the distance between two bodies: part 1
Title: The Distance Between Two Bodies
Pairing: David Silva / David Villa
Rating: R
Word Count: 25,841
Summary: They’re a team and they decide shit like this together; Villa didn’t pick Barcelona without running it by Silva, and now Silva-he just fucking goes and picks a team in a different goddamn country and doesn’t even think that Villa might want to know, doesn’t even think that maybe Villa will have something to say about the distance or the fact that it’s in a different goddamn country and-
Villa watches as Silva stares at him from the doorway. He likes the black jacket that Silva’s wearing, and he likes the plain white t-shirt that Silva’s wearing, too, because Villa knows that it belongs to him; he can see the Sharpie stain on the bottom hem from when he dropped the marker while signing autographs. He likes that, when Silva wears his clothes.
Silva leans against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, and he’s silent for so long that Villa almost thinks he’s not ever going to say anything. So Villa does what he can and fills the silence.
“Looks like we’ll be rivals,” he says. “You fucking merengue.” Villa signed for Barcelona before the World Cup, and now all that’s left are the formalities of welcome; Silva’s expected to sign for Real Madrid any day now.
But Silva shakes his head, says, “I’m not playing for Real.”
“Then who the fuck are you playing for?” Villa asks, and he’s gonna be pissed if Valencia’s decided to keep him, because Villa doesn’t want to leave any more than Silva does, doesn’t love Valencia any less than Silva does.
Silva pushes himself off the doorjamb and walks towards where Villa is sitting on the edge of the bed, and Villa can see him swallow hard, can see that he’s nervous even if he doesn’t want to show it.
“I’m signing for Man City,” he says.
Villa thinks, says, “But Man City’s in fucking-”
“I know,” Silva says, and he shrugs like maybe the distance doesn’t mean anything to him. “But if I can’t play with you, I won’t play against you.”
“Fuck you,” Villa says, because that’s not fair, that’s not fucking fair. They’re a team and they decide shit like this together; Villa didn’t pick Barcelona without running it by Silva, and now Silva-he just fucking goes and picks a team in a different goddamn country and doesn’t even think that Villa might want to know, doesn’t even think that maybe Villa will have something to say about the distance or the fact that it’s in a different goddamn country and-
And maybe he’s been saying all that out loud, because then Silva says, “It’s a two hour flight; this doesn’t change anything, Guaje.”
“It changes everything,” he snaps, although he doesn’t mean it, just says it to make Silva feel as shitty as he does.
Something in Silva’s posture changes, then, his spine straightens out and his shoulders slide back. It makes Villa feel like an asshole, to know that he’s the one that did that, that he’s the reason Silva’s clenching his jaw, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.
“We can see other people,” Silva says. “If you want.”
“No, I don’t fucking want to,” Villa says. “Shut the fuck up.” But then he realizes that maybe Silva said that because he wants to see other people, and Villa-what can he say to that? He can’t say anything to that.
“Good,” Silva says, and he visibly deflates, goes back to slouching.
He’s right there, right in front of Villa, close enough to touch, and so Villa reaches out, tugs lightly on the bottom of Silva’s shirt. He seems so tall when Villa’s sitting down.
“Good,” he says, and then Silva’s smiling, smiling wide and showing him all these teeth, and Villa thinks that he looks beautiful like that, that he should always look like that.
He leans forward and fists the denim at Silva’s thighs, pulls Silva to him and places a kiss to his clothed stomach. He breathes deep, smells Silva’s laundry detergent and his cologne and the sweat on his skin.
“I can’t deal with this shit,” he says, and it’s muffled by Silva’s shirt.
“We have to,” Silva says, and he uses we, and that makes more of a difference than it should. Villa looks up and Silva’s looking back at him, and he looks nervous and hopeful and unsure, and Villa feels the exact fucking same.
He licks his lips and then Silva bends down to kiss him, one hand along the front of his neck, fingertips on his pulse point. It’s a lazy kiss, smaller ones that turn into something more, something with a lot of tongue and that’s not rushed, not frenzied at all.
“I’m so fucking mad at you,” Villa says when he pulls away; they’ve been together at Valencia for four years, and Villa had restructured his life thinking that it was always going to be that way.
“I know,” Silva says. He runs the pad of his thumb over Villa’s lower lip, over the small patch of hair there, and adds, “I’m mad at you, too.”
Villa knows Silva doesn’t mean it because he doesn’t mean it, either.
“Take off your shirt,” he says, and he takes the tip of Silva’s thumb into his mouth, bites down on it lightly.
“Pushy,” Silva comments, but it sounds more nostalgic than anything. He stays where he is and shrugs out of his jacket, lets it fall to the floor, and then he pulls his shirt over his head by the hem at the back of his neck. The movement messes up his hair, causes it to stand up all over the place, and Villa likes that he doesn’t try to flatten it back down.
He steps back and smiles, the tip of his tongue peaking out of the corner of his mouth as he stands there shirtless. He raises an eyebrow as Villa looks at him, and he has to know how he looks, has to know that the smooth expanse of his chest still drives Villa crazy.
Villa wants to touch him all over.
He reaches out and grabs Silva by the belt buckle, tugs him closer and kisses his stomach again, this time wet and open-mouthed on his skin. Fingers in his hair pull him back, and even then it’s only so Silva can kiss him on the mouth.
Silva’s hands run down Villa’s sides until they find the hem of his shirt, and then he pulls it up and over his head; Villa stops kissing Silva and pulls back just for as long as it takes to get his shirt off and for him to scoot back, to stretch out on the bed.
Silva lies half next to him, half on top of him, his fingertips tracing the line of Villa’s collarbones as they kiss. He bites down on Villa’s bottom lip and pins Villa’s wrists down where they are at his sides, and none of that is new but none of that is usual, either. Villa likes to be the one in charge, usually, likes to be the one who decides what and when and how much, but he doesn’t stop Silva or try to flip them around because Silva’s fingers are tight around his bones and one of Silva’s thighs is between Villa’s own and because their hips are lined up perfectly, pressed together just right.
When Silva shifts so that he’s straddling Villa, the thought that he could move and take the upper hand still isn’t there in Villa’s brain. Instead he just takes his hands and brackets them one on either side of Silva’s hips, holds Silva where he is as he grinds up into him.
“Fuck,” Silva says into the kiss, and Villa loves that, loves that the only time he really ever curses is when they’re in bed together.
They stay like that for a while, lazily kissing each other, rocking against each other as if they had all the time in the world. It’s been years and so Villa’s long since stopped being surprised by it, but he likes the fact that they can just stay there like that, in bed, kissing in their jeans. He’s never liked kissing someone as much as he likes kissing Silva.
And then Silva sits back on his heels and smiles down at Villa, and Villa thinks, fuck, that mouth, because he loves Silva’s mouth, loves his lips and his tongue and his teeth.
“When I first met you,” Silva says, and it’s been ages since they’ve last talked like that, when I first met you, “I thought you were an asshole.”
Villa laughs at that, a loud bark of laughter that has him closing his eyes. He didn’t expect that one.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Silva tells him. “Maybe it was the soul patch.”
“I told you I’d shave it,” Villa reminds him.
“I don’t want you to.”
“Okay,” Villa says. “When I first met you…” He doesn’t finish the thought; doesn’t need to.
“I know,” Silva says, and he runs his fingertips in stripes from the tops of Villa’s shoulders down to the waistline of his jeans. “You’re going to look good in blaugrana.”
Villa arches his back, wishes Silva would put his entire palms flat on him. Silva does him one better, leans down and kisses Villa’s chest just above his right nipple. Villa threads his fingers in Silva’s hair and Silva bites down, just on the right side of too hard, and then licks at Villa’s skin with the flat of his tongue as if in apology.
Then he makes his way across Villa’s chest, peppering light kisses on his skin until he finds the soft skin of Villa’s ribcage. He bites down again-hard, again-and then licks and sucks the skin there. When he pulls away, he leaves behind teeth marks and spit.
He does that all over Villa’s chest and stomach, the inside of his elbows and the soft underside of his jaw, until Villa’s skin is spotted red.
“Fuck, Silva,” Villa says, and then when Silva looks at him, he says, “Nothing, nothing.” He leans forward to kiss Silva and their hands are scrambling with belt buckles. Villa can’t wait any longer, can’t not be touching Silva, not when he’s right in front of him.
Silva has to get off from on top of him in order to take his jeans off, and Villa uses that time to shimmy out of his own jeans and lay Silva out flat on his back, naked.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, look at you.”
“Look at you,” Silva says, and he presses his thumb down on one of the bite marks on Villa’s side. Villa leans down to kiss him and reaches a hand in between them, wraps his fingers around Silva’s cock and pumps his hand once, twice, just enough to get Silva breathing heavily. When Silva groans and tries to reach out to him, Villa nips at his lips and pins his hands down above his head.
“Fuck,” he says again. “Silva.” He keeps biting at Silva’s lips because he likes it when he pulls back and Silva’s lips are red, plump.
“Gonna miss this every night,” Silva says, and Villa bites back the retort, Every night except for before a match, even though that’s probably what Silva’s expecting him to say. He just doesn’t want to think about it.
“Don’t,” he says. “Not now.” He runs the pad of his thumb over Silva’s lips and it comes back with a small streak of blood. Villa feels bad for a second, licks his own lips even though he knows he won’t taste Silva on them, and then moves to rest his hand at the base of Silva’s neck.
“I am, though,” Silva says, and he smiles, just a little one that has him biting his lower lip. “I think you’re a tremendous footballer.” And that-
“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says, and he ignores the fact that his voice is soft when he says it. There was a time-back years ago, almost a lifetime ago-when Villa couldn’t say it, wouldn’t say it, refused to tell Silva that he loved him and that he thought he was the most amazing person he’d ever met. And so instead, Villa always said what he could: “Nice goal,” and, “I left you a clean towel in the bathroom,” and, “I think you’re a tremendous footballer.” And as time went on, as everything else fell to the wayside, Villa would say it again and again in the hopes that Silva would understand. “I think you’re a tremendous footballer.”
“What?” Silva says, but he knows what. “I do.”
“I think you are, too,” Villa says. And then perhaps because it’s important and perhaps because he has no other choice, and also perhaps because he means it, he really does, he says, “I think you’ll be tremendous at City, too.”
He kisses Silva then, slow and with a lot of tongue, and everything’s changed, the entire mood of the night shifted to something else entirely. He lets Silva open him up-one finger, then two, then three-and then he lowers himself down, rides Silva into the mattress in an attempt to get closer and closer and closer.
And it’s-it’s perfect, pretty fucking perfect because Silva knows everything that Villa likes already, knows when to touch him and when to run the pads of his thumbs over Villa’s nipples and when to grind his hips up to meet Villa’s thrust for thrust. But it’s still there, still in the back of his mind that Silva’s leaving him-no, not him, leaving Spain-and so when Silva comes, Villa works hard to keep his eyes open, to memorize the lines of Silva’s face, until it all becomes too much and he squeezes shut his eyes, comes with a shout into Silva’s hand.
And later, when Silva’s asleep and he is not, he pulls Silva closer to his chest and he thinks, Don’t fuck this one up, because he is good at that, good at fucking things up, and he can’t afford to this time.
After that, time moves differently, almost. It’s like Villa is constantly reminded that time is running out, that Silva is leaving soon, that the start of the football season isn’t something to be looking forward to this time.
Silva brings him breakfast in bed one morning, after they fuck lazily on top of the sheets, the sun streaming in through the blinds. He walks into the room balancing two bowls and a cup of orange juice, and he’s wearing nothing put a pair of Villa’s boxers, his hair all over the place and sticking up in the back. Villa wants to lick his skin again.
Instead, he says, “That was fast.”
“I’m good at what I do,” Silva says, and he smiles. “Gofio and milk.” He kneels carefully onto the bed and holds his hands out for Villa to help him with the breakfast.
“Are you serious?” Villa asks. “Yesterday I made you a fucking omelet.”
“Don’t lie,” Silva says, and he settles in, mixes up his gofio with a spoon. “You’re gonna miss it when I’m not making you eat it.”
“Not likely,” Villa says, because to be honest, he doesn’t really like gofio. But it’s not horrible and Silva loves it-grew up on it, he says-and so Villa deals with it.
“So what are you up to today?” Silva asks, and Villa’s amazed by the fact that he blinked and Silva’s bowl is half empty already.
“Nothing,” Villa says. “I don’t know. I kind of need to buy clothing.”
“Can I come?” Silva says, and then he starts spooning the rest of his gofio into his mouth. “I call first shower.” He sets his empty bowl on the end table and darts into the bathroom.
When Villa hears the water start running, he takes their bowls into the kitchen and empties his own into the trash. He eats a banana for breakfast and then joins Silva in the shower.
Since Silva doesn’t really care what he wears and barely ever buys anything new, Villa makes an executive decision and takes them where he wants to go.
“DSquared?” Silva asks when they get there. “Are you serious?”
“What? I like it,” Villa says. “And so do you. You steal my shirts from here all the time.”
“No, I don’t,” Silva says, and he hits Villa’s shoulder with his own as they head inside.
“You do! The blue one? With all the writing on it and shit?”
“Oh,” Silva says. “That’s from here?”
“Yeah,” Villa says. He stops to look at a pair of pants, and Silva just hangs around. He doesn’t shop and Villa doesn’t get it; Silva literally does not care, and yet he looks more than presentable every day. It’s a miracle.
“Oh,” Silva says again. “I like that shirt.”
“And I like you in that shirt,” Villa leers, but only because no one is around.
Silva doesn’t say anything, but Villa can see the way he bites his lip and smiles, and so he considers it a victory.
He goes around the store and picks stuff out-shirts and pants and jackets, and even a lightweight scarf or two-and half of it he keeps and the other half he passes to Silva. If he’s going to be honest, he’s pretty fucking impressed that Silva hasn’t bailed on him and gone to the bookstore across the street.
“Are you almost done?” Silva asks, and the way he says it doesn’t imply anything else, but Villa knows better.
“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says. “You’re not that bored.”
“Getting there, though.”
“Alright, alright,” Villa says. “Let’s go try this stuff on.”
Silva shrugs and walks with Villa to the fitting rooms, and when Villa hangs up the clothing that he was holding, Silva motions to pass the rest to him.
“What the fuck are you doing? Those are for you,” Villa says.
“Oh,” Silva says. “Really? Okay.” He heads to one of the dressing rooms and Villa grabs his wrist.
“What, that’s it? Just okay?” he asks, and he’s immediately suspicious. Silva is not usually one for trying on clothing.
“Yeah,” Silva says with a shrug and a smile. “Okay.” He goes into his fitting room and leaves Villa outside.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Villa says through the door, “but I’m so fucking onto you, it’s not even funny.”
“Villa, I’m not doing anything,” Silva says. “I’m trying on clothes.”
“Sure,” Villa replies as he heads into his own fitting room. “Right.”
They leave a little while later because they have plans to meet some of the guys from the squad for a late lunch. They both buy stuff-too much, almost-and Villa likes that, likes that Silva listens to him and picks the things the Villa says he likes the most.
They’re running late, though, so they hop a cab across town and bicker over who gets to pay the fare. Villa wins, and then when they get to the restaurant, Mata and Alexis are already there at a table.
“Silva!” Alexis cries. And then he adds, “And you, you culé motherfucker, you got some nerve showing your face around here.”
Villa laughs, says, “Shut the fuck up; you’re looking to leave, too,” and takes his seat. “Elche, right?”
Alexis flicks him off and Silva ignores the entire exchange, just says, “Hey guys,” and sits next to Villa. He’s quiet, the only way everybody else ever gets to see him. “No Pablo?”
“Nah,” Mata says. “Meeting the girlfriend’s parents, apparently. But he says hi.”
“Bummer,” Silva says. “I’ll say goodbye to him later, I guess.”
“Man,” Villa says, and he says it like, I can’t believe this. “The end of an era, right here.”
“You’ll be back,” Mata says. “You can’t resist my charm.”
“What charm?” Alexis asks, and he rolls his eyes.
“Hey!” Mata says. “I’ll have you know, the ladies say I’m very charming.”
Villa says, “Your mother doesn’t count,” and Mata stands up, fakes like he’s going to punch Villa in the mouth.
“I am going to miss this, though,” Silva says, and he lets his leg lean against Villa’s under the table. Then, almost as if he realized what he had said, he adds, “Not hanging out with you; I mean this restaurant.”
They erupt into laughter and Silva ducks his head, almost as if he’s embarrassed, although Villa doesn’t know why he would be.
“The fucking best Paella Valenciana in all the land,” Alexis says, and he waves his water glass in the air in a mock toast, and Mata leans over to pinch Silva’s cheeks.
“Going to miss your adorable face,” he says the voice that he uses to talk to his dog.
“Shut up,” Silva says, and he pulls away. “This is why I’m moving to England; they appreciate me, there.”
“They’re still going to make fun of you,” Mata starts.
“You just won’t fucking understand a word of it,” Alexis says, and he laughs, spills some of his water.
Villa looks at Silva and says, “Should’ve signed with Barcelona.”
Their waiter walks up to the table and opens his little notepad, saying, “May I get you anything?”
“Don’t even get me started!” Mata yells at Villa, completely ignoring the waiter, and at the same time Alexis says, “You’re the enemy now.”
Villa cups a hand behind his ear and says, “What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over all the trophies I’m about to win.”
An argument breaks out, one that’s mostly just name-calling and accusations of glory-hunting, and even though he’s not really paying attention, Villa hears Silva turn to the waiter and say, “I think we need a minute, please.”
If he’s going to be honest, he thinks they probably need more than one.
They stay out later than Villa ever expected; by the time they get home, it’s already dark out and Villa is exhausted. He watches as Silva throws his shopping bags down on the foyer floor and heads into the living room.
“Just throw your shit on the floor,” Villa says. “Don’t worry; I got it.”
Silva just laughs from the other room and says, “Hey, Villa?”
“Yeah?”
“C’mere.”
Villa shrugs off his jacket and hangs it in the hall closet and then walks into the living room; Silva is slouched on the couch, his knees splayed wide and his head back. He’s look at Villa through his eyelashes.
“No,” Villa says. “Fucking no, I knew it.”
“Come on, Villa,” Silva says, and he smiles like he’s really enjoying this. He probably is, Villa thinks. “I went shopping with you and I didn’t even complain once.”
“I didn’t make you come,” Villa says, and the second he says that, he wants to take it back.
“But you can make me come now,” Silva says, and he’s still smiling, still finding this hilarious.
“You’re such an asshole,” Villa says, but he walks over drops to his knees between Silva’s legs. He pushes Silva’s shirt up to his armpits and kisses down his chest, his stomach, all the way to his belt buckle. “I’m going to make you beg for it.”
And he does.
He tells Silva that he’ll help him pack, but he doesn’t, not really. He tries to, at first, but it feels too strange to be boxing up parts of Silva’s life as if they were being shipped away, never to return. There are so many of Silva’s things that Villa almost looks at as if they were his own-cds, photos, a jacket or two-that to be helping Silva pack is like packing away his own life, even though he knows that logically, who he is does not start and end with Silva. He sits there, though, sits on the desk or on a chair by the window or on the floor, and he talks as Silva folds his clothes and packs his shoes and wraps a framed photo of the two of them in a t-shirt so that it doesn’t break on the way over.
“What if you come back pale?” Villa asks, lying on the bed. He’s awkwardly positioned and so his feet dangle over the edge. “Pepe says that the chance of sun over there is slim to none.”
“I’m not coming back pale,” Silva says, and he laughs, shake his hair out of his eyes. And then he stops packing and looks right at Villa and says, “I’m coming back exactly the same, Villa,” and something about that makes Villa so uncomfortable because he never meant to be so transparent about what he thought, because it’s stupid, so stupid to think that anything will be different just because Silva’s in a different league; Villa’s on a different team in a different city and nothing’s changed for him at all.
“So how’s it feel?” he asks, to get the attention off of himself. “You nervous?”
“Not really,” Silva says. “I told you I talked to Tévez once or twice and he seemed nice, so it should be alright.”
“But their play is so different,” Villa says.
“I know,” Silva says, and he sits on the first suitcase in order to be able to zip it. “But I’m already signed and everything, so there’s no use worrying now. What about you? Barcelona, I mean…” He trails off and Villa gets it, gets that he’s saying, Barcelona is a different style of play, too.
“What’s to be nervous about?” Villa asks. “I know almost everyone already. Still fucking sucks, though.”
“No it doesn’t,” Silva tells him. “You’re playing for the best team in La Liga now.” Villa assumes that he’s trying to make him see reason, trying to make him see the positive side of things. Villa’s not interested; there is no fucking positive side to a shitload of Valencia debt needing to be paid.
“What’s the positive side to not being able to play with you?” Villa asks. Silva takes a while to answer.
“There is none,” Silva says.
“I already know that,” Villa says, but it’s not said rudely, just matter of fact, because he did, he already knew.
Silva doesn’t say anything this time, just sprawls out on the bed next to Villa, their bodies pressed together at their shoulders, their hips, their toes touching where they hang over the mattress. It helps, a little.
The drive to the airport is quiet. Villa tells Silva that he’ll drive him, no problem, and Silva doesn’t tell him that he doesn’t have to, that he can get a cab or that it’s better not because people will see.
It’s an evening flight-takeoff is at seven-and even though it’s unusual for Villa to want to, they hold hands as he drives, their fingers tangled by the center console.
Villa parks and they kiss-quickly-while still inside the car. Villa walks with him to the doors and walks with him to check in and walks with him to the start of security, where he is not allowed.
Silva makes the first move, hugs Villa tight around the shoulders, and Villa hugs back, his eyes shut.
“It’s just a few weeks,” Villa says, to comfort Silva, even though Silva seems to be fine. “Hopefully we’ll both make national call-ups, and then…”
Silva smiles, says, “And if not, I’ll fly back anyways.”
“Okay,” Villa says, and then he pauses for a minute. “Fuck, Silva.”
“I know,” Silva says. “But I’ll call you when I land.”
And then that’s it, he turns and walks away, looking back as he takes off his shoes at security. And suddenly Villa feels this thing in his chest-and he’s not sure what it is, not really, because he’s never felt it before-and it’s just taking up all the space in his chest and he wants to do something, only he doesn’t know what.
“Silva!” he yells out. He’s already on the other side of the metal detector. “Fucking tremendous footballer.”
And Silva smiles so widely that it looks like his face might split into two, and he yells back, “You too.”
Villa smiles as he walks back to the car, but the drive is quiet and when he gets back, the house is empty and his bed is too big.
He’s woken up in the middle of the night when his phone rings.
“Fuck, what?” he says when he picks up, and he doesn’t even know who it is, hasn’t even opened his eyes.
“I landed,” Silva says, and he laughs. Villa thinks that with his eyes shut, it’s almost like Silva’s right there. “And I’m at my apartment.”
“Oh,” Villa says, and he sits up. “Oh. Hey. How was the flight?”
“You know,” Silva says. “Alright.”
“Alright.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to let you get back to sleep,” Silva says. “But I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Hey, I can talk,” Villa says.
“I know,” Silva tells him. “And thanks. But I’m kind of tired, too.”
“Okay,” Villa says. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
And it’s true-they talk the next day, no problem. Villa calls him as he’s walking down the cereal aisle at the grocery store, and Silva’s not busy, and so they talk.
“What kind of cereal do I want?” Villa asks.
Silva laughs, says, “You’re moving in like three days.”
“I fucking know that,” Villa tells him, “but I need to eat.”
“Did your love handles tell you that?” Silva asks, and Villa laughs because he likes that Silva’s like this with him, playful and bold and open, because he’s so quiet around everyone else.
“Fuck you,” Villa says.
“A few weeks.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“Okay,” Silva says. And then, “Get Frosties. It’s the best when the milk at the bottom is all sugary.”
“They’re already in my cart,” Villa says. “You were useless and I moved on without you.”
“Well, now, that’s just inconsiderate,” Silva tells him.
“Alright,” Villa says as he walks towards check-out. “I promise not to do it again.”
“Good,” Silva says.
“Good.”
When Villa packs up, it’s a different story; he’s done in a few hours and he does it alone. He takes a taxi to the airport and even though it’s a short flight, he sleeps the entire way with his cheek mashed against the window. He calls Silva from the taxi but Silva doesn’t pick up, and when he gets to his apartment, he goes right back to sleep.
He wakes up late the next morning because, for some reason, his phone was on silent and the alarm didn’t go off. Silva left him a message earlier, and Villa listens to it in bed.
“Hey,” Silva says. “It’s me. Just calling on my way to practice to see how you’re doing and how your flight was. First day of practice today and-I don’t know-I’m kind of nervous, even though it’s stupid. Some of the players speak Spanish, though, so it shouldn’t be that bad. But, um. Hey. Call me later tonight? Or I can call you; either way. Alright. Bye.”
Villa checks the time and it’s only a quarter to twelve, meaning it’s not even one yet in Manchester; Silva’s still at practice, then, Villa knows, and so he rolls out of bed to shower and attempt to be a productive human being.
When he’s dressed, his first thought is to go grocery shopping, but then he decides, Fuck it, and goes to find someplace where he can eat out. He walks out his door and down the street, just picking a random direction because it’s not like he knows where the fuck things are, anyways. It’s hot out, and real fucking sunny, too, and so Villa shoves his sunglasses on his face. It’s a nice city, Barcelona; he can see himself liking it here well enough.
Silva calls later that night like he said he would.
“How was it?” Villa asks.
“Um,” Silva says. “It was alright. I don’t know, they seem alright.”
“Okay,” Villa says. “So that’s good.”
“They taped a picture of Xabi getting kicked by de Jong in my locker.”
“So they’re assholes,” Villa says.
“Nah,” Silva tells him. “They just meant it as a joke. Carlos is really nice, though. He helped me, you know, get around and everything.”
“Carlos, huh?” Villa asks.
“Shut up,” Silva says. “He’s nice.”
“Alright, alright,” Villa says, and he laughs. “So it’s good?”
“Yeah,” Silva says. “Yeah, I think so.”
And Villa doesn’t say it-it’s not something he would even know how to say-but he’s beyond glad that Silva is happy, or at least getting there. If anyone deserves big things, it’s Silva.
He talks with Pep before his first practice-“It’s Pep, please; just Pep”-and Pep offers to let him meet the rest of the squad in his street clothes before being thrown into his first practice. Villa waves the comment away, tells him that he’ll be fine just diving right in because he already knows most of the squad and that he has to start sometime, anyways.
One of the trainers meets him at the parking lot and then helps him find his way through Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper to the locker room. When he walks in, everyone is changing and no one even notices that he’s walked in until Gerard looks up and sees him.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
And then Victor looks up and says, “David fucking Villa,” like that means something. Villa tells them to shut up.
He says hi to everyone, hugs Puyi and slaps hands with Sergio, and is introduced to Dani and Maxwell and Eric. And it’s not-he not going to fucking say anything about it, but he’s kind of disappointed and confused that Messi’s not there because he wanted to meet Messi. And of course he already knows Messi-he’s played against him and done ads with him and talked with him at awards ceremonies-but it’s different, meeting someone as a teammate; Messi’s the best in the world, and Villa just wants to-
He doesn’t know what he just wants to, but it’s Messi.
“He’s outside,” Andrés says to him when he’s changing and everyone has more or less gone back to getting ready for practice.
“What?” Villa asks.
“Leo,” Andrés says. “He’s out on the pitch warming up already.”
“Oh,” Villa says. “It’s still early though.”
“I know,” Andrés says, and he shrugs.
Outside, they warm up by jogging around the pitch and Messi joins them. Xavi does the polite thing-introduces them even though they don’t really need it-and Villa laughs.
“I think everyone in the world knows who Messi is,” he says.
“Actually,” Messi says, and he’s got this lopsided smile on his face, “I prefer to be called the Messiah.”
Puyi shoves him, says, “Quit teasing the new kid,” and Messi laughs.
“It’s Leo,” he says. “Just Leo. But I just wanted to say that I’m really, um. I’m really excited to have you on the squad this year. I mean, I was excited when Pep first told us, and then after the World Cup you had-”
“Oh my god,” Gerard interrupts. “Poor Anotella, she’ll never see this coming.”
Villa wants to fucking smack Gerard, because how much more awkward can he make things? But it’s alright because Leo doesn’t seem to find it awkward, either; he just shrugs it off and says, “Hey, he’s a good player.”
Villa laughs at that and says, “You’re Leo Messi.”
Leo smiles and says, “You’re David Villa,” and Villa supposes he’s right.
The rest of practice is easy-not physically, but it’s easy to hang with the guys and surprisingly easy to learn and understand the differences between Barcelona’s and La Roja’s tiki taka. And of course it’s only been one day, so he’s not even close to ready yet, but practice was easygoing and he likes the guys, likes Pep.
It’s not Valencia; no other team can be Valencia, not to him, but Barcelona is probably as close as it gets, and he’s relieved.
He changes back into his street clothes after practice, and as he’s leaving the locker room, Xavi calls out to him and makes sure he’s free on Friday to go out to dinner with some of the guys from the squad. Villa thinks that’s pretty fucking nice of him, going out of his way to make him feel a part of the team and not just treating him like he already is one because he’s friends with most of the squad. There are not a lot of people like Xavi out there, Villa knows.
He calls Silva on the walk to his car, and Silva answers from in the shower. Villa can hear the water going in the background and Silva sounds far away, like he’s holding the phone a foot away from his face in an effort to keep it dry.
“Just call me back,” Villa offers.
“Thanks,” Silva tells him. “I really want to hear about your first day, but um,” he laughs a little, “I’m kind of in the shower, if you couldn’t already tell.”
So Villa hangs up and he drives home, and the entire time he does, all he can think of is how Silva looks when he’s wet, water matting his hair down before sliding down the slope of his nose and his cheekbones, down his neck and his chest and his thighs.
When he gets to his house, he throws his duffel bag on the floor in the foyer and then heads into the kitchen. He left his laptop charging on one of the counters, and he opens it up, doesn’t even bother to sit down. There’s a picture of him and Silva set as the background, and it’s a little embarrassing but no one else is going to see it, and so Villa doesn’t mind too much.
He’s got a couple of emails-one from Mata just to catch up, one from Cesc that’s just a chain letter about love, and one from Manchester City.
And that last one-that last one is really fucking embarrassing, embarrassing to the point that not even Silva knows about it. It’s kind of pathetic, Villa knows, that he’s signed up for emails from a club that he didn’t even give a shit about a few months ago.
There’s an exclusive interview out, one with Silva that they’ve been hyping for a week solid, and even though Villa could call Silva right now-could talk to the real thing-he clicks on the video link and turns up the volume.
And Silva looks-Silva looks good, of fucking course he looks good, it’s Silva, but he looks especially good because Villa hasn’t seen him in almost two weeks.
“How do you feel? How is living in Manchester?” the interviewer asks, and Villa thinks, Fuck, he hasn’t even played a match yet.
“Very happy,” Silva says, and it’s all being done in Spanish. Villa can see him shift and how his eyes are always looking over the interviewer’s shoulder, and his voice is quiet, reserved; so unlike how he is when they are alone. “Since the moment I arrived here, people have treated me very well, with a lot of kindness, and so I’m really grateful.”
“And are you nervous?” the interviewer asks. “Your first match in the English Premier League is in two days time.”
“A little,” Silva says, “I guess, but football is football no matter where you are, and I am confident in my abilities.”
“What about your size? Many people feel that will be an obstacle for you in the Premier League.”
“I don’t worry about it,” Silva says. “There’s nothing in football that requires you to be tall. Look at Messi; he’s the best player in the world, and he’s not tall, and nobody would say that he couldn’t play in the EPL if he wanted to.” He shakes his head. “Height doesn’t matter to me.”
Villa’s phone rings, then, and it surprises him, makes him jump about four feet in the air. His fingers race for the phone and send it skittering off the counter and onto the floor, and he goes racing after it.
“Dammit,” he says to himself as he flicks open his phone. “Hello?”
“Um-I can call back?” Silva asks.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Villa says.
“Oh, okay, good,” Silva says. “So? How was it?”
“Good,” Villa says. “Really good, actually. Xavi says hi.”
Silva laughs, says, “Well tell him I say hi back.”
“Alright,” David says, and he leans his hip against the counter. “But fuck, Silva, you should’ve been there with me. It was just like national call-ups, only you weren’t there and Messi was.”
“So at least you know almost everyone,” he says. “How’s Messi? You know, as a teammate?”
“He’s nice,” Villa says. “More outspoken than I expected, but besides that, exactly what everyone says; humble and really, really fucking good. He makes everything look so easy.”
“So you’ll finally win the league, then,” Silva says. “I’ll live vicariously through you.”
Villa laughs, says, “Shut the fuck up.”
“No,” Silva says. “You’re going to win everything.”
And somehow, without Villa even knowing that he wanted it, Silva tells him exactly what he needed to hear.
Everything kind of goes like that for a while, practicing and calling each other whenever they have the time. It works well enough, Villa supposes, even though there are days that he comes home and his house is empty and he gets suddenly and inexplicably mad at everyone and no one at all. But it’s alright, in the end, because even though Silva’s not there, they talk, and even though he may not be in love with the Barça crest, he’s in love with the squad.
They Skype after Silva’s first match with Man City. It was a good match to watch, Villa thinks; he was glued to the fucking screen the entire time, anxious although he had no need to be. Hart’s a good keeper, kept City out of trouble, and Silva even got a nice shot off, although it was blocked and Tévez lost the chance to score on the follow-up.
“Would have been nice to win, though,” Silva says, “or to score,” and he smiles. It’s nice to see him like this, Villa thinks; it’s been a long time since he’s seen Silva’s post-match excitement.
“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says. “You started; tons of players sit out a match or two until they know the language better.”
Silva laughs, says, “The voice of reason; how could I have forgotten?” His hair is still damp from the shower and his chin is in his hand. Villa wants to touch him.
“I don’t know,” Villa says, and Silva doesn’t say anything after that. They just look at each other for a while, and Silva smiles at him and he pulls a face, and when Silva throws his head back to laugh, Villa stares at his neck and wonders when the last time was that he put a mark there with his teeth.
“I’m just glad that it went alright,” Silva says. “That it wasn’t a disaster.”
“Me too,” Villa says.
“Yeah.” Silva bites his lip. “Felt weird, though; kept looking for you.”
I’m right here, Villa wants to say. Instead, he says, “I bet I’ll keep looking for you, too.”
Silva smiles.
Part 2
Pairing: David Silva / David Villa
Rating: R
Word Count: 25,841
Summary: They’re a team and they decide shit like this together; Villa didn’t pick Barcelona without running it by Silva, and now Silva-he just fucking goes and picks a team in a different goddamn country and doesn’t even think that Villa might want to know, doesn’t even think that maybe Villa will have something to say about the distance or the fact that it’s in a different goddamn country and-
Villa watches as Silva stares at him from the doorway. He likes the black jacket that Silva’s wearing, and he likes the plain white t-shirt that Silva’s wearing, too, because Villa knows that it belongs to him; he can see the Sharpie stain on the bottom hem from when he dropped the marker while signing autographs. He likes that, when Silva wears his clothes.
Silva leans against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, and he’s silent for so long that Villa almost thinks he’s not ever going to say anything. So Villa does what he can and fills the silence.
“Looks like we’ll be rivals,” he says. “You fucking merengue.” Villa signed for Barcelona before the World Cup, and now all that’s left are the formalities of welcome; Silva’s expected to sign for Real Madrid any day now.
But Silva shakes his head, says, “I’m not playing for Real.”
“Then who the fuck are you playing for?” Villa asks, and he’s gonna be pissed if Valencia’s decided to keep him, because Villa doesn’t want to leave any more than Silva does, doesn’t love Valencia any less than Silva does.
Silva pushes himself off the doorjamb and walks towards where Villa is sitting on the edge of the bed, and Villa can see him swallow hard, can see that he’s nervous even if he doesn’t want to show it.
“I’m signing for Man City,” he says.
Villa thinks, says, “But Man City’s in fucking-”
“I know,” Silva says, and he shrugs like maybe the distance doesn’t mean anything to him. “But if I can’t play with you, I won’t play against you.”
“Fuck you,” Villa says, because that’s not fair, that’s not fucking fair. They’re a team and they decide shit like this together; Villa didn’t pick Barcelona without running it by Silva, and now Silva-he just fucking goes and picks a team in a different goddamn country and doesn’t even think that Villa might want to know, doesn’t even think that maybe Villa will have something to say about the distance or the fact that it’s in a different goddamn country and-
And maybe he’s been saying all that out loud, because then Silva says, “It’s a two hour flight; this doesn’t change anything, Guaje.”
“It changes everything,” he snaps, although he doesn’t mean it, just says it to make Silva feel as shitty as he does.
Something in Silva’s posture changes, then, his spine straightens out and his shoulders slide back. It makes Villa feel like an asshole, to know that he’s the one that did that, that he’s the reason Silva’s clenching his jaw, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.
“We can see other people,” Silva says. “If you want.”
“No, I don’t fucking want to,” Villa says. “Shut the fuck up.” But then he realizes that maybe Silva said that because he wants to see other people, and Villa-what can he say to that? He can’t say anything to that.
“Good,” Silva says, and he visibly deflates, goes back to slouching.
He’s right there, right in front of Villa, close enough to touch, and so Villa reaches out, tugs lightly on the bottom of Silva’s shirt. He seems so tall when Villa’s sitting down.
“Good,” he says, and then Silva’s smiling, smiling wide and showing him all these teeth, and Villa thinks that he looks beautiful like that, that he should always look like that.
He leans forward and fists the denim at Silva’s thighs, pulls Silva to him and places a kiss to his clothed stomach. He breathes deep, smells Silva’s laundry detergent and his cologne and the sweat on his skin.
“I can’t deal with this shit,” he says, and it’s muffled by Silva’s shirt.
“We have to,” Silva says, and he uses we, and that makes more of a difference than it should. Villa looks up and Silva’s looking back at him, and he looks nervous and hopeful and unsure, and Villa feels the exact fucking same.
He licks his lips and then Silva bends down to kiss him, one hand along the front of his neck, fingertips on his pulse point. It’s a lazy kiss, smaller ones that turn into something more, something with a lot of tongue and that’s not rushed, not frenzied at all.
“I’m so fucking mad at you,” Villa says when he pulls away; they’ve been together at Valencia for four years, and Villa had restructured his life thinking that it was always going to be that way.
“I know,” Silva says. He runs the pad of his thumb over Villa’s lower lip, over the small patch of hair there, and adds, “I’m mad at you, too.”
Villa knows Silva doesn’t mean it because he doesn’t mean it, either.
“Take off your shirt,” he says, and he takes the tip of Silva’s thumb into his mouth, bites down on it lightly.
“Pushy,” Silva comments, but it sounds more nostalgic than anything. He stays where he is and shrugs out of his jacket, lets it fall to the floor, and then he pulls his shirt over his head by the hem at the back of his neck. The movement messes up his hair, causes it to stand up all over the place, and Villa likes that he doesn’t try to flatten it back down.
He steps back and smiles, the tip of his tongue peaking out of the corner of his mouth as he stands there shirtless. He raises an eyebrow as Villa looks at him, and he has to know how he looks, has to know that the smooth expanse of his chest still drives Villa crazy.
Villa wants to touch him all over.
He reaches out and grabs Silva by the belt buckle, tugs him closer and kisses his stomach again, this time wet and open-mouthed on his skin. Fingers in his hair pull him back, and even then it’s only so Silva can kiss him on the mouth.
Silva’s hands run down Villa’s sides until they find the hem of his shirt, and then he pulls it up and over his head; Villa stops kissing Silva and pulls back just for as long as it takes to get his shirt off and for him to scoot back, to stretch out on the bed.
Silva lies half next to him, half on top of him, his fingertips tracing the line of Villa’s collarbones as they kiss. He bites down on Villa’s bottom lip and pins Villa’s wrists down where they are at his sides, and none of that is new but none of that is usual, either. Villa likes to be the one in charge, usually, likes to be the one who decides what and when and how much, but he doesn’t stop Silva or try to flip them around because Silva’s fingers are tight around his bones and one of Silva’s thighs is between Villa’s own and because their hips are lined up perfectly, pressed together just right.
When Silva shifts so that he’s straddling Villa, the thought that he could move and take the upper hand still isn’t there in Villa’s brain. Instead he just takes his hands and brackets them one on either side of Silva’s hips, holds Silva where he is as he grinds up into him.
“Fuck,” Silva says into the kiss, and Villa loves that, loves that the only time he really ever curses is when they’re in bed together.
They stay like that for a while, lazily kissing each other, rocking against each other as if they had all the time in the world. It’s been years and so Villa’s long since stopped being surprised by it, but he likes the fact that they can just stay there like that, in bed, kissing in their jeans. He’s never liked kissing someone as much as he likes kissing Silva.
And then Silva sits back on his heels and smiles down at Villa, and Villa thinks, fuck, that mouth, because he loves Silva’s mouth, loves his lips and his tongue and his teeth.
“When I first met you,” Silva says, and it’s been ages since they’ve last talked like that, when I first met you, “I thought you were an asshole.”
Villa laughs at that, a loud bark of laughter that has him closing his eyes. He didn’t expect that one.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Silva tells him. “Maybe it was the soul patch.”
“I told you I’d shave it,” Villa reminds him.
“I don’t want you to.”
“Okay,” Villa says. “When I first met you…” He doesn’t finish the thought; doesn’t need to.
“I know,” Silva says, and he runs his fingertips in stripes from the tops of Villa’s shoulders down to the waistline of his jeans. “You’re going to look good in blaugrana.”
Villa arches his back, wishes Silva would put his entire palms flat on him. Silva does him one better, leans down and kisses Villa’s chest just above his right nipple. Villa threads his fingers in Silva’s hair and Silva bites down, just on the right side of too hard, and then licks at Villa’s skin with the flat of his tongue as if in apology.
Then he makes his way across Villa’s chest, peppering light kisses on his skin until he finds the soft skin of Villa’s ribcage. He bites down again-hard, again-and then licks and sucks the skin there. When he pulls away, he leaves behind teeth marks and spit.
He does that all over Villa’s chest and stomach, the inside of his elbows and the soft underside of his jaw, until Villa’s skin is spotted red.
“Fuck, Silva,” Villa says, and then when Silva looks at him, he says, “Nothing, nothing.” He leans forward to kiss Silva and their hands are scrambling with belt buckles. Villa can’t wait any longer, can’t not be touching Silva, not when he’s right in front of him.
Silva has to get off from on top of him in order to take his jeans off, and Villa uses that time to shimmy out of his own jeans and lay Silva out flat on his back, naked.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, look at you.”
“Look at you,” Silva says, and he presses his thumb down on one of the bite marks on Villa’s side. Villa leans down to kiss him and reaches a hand in between them, wraps his fingers around Silva’s cock and pumps his hand once, twice, just enough to get Silva breathing heavily. When Silva groans and tries to reach out to him, Villa nips at his lips and pins his hands down above his head.
“Fuck,” he says again. “Silva.” He keeps biting at Silva’s lips because he likes it when he pulls back and Silva’s lips are red, plump.
“Gonna miss this every night,” Silva says, and Villa bites back the retort, Every night except for before a match, even though that’s probably what Silva’s expecting him to say. He just doesn’t want to think about it.
“Don’t,” he says. “Not now.” He runs the pad of his thumb over Silva’s lips and it comes back with a small streak of blood. Villa feels bad for a second, licks his own lips even though he knows he won’t taste Silva on them, and then moves to rest his hand at the base of Silva’s neck.
“I am, though,” Silva says, and he smiles, just a little one that has him biting his lower lip. “I think you’re a tremendous footballer.” And that-
“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says, and he ignores the fact that his voice is soft when he says it. There was a time-back years ago, almost a lifetime ago-when Villa couldn’t say it, wouldn’t say it, refused to tell Silva that he loved him and that he thought he was the most amazing person he’d ever met. And so instead, Villa always said what he could: “Nice goal,” and, “I left you a clean towel in the bathroom,” and, “I think you’re a tremendous footballer.” And as time went on, as everything else fell to the wayside, Villa would say it again and again in the hopes that Silva would understand. “I think you’re a tremendous footballer.”
“What?” Silva says, but he knows what. “I do.”
“I think you are, too,” Villa says. And then perhaps because it’s important and perhaps because he has no other choice, and also perhaps because he means it, he really does, he says, “I think you’ll be tremendous at City, too.”
He kisses Silva then, slow and with a lot of tongue, and everything’s changed, the entire mood of the night shifted to something else entirely. He lets Silva open him up-one finger, then two, then three-and then he lowers himself down, rides Silva into the mattress in an attempt to get closer and closer and closer.
And it’s-it’s perfect, pretty fucking perfect because Silva knows everything that Villa likes already, knows when to touch him and when to run the pads of his thumbs over Villa’s nipples and when to grind his hips up to meet Villa’s thrust for thrust. But it’s still there, still in the back of his mind that Silva’s leaving him-no, not him, leaving Spain-and so when Silva comes, Villa works hard to keep his eyes open, to memorize the lines of Silva’s face, until it all becomes too much and he squeezes shut his eyes, comes with a shout into Silva’s hand.
And later, when Silva’s asleep and he is not, he pulls Silva closer to his chest and he thinks, Don’t fuck this one up, because he is good at that, good at fucking things up, and he can’t afford to this time.
After that, time moves differently, almost. It’s like Villa is constantly reminded that time is running out, that Silva is leaving soon, that the start of the football season isn’t something to be looking forward to this time.
Silva brings him breakfast in bed one morning, after they fuck lazily on top of the sheets, the sun streaming in through the blinds. He walks into the room balancing two bowls and a cup of orange juice, and he’s wearing nothing put a pair of Villa’s boxers, his hair all over the place and sticking up in the back. Villa wants to lick his skin again.
Instead, he says, “That was fast.”
“I’m good at what I do,” Silva says, and he smiles. “Gofio and milk.” He kneels carefully onto the bed and holds his hands out for Villa to help him with the breakfast.
“Are you serious?” Villa asks. “Yesterday I made you a fucking omelet.”
“Don’t lie,” Silva says, and he settles in, mixes up his gofio with a spoon. “You’re gonna miss it when I’m not making you eat it.”
“Not likely,” Villa says, because to be honest, he doesn’t really like gofio. But it’s not horrible and Silva loves it-grew up on it, he says-and so Villa deals with it.
“So what are you up to today?” Silva asks, and Villa’s amazed by the fact that he blinked and Silva’s bowl is half empty already.
“Nothing,” Villa says. “I don’t know. I kind of need to buy clothing.”
“Can I come?” Silva says, and then he starts spooning the rest of his gofio into his mouth. “I call first shower.” He sets his empty bowl on the end table and darts into the bathroom.
When Villa hears the water start running, he takes their bowls into the kitchen and empties his own into the trash. He eats a banana for breakfast and then joins Silva in the shower.
Since Silva doesn’t really care what he wears and barely ever buys anything new, Villa makes an executive decision and takes them where he wants to go.
“DSquared?” Silva asks when they get there. “Are you serious?”
“What? I like it,” Villa says. “And so do you. You steal my shirts from here all the time.”
“No, I don’t,” Silva says, and he hits Villa’s shoulder with his own as they head inside.
“You do! The blue one? With all the writing on it and shit?”
“Oh,” Silva says. “That’s from here?”
“Yeah,” Villa says. He stops to look at a pair of pants, and Silva just hangs around. He doesn’t shop and Villa doesn’t get it; Silva literally does not care, and yet he looks more than presentable every day. It’s a miracle.
“Oh,” Silva says again. “I like that shirt.”
“And I like you in that shirt,” Villa leers, but only because no one is around.
Silva doesn’t say anything, but Villa can see the way he bites his lip and smiles, and so he considers it a victory.
He goes around the store and picks stuff out-shirts and pants and jackets, and even a lightweight scarf or two-and half of it he keeps and the other half he passes to Silva. If he’s going to be honest, he’s pretty fucking impressed that Silva hasn’t bailed on him and gone to the bookstore across the street.
“Are you almost done?” Silva asks, and the way he says it doesn’t imply anything else, but Villa knows better.
“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says. “You’re not that bored.”
“Getting there, though.”
“Alright, alright,” Villa says. “Let’s go try this stuff on.”
Silva shrugs and walks with Villa to the fitting rooms, and when Villa hangs up the clothing that he was holding, Silva motions to pass the rest to him.
“What the fuck are you doing? Those are for you,” Villa says.
“Oh,” Silva says. “Really? Okay.” He heads to one of the dressing rooms and Villa grabs his wrist.
“What, that’s it? Just okay?” he asks, and he’s immediately suspicious. Silva is not usually one for trying on clothing.
“Yeah,” Silva says with a shrug and a smile. “Okay.” He goes into his fitting room and leaves Villa outside.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Villa says through the door, “but I’m so fucking onto you, it’s not even funny.”
“Villa, I’m not doing anything,” Silva says. “I’m trying on clothes.”
“Sure,” Villa replies as he heads into his own fitting room. “Right.”
They leave a little while later because they have plans to meet some of the guys from the squad for a late lunch. They both buy stuff-too much, almost-and Villa likes that, likes that Silva listens to him and picks the things the Villa says he likes the most.
They’re running late, though, so they hop a cab across town and bicker over who gets to pay the fare. Villa wins, and then when they get to the restaurant, Mata and Alexis are already there at a table.
“Silva!” Alexis cries. And then he adds, “And you, you culé motherfucker, you got some nerve showing your face around here.”
Villa laughs, says, “Shut the fuck up; you’re looking to leave, too,” and takes his seat. “Elche, right?”
Alexis flicks him off and Silva ignores the entire exchange, just says, “Hey guys,” and sits next to Villa. He’s quiet, the only way everybody else ever gets to see him. “No Pablo?”
“Nah,” Mata says. “Meeting the girlfriend’s parents, apparently. But he says hi.”
“Bummer,” Silva says. “I’ll say goodbye to him later, I guess.”
“Man,” Villa says, and he says it like, I can’t believe this. “The end of an era, right here.”
“You’ll be back,” Mata says. “You can’t resist my charm.”
“What charm?” Alexis asks, and he rolls his eyes.
“Hey!” Mata says. “I’ll have you know, the ladies say I’m very charming.”
Villa says, “Your mother doesn’t count,” and Mata stands up, fakes like he’s going to punch Villa in the mouth.
“I am going to miss this, though,” Silva says, and he lets his leg lean against Villa’s under the table. Then, almost as if he realized what he had said, he adds, “Not hanging out with you; I mean this restaurant.”
They erupt into laughter and Silva ducks his head, almost as if he’s embarrassed, although Villa doesn’t know why he would be.
“The fucking best Paella Valenciana in all the land,” Alexis says, and he waves his water glass in the air in a mock toast, and Mata leans over to pinch Silva’s cheeks.
“Going to miss your adorable face,” he says the voice that he uses to talk to his dog.
“Shut up,” Silva says, and he pulls away. “This is why I’m moving to England; they appreciate me, there.”
“They’re still going to make fun of you,” Mata starts.
“You just won’t fucking understand a word of it,” Alexis says, and he laughs, spills some of his water.
Villa looks at Silva and says, “Should’ve signed with Barcelona.”
Their waiter walks up to the table and opens his little notepad, saying, “May I get you anything?”
“Don’t even get me started!” Mata yells at Villa, completely ignoring the waiter, and at the same time Alexis says, “You’re the enemy now.”
Villa cups a hand behind his ear and says, “What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over all the trophies I’m about to win.”
An argument breaks out, one that’s mostly just name-calling and accusations of glory-hunting, and even though he’s not really paying attention, Villa hears Silva turn to the waiter and say, “I think we need a minute, please.”
If he’s going to be honest, he thinks they probably need more than one.
They stay out later than Villa ever expected; by the time they get home, it’s already dark out and Villa is exhausted. He watches as Silva throws his shopping bags down on the foyer floor and heads into the living room.
“Just throw your shit on the floor,” Villa says. “Don’t worry; I got it.”
Silva just laughs from the other room and says, “Hey, Villa?”
“Yeah?”
“C’mere.”
Villa shrugs off his jacket and hangs it in the hall closet and then walks into the living room; Silva is slouched on the couch, his knees splayed wide and his head back. He’s look at Villa through his eyelashes.
“No,” Villa says. “Fucking no, I knew it.”
“Come on, Villa,” Silva says, and he smiles like he’s really enjoying this. He probably is, Villa thinks. “I went shopping with you and I didn’t even complain once.”
“I didn’t make you come,” Villa says, and the second he says that, he wants to take it back.
“But you can make me come now,” Silva says, and he’s still smiling, still finding this hilarious.
“You’re such an asshole,” Villa says, but he walks over drops to his knees between Silva’s legs. He pushes Silva’s shirt up to his armpits and kisses down his chest, his stomach, all the way to his belt buckle. “I’m going to make you beg for it.”
And he does.
He tells Silva that he’ll help him pack, but he doesn’t, not really. He tries to, at first, but it feels too strange to be boxing up parts of Silva’s life as if they were being shipped away, never to return. There are so many of Silva’s things that Villa almost looks at as if they were his own-cds, photos, a jacket or two-that to be helping Silva pack is like packing away his own life, even though he knows that logically, who he is does not start and end with Silva. He sits there, though, sits on the desk or on a chair by the window or on the floor, and he talks as Silva folds his clothes and packs his shoes and wraps a framed photo of the two of them in a t-shirt so that it doesn’t break on the way over.
“What if you come back pale?” Villa asks, lying on the bed. He’s awkwardly positioned and so his feet dangle over the edge. “Pepe says that the chance of sun over there is slim to none.”
“I’m not coming back pale,” Silva says, and he laughs, shake his hair out of his eyes. And then he stops packing and looks right at Villa and says, “I’m coming back exactly the same, Villa,” and something about that makes Villa so uncomfortable because he never meant to be so transparent about what he thought, because it’s stupid, so stupid to think that anything will be different just because Silva’s in a different league; Villa’s on a different team in a different city and nothing’s changed for him at all.
“So how’s it feel?” he asks, to get the attention off of himself. “You nervous?”
“Not really,” Silva says. “I told you I talked to Tévez once or twice and he seemed nice, so it should be alright.”
“But their play is so different,” Villa says.
“I know,” Silva says, and he sits on the first suitcase in order to be able to zip it. “But I’m already signed and everything, so there’s no use worrying now. What about you? Barcelona, I mean…” He trails off and Villa gets it, gets that he’s saying, Barcelona is a different style of play, too.
“What’s to be nervous about?” Villa asks. “I know almost everyone already. Still fucking sucks, though.”
“No it doesn’t,” Silva tells him. “You’re playing for the best team in La Liga now.” Villa assumes that he’s trying to make him see reason, trying to make him see the positive side of things. Villa’s not interested; there is no fucking positive side to a shitload of Valencia debt needing to be paid.
“What’s the positive side to not being able to play with you?” Villa asks. Silva takes a while to answer.
“There is none,” Silva says.
“I already know that,” Villa says, but it’s not said rudely, just matter of fact, because he did, he already knew.
Silva doesn’t say anything this time, just sprawls out on the bed next to Villa, their bodies pressed together at their shoulders, their hips, their toes touching where they hang over the mattress. It helps, a little.
The drive to the airport is quiet. Villa tells Silva that he’ll drive him, no problem, and Silva doesn’t tell him that he doesn’t have to, that he can get a cab or that it’s better not because people will see.
It’s an evening flight-takeoff is at seven-and even though it’s unusual for Villa to want to, they hold hands as he drives, their fingers tangled by the center console.
Villa parks and they kiss-quickly-while still inside the car. Villa walks with him to the doors and walks with him to check in and walks with him to the start of security, where he is not allowed.
Silva makes the first move, hugs Villa tight around the shoulders, and Villa hugs back, his eyes shut.
“It’s just a few weeks,” Villa says, to comfort Silva, even though Silva seems to be fine. “Hopefully we’ll both make national call-ups, and then…”
Silva smiles, says, “And if not, I’ll fly back anyways.”
“Okay,” Villa says, and then he pauses for a minute. “Fuck, Silva.”
“I know,” Silva says. “But I’ll call you when I land.”
And then that’s it, he turns and walks away, looking back as he takes off his shoes at security. And suddenly Villa feels this thing in his chest-and he’s not sure what it is, not really, because he’s never felt it before-and it’s just taking up all the space in his chest and he wants to do something, only he doesn’t know what.
“Silva!” he yells out. He’s already on the other side of the metal detector. “Fucking tremendous footballer.”
And Silva smiles so widely that it looks like his face might split into two, and he yells back, “You too.”
Villa smiles as he walks back to the car, but the drive is quiet and when he gets back, the house is empty and his bed is too big.
He’s woken up in the middle of the night when his phone rings.
“Fuck, what?” he says when he picks up, and he doesn’t even know who it is, hasn’t even opened his eyes.
“I landed,” Silva says, and he laughs. Villa thinks that with his eyes shut, it’s almost like Silva’s right there. “And I’m at my apartment.”
“Oh,” Villa says, and he sits up. “Oh. Hey. How was the flight?”
“You know,” Silva says. “Alright.”
“Alright.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to let you get back to sleep,” Silva says. “But I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Hey, I can talk,” Villa says.
“I know,” Silva tells him. “And thanks. But I’m kind of tired, too.”
“Okay,” Villa says. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
And it’s true-they talk the next day, no problem. Villa calls him as he’s walking down the cereal aisle at the grocery store, and Silva’s not busy, and so they talk.
“What kind of cereal do I want?” Villa asks.
Silva laughs, says, “You’re moving in like three days.”
“I fucking know that,” Villa tells him, “but I need to eat.”
“Did your love handles tell you that?” Silva asks, and Villa laughs because he likes that Silva’s like this with him, playful and bold and open, because he’s so quiet around everyone else.
“Fuck you,” Villa says.
“A few weeks.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“Okay,” Silva says. And then, “Get Frosties. It’s the best when the milk at the bottom is all sugary.”
“They’re already in my cart,” Villa says. “You were useless and I moved on without you.”
“Well, now, that’s just inconsiderate,” Silva tells him.
“Alright,” Villa says as he walks towards check-out. “I promise not to do it again.”
“Good,” Silva says.
“Good.”
When Villa packs up, it’s a different story; he’s done in a few hours and he does it alone. He takes a taxi to the airport and even though it’s a short flight, he sleeps the entire way with his cheek mashed against the window. He calls Silva from the taxi but Silva doesn’t pick up, and when he gets to his apartment, he goes right back to sleep.
He wakes up late the next morning because, for some reason, his phone was on silent and the alarm didn’t go off. Silva left him a message earlier, and Villa listens to it in bed.
“Hey,” Silva says. “It’s me. Just calling on my way to practice to see how you’re doing and how your flight was. First day of practice today and-I don’t know-I’m kind of nervous, even though it’s stupid. Some of the players speak Spanish, though, so it shouldn’t be that bad. But, um. Hey. Call me later tonight? Or I can call you; either way. Alright. Bye.”
Villa checks the time and it’s only a quarter to twelve, meaning it’s not even one yet in Manchester; Silva’s still at practice, then, Villa knows, and so he rolls out of bed to shower and attempt to be a productive human being.
When he’s dressed, his first thought is to go grocery shopping, but then he decides, Fuck it, and goes to find someplace where he can eat out. He walks out his door and down the street, just picking a random direction because it’s not like he knows where the fuck things are, anyways. It’s hot out, and real fucking sunny, too, and so Villa shoves his sunglasses on his face. It’s a nice city, Barcelona; he can see himself liking it here well enough.
Silva calls later that night like he said he would.
“How was it?” Villa asks.
“Um,” Silva says. “It was alright. I don’t know, they seem alright.”
“Okay,” Villa says. “So that’s good.”
“They taped a picture of Xabi getting kicked by de Jong in my locker.”
“So they’re assholes,” Villa says.
“Nah,” Silva tells him. “They just meant it as a joke. Carlos is really nice, though. He helped me, you know, get around and everything.”
“Carlos, huh?” Villa asks.
“Shut up,” Silva says. “He’s nice.”
“Alright, alright,” Villa says, and he laughs. “So it’s good?”
“Yeah,” Silva says. “Yeah, I think so.”
And Villa doesn’t say it-it’s not something he would even know how to say-but he’s beyond glad that Silva is happy, or at least getting there. If anyone deserves big things, it’s Silva.
He talks with Pep before his first practice-“It’s Pep, please; just Pep”-and Pep offers to let him meet the rest of the squad in his street clothes before being thrown into his first practice. Villa waves the comment away, tells him that he’ll be fine just diving right in because he already knows most of the squad and that he has to start sometime, anyways.
One of the trainers meets him at the parking lot and then helps him find his way through Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper to the locker room. When he walks in, everyone is changing and no one even notices that he’s walked in until Gerard looks up and sees him.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
And then Victor looks up and says, “David fucking Villa,” like that means something. Villa tells them to shut up.
He says hi to everyone, hugs Puyi and slaps hands with Sergio, and is introduced to Dani and Maxwell and Eric. And it’s not-he not going to fucking say anything about it, but he’s kind of disappointed and confused that Messi’s not there because he wanted to meet Messi. And of course he already knows Messi-he’s played against him and done ads with him and talked with him at awards ceremonies-but it’s different, meeting someone as a teammate; Messi’s the best in the world, and Villa just wants to-
He doesn’t know what he just wants to, but it’s Messi.
“He’s outside,” Andrés says to him when he’s changing and everyone has more or less gone back to getting ready for practice.
“What?” Villa asks.
“Leo,” Andrés says. “He’s out on the pitch warming up already.”
“Oh,” Villa says. “It’s still early though.”
“I know,” Andrés says, and he shrugs.
Outside, they warm up by jogging around the pitch and Messi joins them. Xavi does the polite thing-introduces them even though they don’t really need it-and Villa laughs.
“I think everyone in the world knows who Messi is,” he says.
“Actually,” Messi says, and he’s got this lopsided smile on his face, “I prefer to be called the Messiah.”
Puyi shoves him, says, “Quit teasing the new kid,” and Messi laughs.
“It’s Leo,” he says. “Just Leo. But I just wanted to say that I’m really, um. I’m really excited to have you on the squad this year. I mean, I was excited when Pep first told us, and then after the World Cup you had-”
“Oh my god,” Gerard interrupts. “Poor Anotella, she’ll never see this coming.”
Villa wants to fucking smack Gerard, because how much more awkward can he make things? But it’s alright because Leo doesn’t seem to find it awkward, either; he just shrugs it off and says, “Hey, he’s a good player.”
Villa laughs at that and says, “You’re Leo Messi.”
Leo smiles and says, “You’re David Villa,” and Villa supposes he’s right.
The rest of practice is easy-not physically, but it’s easy to hang with the guys and surprisingly easy to learn and understand the differences between Barcelona’s and La Roja’s tiki taka. And of course it’s only been one day, so he’s not even close to ready yet, but practice was easygoing and he likes the guys, likes Pep.
It’s not Valencia; no other team can be Valencia, not to him, but Barcelona is probably as close as it gets, and he’s relieved.
He changes back into his street clothes after practice, and as he’s leaving the locker room, Xavi calls out to him and makes sure he’s free on Friday to go out to dinner with some of the guys from the squad. Villa thinks that’s pretty fucking nice of him, going out of his way to make him feel a part of the team and not just treating him like he already is one because he’s friends with most of the squad. There are not a lot of people like Xavi out there, Villa knows.
He calls Silva on the walk to his car, and Silva answers from in the shower. Villa can hear the water going in the background and Silva sounds far away, like he’s holding the phone a foot away from his face in an effort to keep it dry.
“Just call me back,” Villa offers.
“Thanks,” Silva tells him. “I really want to hear about your first day, but um,” he laughs a little, “I’m kind of in the shower, if you couldn’t already tell.”
So Villa hangs up and he drives home, and the entire time he does, all he can think of is how Silva looks when he’s wet, water matting his hair down before sliding down the slope of his nose and his cheekbones, down his neck and his chest and his thighs.
When he gets to his house, he throws his duffel bag on the floor in the foyer and then heads into the kitchen. He left his laptop charging on one of the counters, and he opens it up, doesn’t even bother to sit down. There’s a picture of him and Silva set as the background, and it’s a little embarrassing but no one else is going to see it, and so Villa doesn’t mind too much.
He’s got a couple of emails-one from Mata just to catch up, one from Cesc that’s just a chain letter about love, and one from Manchester City.
And that last one-that last one is really fucking embarrassing, embarrassing to the point that not even Silva knows about it. It’s kind of pathetic, Villa knows, that he’s signed up for emails from a club that he didn’t even give a shit about a few months ago.
There’s an exclusive interview out, one with Silva that they’ve been hyping for a week solid, and even though Villa could call Silva right now-could talk to the real thing-he clicks on the video link and turns up the volume.
And Silva looks-Silva looks good, of fucking course he looks good, it’s Silva, but he looks especially good because Villa hasn’t seen him in almost two weeks.
“How do you feel? How is living in Manchester?” the interviewer asks, and Villa thinks, Fuck, he hasn’t even played a match yet.
“Very happy,” Silva says, and it’s all being done in Spanish. Villa can see him shift and how his eyes are always looking over the interviewer’s shoulder, and his voice is quiet, reserved; so unlike how he is when they are alone. “Since the moment I arrived here, people have treated me very well, with a lot of kindness, and so I’m really grateful.”
“And are you nervous?” the interviewer asks. “Your first match in the English Premier League is in two days time.”
“A little,” Silva says, “I guess, but football is football no matter where you are, and I am confident in my abilities.”
“What about your size? Many people feel that will be an obstacle for you in the Premier League.”
“I don’t worry about it,” Silva says. “There’s nothing in football that requires you to be tall. Look at Messi; he’s the best player in the world, and he’s not tall, and nobody would say that he couldn’t play in the EPL if he wanted to.” He shakes his head. “Height doesn’t matter to me.”
Villa’s phone rings, then, and it surprises him, makes him jump about four feet in the air. His fingers race for the phone and send it skittering off the counter and onto the floor, and he goes racing after it.
“Dammit,” he says to himself as he flicks open his phone. “Hello?”
“Um-I can call back?” Silva asks.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Villa says.
“Oh, okay, good,” Silva says. “So? How was it?”
“Good,” Villa says. “Really good, actually. Xavi says hi.”
Silva laughs, says, “Well tell him I say hi back.”
“Alright,” David says, and he leans his hip against the counter. “But fuck, Silva, you should’ve been there with me. It was just like national call-ups, only you weren’t there and Messi was.”
“So at least you know almost everyone,” he says. “How’s Messi? You know, as a teammate?”
“He’s nice,” Villa says. “More outspoken than I expected, but besides that, exactly what everyone says; humble and really, really fucking good. He makes everything look so easy.”
“So you’ll finally win the league, then,” Silva says. “I’ll live vicariously through you.”
Villa laughs, says, “Shut the fuck up.”
“No,” Silva says. “You’re going to win everything.”
And somehow, without Villa even knowing that he wanted it, Silva tells him exactly what he needed to hear.
Everything kind of goes like that for a while, practicing and calling each other whenever they have the time. It works well enough, Villa supposes, even though there are days that he comes home and his house is empty and he gets suddenly and inexplicably mad at everyone and no one at all. But it’s alright, in the end, because even though Silva’s not there, they talk, and even though he may not be in love with the Barça crest, he’s in love with the squad.
They Skype after Silva’s first match with Man City. It was a good match to watch, Villa thinks; he was glued to the fucking screen the entire time, anxious although he had no need to be. Hart’s a good keeper, kept City out of trouble, and Silva even got a nice shot off, although it was blocked and Tévez lost the chance to score on the follow-up.
“Would have been nice to win, though,” Silva says, “or to score,” and he smiles. It’s nice to see him like this, Villa thinks; it’s been a long time since he’s seen Silva’s post-match excitement.
“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says. “You started; tons of players sit out a match or two until they know the language better.”
Silva laughs, says, “The voice of reason; how could I have forgotten?” His hair is still damp from the shower and his chin is in his hand. Villa wants to touch him.
“I don’t know,” Villa says, and Silva doesn’t say anything after that. They just look at each other for a while, and Silva smiles at him and he pulls a face, and when Silva throws his head back to laugh, Villa stares at his neck and wonders when the last time was that he put a mark there with his teeth.
“I’m just glad that it went alright,” Silva says. “That it wasn’t a disaster.”
“Me too,” Villa says.
“Yeah.” Silva bites his lip. “Felt weird, though; kept looking for you.”
I’m right here, Villa wants to say. Instead, he says, “I bet I’ll keep looking for you, too.”
Silva smiles.
Part 2