Untitled (the sandwich)
David Villa/David Silva, AU, PG. They are partners. Not sure of what. UNFINISHED. MAYBE. I don't know.
Hong Kong was deemed a success. Personally, Silva thought it was an incredible waste of money at the taxpayer's expense, but, whatever.
The flight back home was harrowing. Silva spent most of it alternating between trying not to throw up and wanting to stab Villa- as he often felt, but this time, for the ability to remain calm in the face of uncontrollable danger, that is flying--as nature never intended for humans to do, in an oversized metal tube. Not that he would ever in his life admit it. To anybody. Still, it was nice when they finally landed.
The half of their team that were on their flight scattered into the mid-afternoon sunshine of Madrid, as if they were strangers like everybody else, so accustomed to pretending not to know each other--or maybe it was just the leftover zombie element from a near twenty four hours of flight. Silva certainly couldn't explain why he wordlessly followed David home.
It was probably because David's place was a lot warmer, homier than his own. Not that he would ever admit it. Ok, it was probably because he remembered they had left for the Far East from his own place, which meant his bed was probably still a ridiculous mess and honestly, he just didn't have the energy to launder his sheets right now.
The sight of David's nicely made, clean bed proved his decision correct. David kindly closed the blinds to block out the day before they stripped off their days old plane clothes and tumbled gratefully to the mattress, eyes closed even before they hit the sheets.
When Silva woke up hours later, David was snoring softly into his ear and had wrapped himself, like a koala, around him. He grunted quietly, and tried to nudge David off gently, listlessly. His stomach growled obscenely loudly and his hand was forced. He prodded, pushed and untangled David from him, wandering out of the room, in search of sustenance.
He eyed the delivery menus stacked neatly by the telephone. He scratched his head and kept walking to the kitchen. This was another indicator of why he came back here. David Villa always seemed to have at the very least, a minimum amount of food stocked away. He never had anything to it, it seemed.
He poked around but opted for the lazy route, ripping open some instant ramen as he boiled water. His fork was already digging into
the noodles before the three minutes were up.
When the empty bowl stared up at him, he placed it in the empty sink and glanced around helplessly for something to do.
The clock glowed 2055 at him, mocking, teasing him for the decision to succumb to jet lag. Outside David's windows, Silva could see Madrid's streets were lighting up, party-goers just hitting their first of many tapas bars.
So Silva turned on David's extensive, expensive (utterly wasteful, Vicente had sniffed, shaking his head full of concern) television channels, and lit up as he caught the beginnings of a Valencia match.
About fifteen minutes in, he heard, rather than saw David shuffling toward him. He was clad in boxers and rumpled hair. "Morning," he mumbled with a crooked smile, and stood behind him on the sofa, watching along. He yawned audibly and then approved of a tackle on the screen, "nice," before he shuffled past to the kitchen.
David shook his head at the remnants of the ramen in the sink, and Silva glanced away from the television, and he curled a smile at David's disapproval. David muttered something and began assembling something complicated looking from the contents of his fridge.
It was half-time, the score still nil-nil, when David finished whatever it was he was making and headed for him. But his butt barely touched the sofa before he was up again, muttering to himself, "shit, forgot my beer," leaving a plateful of a complicated stuffed boccadillo next to Silva.
He looked at the sandwich curiously.
His stomach growled, the ramen a distant memory.
He looked at David in the kitchen.
When David returned, there was a sizeable chunk removed from the side of his arugula, turkey and mustard concoction. David Silva stared innocently at the television, waiting for the fallout.
"You can have that."
Silva looked up, surprised, as David chuckled gruffly and handed him a beer bottle, sitting down next to him with another plate, a twin of the one before. "I made another one."
The second half started and David slid closer to Silva.
Hong Kong was deemed a success. Personally, Silva thought it was an incredible waste of money at the taxpayer's expense, but, whatever.
The flight back home was harrowing. Silva spent most of it alternating between trying not to throw up and wanting to stab Villa- as he often felt, but this time, for the ability to remain calm in the face of uncontrollable danger, that is flying--as nature never intended for humans to do, in an oversized metal tube. Not that he would ever in his life admit it. To anybody. Still, it was nice when they finally landed.
The half of their team that were on their flight scattered into the mid-afternoon sunshine of Madrid, as if they were strangers like everybody else, so accustomed to pretending not to know each other--or maybe it was just the leftover zombie element from a near twenty four hours of flight. Silva certainly couldn't explain why he wordlessly followed David home.
It was probably because David's place was a lot warmer, homier than his own. Not that he would ever admit it. Ok, it was probably because he remembered they had left for the Far East from his own place, which meant his bed was probably still a ridiculous mess and honestly, he just didn't have the energy to launder his sheets right now.
The sight of David's nicely made, clean bed proved his decision correct. David kindly closed the blinds to block out the day before they stripped off their days old plane clothes and tumbled gratefully to the mattress, eyes closed even before they hit the sheets.
When Silva woke up hours later, David was snoring softly into his ear and had wrapped himself, like a koala, around him. He grunted quietly, and tried to nudge David off gently, listlessly. His stomach growled obscenely loudly and his hand was forced. He prodded, pushed and untangled David from him, wandering out of the room, in search of sustenance.
He eyed the delivery menus stacked neatly by the telephone. He scratched his head and kept walking to the kitchen. This was another indicator of why he came back here. David Villa always seemed to have at the very least, a minimum amount of food stocked away. He never had anything to it, it seemed.
He poked around but opted for the lazy route, ripping open some instant ramen as he boiled water. His fork was already digging into
the noodles before the three minutes were up.
When the empty bowl stared up at him, he placed it in the empty sink and glanced around helplessly for something to do.
The clock glowed 2055 at him, mocking, teasing him for the decision to succumb to jet lag. Outside David's windows, Silva could see Madrid's streets were lighting up, party-goers just hitting their first of many tapas bars.
So Silva turned on David's extensive, expensive (utterly wasteful, Vicente had sniffed, shaking his head full of concern) television channels, and lit up as he caught the beginnings of a Valencia match.
About fifteen minutes in, he heard, rather than saw David shuffling toward him. He was clad in boxers and rumpled hair. "Morning," he mumbled with a crooked smile, and stood behind him on the sofa, watching along. He yawned audibly and then approved of a tackle on the screen, "nice," before he shuffled past to the kitchen.
David shook his head at the remnants of the ramen in the sink, and Silva glanced away from the television, and he curled a smile at David's disapproval. David muttered something and began assembling something complicated looking from the contents of his fridge.
It was half-time, the score still nil-nil, when David finished whatever it was he was making and headed for him. But his butt barely touched the sofa before he was up again, muttering to himself, "shit, forgot my beer," leaving a plateful of a complicated stuffed boccadillo next to Silva.
He looked at the sandwich curiously.
His stomach growled, the ramen a distant memory.
He looked at David in the kitchen.
When David returned, there was a sizeable chunk removed from the side of his arugula, turkey and mustard concoction. David Silva stared innocently at the television, waiting for the fallout.
"You can have that."
Silva looked up, surprised, as David chuckled gruffly and handed him a beer bottle, sitting down next to him with another plate, a twin of the one before. "I made another one."
The second half started and David slid closer to Silva.