is his hometown club, he knows that, has been talking about that to the media for days. Fuck, Sporting Gijon is his hometown club and he's sitting there thinking about Barcelona and Valencia like they were the only clubs that ever mattered to him. And he wants to say something to them, something like, I've left Sporting but it's still my club, only not in those words, but he doesn't know how to and doesn't get the chance to. The ref blows the whistle and he's off, running down the pitch to bring glory to Barcelona because that's what they pay him to do.

Despite his internal hang-ups, the match goes well; he plays well. They're not hurting without Leo-he's not the only person on the squad-but his absence is noticeable and Villa wonders what Leo's thinking from up in the stands. And even though the crest weighs heavy on him, even though it's not his, Villa forgets about everything that's been on his mind, one minute at a time, with each tap of the football at his feet. He feels light on the pitch, lighter than air, and happy.

He scores in the forty-ninth minute after Dani passes him a through-ball that he slots passed the keeper. Villa doesn't take off, doesn't go running crazy because Sporting Gijon is his team, let him play football when he was young, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel good to score; it does. It feels really fucking great, after all that running and working and missing and missing and missing. He smiles and his teammates are there, Xavi and Pedro and Andrés, their hands on his skin and in his hair, Bojan's arms wrapped around him from behind.

"First Barça home goal of the season, Guaje," Andrés says, and Villa smiles even wider.

It feels good to be good; he just wishes it was with Valencia.

And yet, despite having a good match, Villa drives home irritated and calls Silva late that night when he’s lying in bed and unable to fall asleep.

“Hey,” Silva says, and he sounds happy to be hearing from Villa. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Villa says, and then there’s a silence that Silva obviously expects him to fill. He doesn’t.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Villa snaps.

“Alright,” Silva says. “Well, I’m just watching some tv; practice was hard today.”

“Yeah?” Villa asks. “And how’s Manchester?” And he says it like that-like, Manchester-because he hates Manchester and everything that Manchester is and stands for and has.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, fuck,” Villa says. “Why does there have to be something wrong for me to call you?”

“There doesn’t,” Silva says.

“Then why do you keep insisting that there is?”

“Come on, Villa, don’t be like this,” Silva says, and he sounds so tired. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Villa snaps, but he does and he’s being unfair, and Silva is in the exact same spot he is, only he’s in a different fucking country. Suddenly, it feels like he deflates and instead of agitated, he just feels tired. “It’s kind of like-Barcelona. It’s kind of like a cult. You come in and they welcome you and then just like that, you’re supposed to feel everything just as much as they do, love Barcelona just as much as they do.”

“And do you?” Silva asks. “Love Barcelona like them?”

“No,” Villa says. “And I don’t think I ever will.”

“That’s okay,” Silva tells him, and it’s strange how much better that makes him feel. “I don’t think I’ll ever love City like that, either.”

And then they just sit on the phone and breathe together, and Villa thinks they’re pretty fucking sad, the two of them. He thinks that maybe if he’d have known Silva wasn’t going to stay in La Liga, that he’d have left, too. Because Barcelona’s great and playing with Leo is great, but it’s still not Valencia and Leo’s still not Silva. And Villa’s not unhappy, but he’s not exactly happy, either, because he’s a greedy fuck who has everything in the world and still wants more, and if he can’t have it at Valencia and he can’t have it at Barcelona, then what does it matter where he is?

“Hey, Villa?” Silva says.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.”

They breathe.

He plays FIFA 11 on Xbox LIVE with Alexis every once in a while; it’s fun, kind of like old times, and they shoot the shit. Villa has him on speakerphone as they play. The score’s 3-2 to Villa, but Villa still wants to crush him

“Quit it with this keep-away bullshit and just play,” Alexis says.

“Actually,” Villa tells him, “it’s called tiki taka. You’ll get it when you’re older.”

“I get it now,” Alexis says, and Villa scores. “Shit. I want to punch you in the mouth.”

“Well, you’ll get to, soon,” Villa says. “We play you guys in what? Two weeks?”

“Two short weeks,” Alexis says. “You are going down.”

“Alright,” Villa says.

“Hey, I’m serious.”

“Alright,” Villa says, and the best part is that it just makes Alexis start shouting about the Sevilla line-up and lose the football in the game. Villa scores again; it’s all good.

It all turns right back around, and the next day, Villa has a shit couple of hours. There’s a massive amount of traffic when he goes out and he gets into a fender bender; the guy who hits him focuses more on the fact that he’s talking to David Villa than the fact that they were in a car accident, and asks for an autograph. When he finally gets to where he wants to be-some store downtown that sells a brand of sunglasses that he likes-he realizes that his credit card is not in his wallet and that he has no idea where it could be. Some teenage girls take pictures of him with their camera phones as he leaves and then, almost as if it was fate’s way of mocking him or some shit, he drops his phone and it breaks; the screen cracks right down the middle. He didn’t think phones could do that just by being dropped, and he spends the next hour at the store trying to get a new phone the he has to use cash to pay for.

When he’s back home by himself with a working phone, the first thing Villa does is text Silva.

I can’t deal with this fucking city anymore, he says. Come back to Spain. He gets a response almost immediately.

I wish I could, Silva says.

Villa flops onto the couch and notices that his credit card is sitting on the coffee table; he has no clue how it got there.

A couple of days later, Villa’s drinking orange juice and debating the importance of reading the newspaper before practice when the doorbell rings. It’s seven forty-five in the morning and he’s not expecting anybody; when he opens the door, there’s a mail man holding a package.

“David Villa?” he asks, and he holds out a pen and a clipboard for him to sign. He looks as tired as Villa feels, and doesn’t seem to give a shit who Villa is.

“Uh, yeah,” Villa says, and he takes the pen, signs for his package.

“Have a nice day,” the guy says, and then he heads back to his truck, leaving Villa standing in his doorway with a mystery package from-he checks the return label-Silva.

He puts the package down on his kitchen table and roots around in a drawer for some scissors, and then he struggles to get through the massive amounts of tape that Silva has wrapped around the box. When he finally does, Styrofoam peanuts get everywhere.

“Damn it,” Villa says to himself, and he kicks the peanuts on the floor out of the way so he doesn’t step on them and doesn’t have to deal with them. He reaches into the box only to come out with a second box; a shoebox.

There’s a note taped to the top:

Saw these and thought of you. Couldn’t not buy them.

And inside-cheetah print sneakers. They are the most hideous things the he has ever seen and he loves the fuck out of them. He wears them to practice and feels like hot shit.

Gerard laughs at him in the locker room.

“What the fuck are those, oh my god,” he says. “No, seriously, what are those?”

“A gift,” Villa says. “From God to humanity.”

“No,” Gerard says, and he laughs, fumbles in his pocket for his phone. “A gift from me to the Twitter universe; take them off.”

“What? No, go fuck yourself.”

“Seriously,” Gerard says. “I’ve never needed anything more in my life, come on.”

“Fine, Jesus,” Villa says, and he takes off his shoes. Gerard lines them up on the floor and takes a picture of them, then fiddles around on his phone for a second.

“Look,” he says. “I didn’t even mention they were yours.”

Villa looks at Gerard’s phone and the tweet says, Whose shoes are these?

“You’re a bigger asshole than I thought,” Villa says as he puts his shoes back on. “I’m actually kind of proud.”

“Oh, come on,” Gerard says. “It’s a Twitter mystery! People love those!”

And then, from the hallway, Dani yells, “Geri! Whose shoes are those? I fucking want a pair!”

Villa feels nothing but vindication.

The week continues to just get crazier and more interesting. Gerard and Dani get into some argument over an anime show that results in Dani declaring that Gerard is dead to him off the pitch, Puyi comes to practice with his hair in a ponytail, and Eto’o drops by randomly to see his former club.

Later, when he thinks everything dies down, Pep says to him, “It’s a good think you transferred here, you know? Leo and I were seriously outnumbered.”

“What do you mean?” Villa asks.

Pep points to something over his shoulder, and when he turns around, he can see Gerard and Bojan wrestling, and Puyi miraculously still standing even though Dani is on his back. Victor is sprinting from the goal line to join in.

“This is like my first youth team,” Villa says, and Pep laughs, claps him on the back.

Silva calls him after his match against Arsenal.

“Did you watch?” he asks, and right off the bat, Villa can tell he’s in a bad mood.

“No,” Villa tells him, and he’s honest about it. He didn’t watch it, didn’t have time to.

“Good,” Silva says. “It was a mess.”

Villa throws himself down on his couch and turns on the first sports news program he can find, the volume turned down low. They go through all the matches and Villa doesn’t have to wait long for them to talk about the EPL.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Villa says.

“I thought you said you didn’t watch it.”

“I didn’t,” Villa tells him. “I’m looking at the highlights right now. You played fine, it looks.”

“Yes,” Silva stresses, “but the team didn’t.”

“Well, I mean, Barcelona doesn’t always-”

“Stop,” Silva cuts him off. “Just stop. I don’t want to hear about Barcelona.”

“What?” Villa asks. “Why? I was just saying that sometimes we-”

“Look, I recognize that you’re trying to help,” Silva says, “but you’re really just making everything worse.”

And Villa knows that’s his cue to shut up, to stop talking, but he has to know what’s wrong and so he says, “I’m not even fucking doing anything; I’m just telling you that everyone has those days.”

“I know,” Silva says, and Villa can tell that he’s trying to keep from snapping, from yelling. “But you keep talking about how you’re there and I’m here and I can’t deal with it right now.”

“Why?” Villa asks, because it’s gotten past the point where all he wanted to do was make Silva feel better. “None of that is anything new.”

“Because,” Silva says, and his voice is quiet like always, but urgent, too. “Because I can’t-I’m worried that I can’t be what you need anymore, not all the way from Manchester. And it’s so hard because I try, because I want to, but I made a mistake and I moved away, and that’s my fault and now I wish I hadn’t, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Bullshit,” Villa says, and he doesn’t even know what’s going on anymore, because he thought all of this was all about Arsenal, but it turns out none of it is, and he is caught completely and totally unprepared. “What do you think I need? I don’t need you to be anything.”

“You do though,” Silva says, and he laughs, even though none of it is funny. “You need so much and you don’t even realize it, so I can’t even be mad at you for it. I want to be there for you, but you just pile it on me, everything, how mad you are that Valencia had debt, and how you hate that you had to sign for Barcelona and that I chose to leave-especially that I chose to leave, always telling me to come back-and I’m sorry, okay, I am, but I did something for me, because I thought it would be better for me, but all it did was hurt you.”

“It didn’t-”

“It did,” Silva cuts him off. “And you make me feel so guilty all the time and you don’t even realize it. I’m sorry that Barcelona’s not like Valencia was, but City isn’t either, okay? And you’re not helping things by just blaming me; it’s becoming too much and everything’s weighing down on me all the time, like there’s this weight in my chest, and I just-I can’t have you reminding me all the time that I made the wrong choice because I know; I know that.”

And Villa thinks-Villa doesn’t know what to think. He can’t believe that Silva feels like that and that he didn’t tell him-didn’t fucking say a word-because they were a team and he should have, because Villa wants to be there for him more than he wants to be there for anyone else in the world.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Villa asks.

“You don’t listen,” Silva says, and that hits Villa like a ton of bricks. “I did.”

“I’m sorry,” Villa says after a pause, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and because maybe by saying that, Silva won’t be mad at him anymore.

“Don’t,” Silva tells him.

And Villa thinks-he has to make this better, somehow, because Silva’s the best fucking thing that ever happened to him, and he can’t have Silva thinking that maybe they’re better apart. And that’s so fucking-so dependent, and Villa hates that, but it’s Silva and it’s him and it’s them, and so Villa doesn’t care.

“I don’t think you did, though,” he says, and the hardest part about that is that it’s true.

“Did what?”

“Made the wrong decision. I don’t think you did. I’m just-fuck,” he says, because where are the fucking words to say what he wants to say? “I just wish that what was right for you and what was right for me were the same thing.”

Silva takes a long time to respond, almost too long, and Villa can hear him breathe and can hear him swallow hard before saying, “Yeah. Me too.”

“I’m coming to visit on Friday,” Villa says, and that’s news to him, too, because he didn’t know he was until he said it.

“Okay,” Silva says. “Okay, good.”

He sounds relieved and Villa feels better knowing that he’s not the only one having a hard time with everything.

By the time the plane lands, Villa is so anxious to see Silva again that he can’t believe he waited so long to visit. It’s fucking embarrassing how fast he jumps out of his seat and heads towards the baggage carousel, but when he’s there, when he hears Silva call out, “Guaje,” and when he turns around and sees Silva standing there in a shirt they bought from DSquared-it’s a relief. A relief from what, Villa doesn’t know, but it’s a relief.

Silva drives him home on the left side of the road and they talk about the plane ride and how badly Villa misses the sun even though he’s only been in Manchester for a half hour. It’s kind of a gross day out, clouds and a little bit of rain, but when he mentions that, Silva shrugs and says that he’s used to it.

They go to drop off Villa’s bags at the house before heading back out again, but the second they’re inside, Villa has him pushed up against the wall, his hands up Silva’s shirt. They end up fucking, Silva bent over the kitchen table, their hips moving together and their mouths saying things that don’t quite make sense. Villa has the fingers of one hand gripping hard at Silva’s hip, the other reaching around to Silva’s front as he looks at the way Silva’s head drops between his arms and the curve that adds to his spine.

They both come at about the same time-Villa first, although not by much-and when Silva turns around to look at him, sweaty and sated, Villa pushes his hair out of his eyes.

“Jesus,” he says. “If I’d have known it’d be like this, I’d have visited sooner.”

Silva laughs and smushes his nose into the side of Villa neck.

“Come on,” Silva says. “Let’s shower and then get something to eat.”

It’s a little weird at first, being out in England, because Villa doesn’t really speak English and only understands some of it. But it’s alright because Silva knows that and doesn’t really ever leave him hanging, waiting to know what’s going on or anything; and besides, it’s not exactly like Silva’s fluent at it, either.

They go get some fish and chips and Silva teaches him how to eat them properly while sitting outside of the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

“Adam gave me a huge lecture about it,” Silva says. “I didn’t understand most of it, but Carlos explained what I missed.”

“What, I can’t just eat it?” Villa looks at the little Styrofoam container in his hands and is immediately a little wary, even though everyone else seems to be enjoying theirs.

“Apparently not,” Silva says. “I don’t really know. But Adam basically said that you put malt vinegar on it and a little bit of salt, and that’s it.” Villa wrinkles his nose. “It’s good; I wouldn’t make you eat it if it wasn’t, Villa.”

Silva opens his box for him as they sit outside and pours a little bit of vinegar over their fish and chips. Villa sprinkles on some salt and then tries it, and Silva watches him for his reaction.

“Actually pretty good,” Villa says. “I like the vinegar.”

“Me too,” Silva says.

Someone comes up to them a bit later after that, a mother and her little daughter who is looking at Silva with wide eyes, like he hung the moon. She’s nervous-shy, maybe-and her mother ushers her forward.

The woman says something and although Villa doesn’t know the words, he understands. Silva smiles and nods-he’s surprisingly good at this, the autographs, for someone who’s so quiet-and hunches a little bit to smile down at the young girl; she can’t be older than five.

Silva signs a piece of paper for her and the girl stands there, completely silent and obviously freaking out. But then Silva smiles again and she blurts out, “I love you, David.” She says it the British way, with the stress on the first syllable. Silva gives her a hug and Villa thinks she might just die of happiness.

When they’re gone, Villa says, “I didn’t realize you were such a ladies’ man. Should I be jealous?”

Silva just knocks shoulders with him, smiles and looks down as he says, “Shut up.”

They don’t go out much else over the short time that Villa’s there; Silva says he feels bad about it because Villa flew all the way to England for one night and now he’s just sitting on a couch, but Villa says that he doesn’t give a shit what’s outside so long as Silva’s inside with him.

“I wish this was a free weekend for us,” Silva says. He and Villa both have Sunday matches, and Villa had to get permission to miss one day’s practice in order to come. There’s a movie on in the background, but instead of paying attention, he and Silva are lying together on the couch.

“Me too,” Villa says. “But hey, one night is better than no nights, and it’s not like the flight’s that bad.”

“Yeah, I know. Still, though.”

Villa props himself up on one elbow and kisses him then, with one hand in Silva’s hair. He doesn’t necessarily mean for it to go any further than that, but then Silva slides his hands under Villa’s shirt and, slowly, they undress each other.

The fuck on the couch, Silva pressed to Villa’s body from behind, the tv still on in the background. Silva touches Villa all over, his chest and his nipples, his cock and the front of his thighs. It’s good, relaxed and slow, and Villa pushes back against Silva, meeting him thrust for thrust. Silva kisses the back of Villa’s neck, scrapes his teeth bluntly across the soft skin behind Villa’s ears, and he says, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Villa doesn’t say it back because he’s not really used to saying things like that, but does say Silva’s name-that’s it, just Silva-and Silva must get it because he picks up the pace of his hips, thrusts into Villa faster and more urgently than before.

Afterwards, they kiss lying naked on the couch. Villa turns around and presses his body against Silva’s from his chest to his toes, the come on Villa’s stomach making them stick together like glue.

“There’s come all over my couch,” Silva says, and he tugs on Villa’s lower lip with his teeth.

“I can clean it up,” Villa says, and then he jokes, “My mess, my problem, right?”

“No,” Silva says. “I can get it later. Besides, we only have a few more hours until you have to leave.”

They spend them together.

Villa goes back to Barcelona and back to practice. Pep has them do warm-ups and sprints, and then they focus on corner kicks and free kick plays from right outside the box; Villa thinks that’s good, that he could always use the practice.

During one of their breaks, he sits in the grass and drinks some water and watches Gerard and Bojan joke around a few yards away. He’s not sure what’s going on, but they’re play fighting, seeing who can slap the other person’s face the most without getting slapped back.

“Not fair,” Bojan says, and he dodges Gerard’s fingers. “You’re like twelve hundred meters taller than me.”

“Don’t blame me because genetics liked me more than they liked you,” Gerard says, and Bojan’s fingers catch his cheek.

“Oh, that’s it,” Bojan says. He stands up tall and starts singing a line from El Cant del Barça at the top of his lungs, “Un crit valent!” And then gives this weird war cry before launching himself at Gerard, who goes tumbling into the grass with him. Just as they start wrestling, Leo comes and sits next to Villa.

“Hey,” he says. “How’s it going?”

Villa shrugs, says, “Alright, I guess.”

“I figured, if the hickies on your neck were any indication,” Leo says, and he smiles wide. He’s joking around, doesn’t mean anything by it.

“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says, but he smiles back.

“You know,” Leo starts, “when I first started playing for the first squad, I was so nervous. It’s strange to see how everything’s changed so completely and yet not at all.”

“What do you mean?” Villa asks. The topic sort of came out of nowhere.

“I just-you had a lot of friends on the squad before you came here,” Leo says, and he makes these big hand gestures and looks out at the pitch instead of at Villa. “And you’re used to pressure, and so no one probably told you because-because how say something like that to David Villa, you know?”

“Something like what?”

“Something like-how we all feel it,” Leo says. “The pressure. How the Barça crest is heavy but makes you want to work to hold it up. We all feel it. I mean, maybe you don’t, but I feel it every day.” Villa doesn’t say anything, just nods, because it feels kind of like Leo’s reading his mind and just putting it all out there. “I still get nervous before matches, sometimes. Most times.”

Villa laughs a rush of air out of his nose and says, “You’re the best player in the world.”

“I know how I play,” Leo says. “Doesn’t stop me from sometimes wondering if I’ve earned it, the spot in Barcelona and all the attention and everything. But you know what I’ve realized? We’re all here for a reason. You know?”

“Yeah,” Villa says, but he didn’t know, not until just now, not until he heard what Leo had to say.

“Anyways, just ignore me,” Leo says. “I tend to over-think things.”

“No,” Villa says. “That was-I think the same things, too.”

“Okay,” Leo says, and he smiles so brilliantly. It’s strange because it makes Villa realize just how human Leo is, how he said those things but still worried about how Villa would take them. And Villa takes them really well; it turns out that he had needed to hear them more than he even knew.

He goes home and he just feels so happy, so relaxed, content with Barcelona and Manchester and life.

And maybe that talk did something, maybe it meant something to the both of them, but the next match comes and both Leo and Villa score a brace against Sevilla. And it’s strange because suddenly, running down the pitch covered in sweat and dirt and grass, Villa loves Barcelona. Really, truly loves Barcelona. He loves Camp Nou, and he loves the blaugrana and his squad and his coach, and he loves the crest on his chest. The pressure, the weight-it’s all still there, but it’s lessened somehow by the roar of the crowd and Villa feels at home.

It’s such a relief.

Some reporters talk to him post-match, and they ask him all sorts of questions about the team and the ninety minutes he just played. It’s not something he really likes to do because he feels like he has to be a different person, well-spoken and polite, but he does it because it comes with the job.

“Real Madrid beat Herculés just moments before your match,” one says. “Did that affect the mindset of the team?”

“No,” Villa says. “Barcelona plays hard and plays to win, no matter how the other teams do.”

“You must be pleased with scoring a brace.”

“Yes,” Villa says. “Very pleased. I’m glad to help my team, and also just personally, it’s very satisfying. Maybe a hat-trick next time.” He laughs.

“Speaking of hat-tricks, Leo Messi almost scored a third. Is it any different playing with him now that you know him better, as compared to earlier in the season?”

“Sort of,” Villa says. He thinks of how Leo sorted out all of his emotional bullshit without even realizing it, and he smiles because he really owes Leo one. “Leo is just-he’s Messi, you know? I know him better now, and I would call him a good friend, and so on a personal level, it’s very different. But he’s just amazing, the things he can do with a football. I think he’s tremendous,” Villa says. “A tremendous footballer. I’m very lucky to be able to call him a teammate and a friend.”

The journalist looks like they’re about to ask another question, but then Dani shows up and slings an arm around Villa.

“Yo,” Dani says, and he flashes two fingers in a peace sign at the camera. And then he leaves.

Villa and the reporter are left standing there, and the reporter looks rather confused; Villa just laughs and shrugs.

Part 3