(no subject)
title: short stories of fallen kings
pairing: david villa/leo messi
rating: r
words: 5500
summary: future fic; post-retirement; david goes to argentina to play in a charity game.
There was a time in David’s life when travel was routine, easy and familiar, but it’s not like that anymore. The airport seems crowded and loud and the flight is long and boring with no one to waste time with. Long flights used to mean playing games or reading sports dailies or just chatting, talking tactics and rumors and making fun of each other. Now it’s just sitting, crammed in next to a stranger in a space that’s much too small.
He remembers the nice planes they had in Barcelona, with tons of leg room and television monitors in the backs of each seats. Not like this; even first class feels cramped and he’s bored and his legs start to hurt so much earlier than they used to. He falls asleep with his head against the window and doesn't wake up until they announce they’re starting their descent into Buenos Aires. His knees creak and crack when he stands up.
The air feels gritty outside. He’s been to a lot of big cities, even Buenos Aires a few times, but he’s been in Tuilla for so long that it feel huge, and loud. Crowded. Not in a bad way, but it takes a few minutes to get used to, to get his bearings.
In the cab, the driver keeps looking back at him, like he knows David from somewhere but can’t pinpoint how. David gets that a lot these days. He gives the driver a small smile and turns to look out the window. In the background a radio host is speaking quickly and he hears they’re talking about the game, hears Leo’s name, “Messi, Messi,” and it takes him back.
“El guaje,” the cab driver says finally, and David looks up.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice is raspy so he clears it. “Hello.”
The driver smiles, satisfied. “We heard you were coming,” he says, reaching out to turn the radio down, “But there are so many rumors, we never believed it.”
David smiles, self-conscious. “I wasn’t sure I could make it,” he says, “But here I am,” and it really was like that, almost last minute, not that he was too busy but just that he didn’t know if it was he wanted, if it was time yet.
“It will be nice to see you with Leo again,” the driver muses, and he says it like that, Leo, like it’s one of his old friends, or his son; someone he knows, familiar. David just smiles tightly and turns back to the window.
His hotel is nice; big, sterile, a chain place, with stark white sheets and curtains. He feels dirty after being outside and stands in the stream of his shower until his fingers prune. Jet lag hits him harder than it used to and he’s in bed before the sun goes down, trying to remember why he came.
It feels early when his phone rings, but he looks at the clock and he’s been asleep close to 12 hours. The voice on the other end informs him that this is his wakeup call, and he doesn’t remember scheduling a wakeup call but he doesn’t argue. He stumbles out of bed and is trying to figure out the coffee machine when there’s a knock on his door. He thinks it’s a little bit over kill after the call but throws a robe on to answer it anyway.
He squints into the hallway and his heart jumps into his throat when the face comes into focus. “Andres,” he mumbles, and he pulls the other man in so quickly Andres barely has time to pull his hands out of the way, grasping paper coffee cups. He laughs into David’s shoulder.
“I don’t remember you being such a morning person, Guaje,” he says, and David pulls the door open wider for him.
He gratefully accepts the coffee Andres hands him. “I brought you 2 sugars,” Andres says, fishing them out of his pocket. “I don’t know if you still take it that way…”
David doesn’t, he drinks his coffee black now, but he’s so surprised that Andres remembered that he takes them anyway and dumps them into his cup. The sugar might give him a headache but it doesn’t matter.
“Let me put pants on,” David mumbles, gesturing at Andres to sit at the small table by the window. He rushes to dress, swiping a hand over his hair and glaring into the bathroom mirror. His skin looks sallow in the hotel lighting, and he slaps at his cheeks to get some color in them.
“When did you get here?” he asks Andres, ducking back into the room and trying to tidy it up a bit. Andres looks relaxed in his chair.
“Yesterday afternoon,” he says, sipping at his coffee and peering at his phone screen. “Spent the day shopping in the city. Valeria wants an awesome souvenir.”
David smiles at the mention of her, thinking of his own girls. “And how is she? It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”
Andres smiles up at him as David joins him at the table. “Maybe if you returned a call now and then you’d see her more,” he says lightly, and David looks down into his cup, pretends to be focused on swirling it around.
“Yeah,” he says awkwardly, “Sorry about that. I always mean to call back…”
Andres laughs, and he leans over to hit David’s knee. “I was joking, Guaje. It’s fine.”
David appreciates his kindness but he doesn’t laugh along. “It’s not fine, Andres,” he says, peering up at him. But Andres doesn’t dwell.
“Anyway, she’s fine. I’m sure she’d love to see Zaida and Olaya, if you’re ever near Barcelona.” And David does let himself smile then, thinking of them, thinking of all of them and of visiting Andres in Barcelona.
They catch up. Andres tells David about Victor coaching youth squads and Xavi and his scouting, about Pique and Cesc and Iker and all the other people David hasn’t seen in years, and David watches him, watches his face. He still looks young, younger than David would expect; there are tell tale wrinkles around his eyes, and his hair recedes back even further than it used to, David can see that even though it’s shaved close, but he looks happy. David thinks it doesn’t matter anyway, what he sees now; in David’s memory, Andres will always look the same: blue shorts, a white shirt with marker scrawled across it, hands stretching toward the African sky.
Andres asks him questions about himself, what he’s been up to and how his life is. He dodges them as best he can and when the silence stretches he clicks the TV on. Leo’s face is splashed across the screen, the newscasters talking in quick, high voices about the game, about Messi’s return and about all of them. David lets his eyes scan over Leo’s face, older but not old-looking, still full and childlike, a thick mop of hair still falling over his forehead. The broadcast changes to a reel of highlights from his career and a smile tugs at David’s face in spite of himself.
“They’ve really never gotten over him, have they?” he asks, because now, in Spain, where he lives, when he watches tv, there are new names. New heroes. And it’s rare to hear one that he knows, see a face he recognizes.
Andres doesn’t look up from his phone screen, sipping on his coffee. “Mmm,” he hums. “If he was yours, would you?”
David doesn’t respond to that. He keeps his eyes on the screen. “Have you seen him?” he asks.
Andres sets his phone down and David feels his eyes but doesn’t look. “Texted him when I got here. He said to come over after the game.” Andres finishes his drink and tosses the paper cup into a trashcan. “You’re invited too, I’m sure.”
David grimaces through the last mouthful of coffee; it’s lukewarm and gritty with sugar. “I don’t know,” he says. “We were never that close.”
Andres laughs then, shaking his head at David. “You’re still crazy, you know that?”
David does.
A car takes he and Andres from the hotel to the stadium where the game is. First, though, there’s a lunch for all the players, tables heaped high with pasta and proteins. The room is big and loud, full of players David recognizes, some he knows personally and some he only knows from the pitch or from TV.
And there’s Leo of course. David sees him across the room, a crowd of people around him, but he’s not surprised to see Leo isn’t talking; someone else is, and Leo’s eyes flicker around the room. It makes David laugh a little, to see he’s still not good at pretending to like conversation.
It takes a minute but Leo sees them; David sees the exact moment when, because he snaps to attention, a tiny smile on his face, and it doesn’t take him long to extract himself from the group and make his way toward them, brushing past people who try to stop him on the way.
He goes to Andres first, or maybe Andres steps toward him; either way they embrace tightly. David can see Leo’s lips moving near Andres’s ear but can’t hear his voice. Not that he wants to; he looks away, unwilling to intrude on their privacy, even as the rest of the room watches them.
And then Leo’s hand is fisted in his shirt, pulling him in, and it’s unexpected but he goes with it; can’t help smiling into his hair.
“I’m glad you came,” Leo says, lowly enough that no one else can hear, his arms tight across David’s spine.
“Me too,” David mutters into his shoulder, relaxing, pressing his hand flat against the small of Leo's back, and maybe he didn’t know it until now but it’s true. “Me too.”
Leo starts to chat with them but it’s not long before someone comes and pulls him away. “You’re coming over after, right?” he calls as he’s walking away from them, his eyes on Andres; David looks away, hands in his pockets.
“Yeah,” Andres says.
Leo’s almost out of ear shot but he looks at David, says, “You, too, right?” And David tells himself he doesn’t have time to say anything but yes, so he does. He says yes. To Leo, for Leo, again.
He doesn’t start in the game. The coach is a guy he doesn’t know, someone from Argentina, but he doesn’t really mind. He likes watching from up close. Andres is in, and Leo too, and even now it’s hard to take his eyes off them; they might be slower, not as sharp, but it’s still beautiful to watch how they still know where the other is without even looking.
At halftime the coach motions him up and he stands with his toes on the touchline, bouncing slightly, his heart in his throat because it’s been so long, too long. And then he’s out there, grass under his boots, and it’s not as easy as it used to be but it still comes naturally, he still sees the ball moving in slow motion, thinking two moves ahead, slowly remembering what he’s supposed to do and where he’s supposed to be.
Near the end of the game he takes off-he’s offside, so far offside and he knows it but it’s a charity game and the linesman is laughing and waving him on, and Leo pushes the ball gently towards him to slot home easily and even though it’s not really real, not like it used to be, it still make him feel inexplicably, unbearably happy for that moment. Leo swings around and heads for him, grinning openly and he can’t help but return the smile, slinging an arm around his shoulder and he still slots there perfectly, under David’s arm, familiar as anything.
When the game ends David doesn’t have any idea who won-supposes it doesn’t matter, really-and he’s tired, worn out and hungry but happier than he’s felt in a long time.
Two hours later Leo pulls his door open. He’s in sweats and a plain white undershirt, his wet hair falling into his eyes. He has a phone pressed against his ear and he motions them in, turning back down the hallway in front of them. His feet are bare against the tile floor.
David expected something big and sprawling but his house isn’t that flashy; comfortably large, of course, but cozy, with pictures and memorabilia littering every surface. There are surprisingly few awards; David sees a golden boot tucked on a shelf in the corner, but mostly it’s just letters and photos and other reminders of all the people who loved and still love Leo.
Leo leads to the living room and gestures that they should sit down. “Yes, Mama,” he says into the phone, and David thinks some thing never do change. Leo disappears into the kitchen and returns with a kettle a moment later, filling them cups of strong, steaming tea- mate, David figures.
When he returns from the kitchen again he’s off the phone. He tosses it onto the coffee table and swipes a pile of newspapers from an overstuffed arm chair before sinking into to it.
“I like your place,” David offers, sipping the tea carefully. It’s strong and bitter but he gets used to it fast.
“Thank you,” Leo says, sprawling out like he’s tired. “Hard to believe I’ve only been here a few days, huh?” He uses a toe to poke a stack of mail threatening to spill over on the table, gestures around to the mess.
“Are you still living in Rosario full time?” Andres asks.
“Mmm,” Leo hums in confirmation around his glass. “Technically, but before this I was in Brazil for a charity thing-Dani says hi, by the way-and before that in the United States for an event with adidas, and before that-“
He cuts himself off, looks up like he’s thinking. He shrugs. “I don’t remember before that, but not Rosario.” He laughs; he looks happy about it, and David wonders if that’s it, if that’s the trick-keep yourself too busy to notice your entire life has changed and you don’t know how to live it anymore. Maybe that’s what he did wrong, all the relaxing, the taking time to himself.
“And you, David?” Leo asks, snapping him out of his thoughts. “What are you up to these days?”
David swallows too much tea; he burns his tongue and hisses. Leo smiles faintly but keeps looking at him, waiting for an answer.
“He’s gonna come visit us in Barcelona soon,” Andres jumps in.
“Yeah,” David says when he’s recovered. “Not doing much, still in Tuilla. I get to see my family a lot, and I’ll try to get over to Barca and see everyone soon…”
“You need to come out soon, too, Leo,” Andres says, and David’s grateful that the pressure’s off him to account for his time, for his life. He doesn’t really want to share it.
“I do,” Leo says, running a hand through his hair, and David just can’t get over how much he’s still the same, still looks the same, but he’s so much older, more mature, more relaxed than David's ever seen him. “It’s been too long. I haven’t even met Geri’s kids yet.”
“Oh my god,” Andres says, and he laughs thinking of them. “You have to. They’re just like him, but in tiny little girl form. And he treats them like royalty.”
Leo smiles fondly. “Yeah, that's about what I would expect.”
Time goes quickly as they talk; David doesn’t contribute much, but he leans his head back and listens closely, watches both of them, and it’s relaxing and nice.
He excuses himself to the bathroom and when he looks at his watch he’s surprised to see that it’s been hours. He takes his time, trailing through Leo’s house, looking at the pictures on the walls and the random stuff he has everywhere, letters from fans and autographs from other players. He finds a picture in the front hallway that he’s in, his arm tight around Leo’s shoulders while the rest of the team crowds around them from behind, and he wishes he could remember what the occasion was but he can’t.
As he walks slowly back to the living room, their voices drift toward him, low and hushed now. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop but he hears, hears Andres and how his voice sounds sad, worried even.
“…didn’t hear from him…” he says, and then muffled words. “Pepe said… didn’t know … but he was crushed. He must have been.”
David lets his footsteps fall heavily in the hall, so they have a chance to stop talking about him before he reenters.
It’s not much longer before Andres says, “My flight’s in a few hours. I should get back to the hotel.”
David’s disappointed because he’s not ready to leave, to go back to his sterile room by himself, but he stands and reaches for his wallet and his phone on the coffee table.
“Is your flight tonight too?” Leo asks, watching him.
“Tomorrow,” he says, stretching his stiff back. “But we’re at the same hotel, so…”
“So stay,” Leo says. His eyes almost look pleading.
David hesitates. He looks at Andres. “Stay,” Andres encourages. “I’m just going to leave and there’s nothing to do at the hotel anyway.”
“Are you sure you want to ride back alone…” David starts, but Andres laughs him off and David knows it’s not a real reason to go. Doesn’t even really want to, though he doesn’t know why.
“Okay,” he says. He sets his things back on the coffee table and turns toward Andres. He doesn't want to say goodbye to him yet. Andres pulls him in tightly and over his shoulder David sees Leo drift over to a shelf, looking at books there and giving them a moment of privacy.
“It was so good to see you,” Andres says in his ear. “Really, David, really really good.”
David doesn’t know why but his throat feels tight and it makes him feel stupid and trite. “I know,” he says, swallowing it away, “Me too.”
“You need to get up to Barcelona soon,” Andres says, pulling back but keeping a hand at his side, keeping him close. “Next weekend, even.”
David manages a smile, and in that moment, he really wants to say yes. So he does. “Okay,” he says. It feels easier to smile, and Andres returns it. “Next weekend.”
They hug again and Leo walks Andres to the front hall. It’s quiet for awhile, and David wanders over to the bookshelf to see what Leo was looking at. It’s just more stuff, more pictures and papers and evidence of the life Leo’s lived, all the things he’s done and seen and it’s almost overwhelming to look at and then think that he’s still not that old.
Eventually David hears the front door open and shut and he knows Andres is gone. Leo returns to the room and shoots him a quiet smile before he clears away their teacups.
“More?” he asks, holding David’s up.
David shakes his head and Leo looks at him for another long moment. “I think I’ll get us something stronger,” he says finally, and it’s not a question. David would say yes anyway.
He’s in more of the pictures on these shelves. He finds a framed photo from Wembley-his first Champions-and it’s almost hard to find himself at first, hard to believe that was him, and not really that long ago. Hard to believe he’s ever been that happy in his life. But he does remember it vaguely, the moment he’d hit that ball and watched it curve just past van der Sar’s fingertips; crashing onto the pitch in a pile of elation and disbelief. The cool metal of the cup under his fingers. Little details. He remembers.
Leo returns and hands him a glass half full of amber liquid, and he drinks it without asking what it is. It’s smoky and smooth, obviously something nice. He still winces as it goes down; he doesn’t let himself drink often, aware of how easy it would be to rely on it, get attached.
Leo settles on the arm of a chair, watching David look at his things.
“Find anything interesting?” he asks finally, when it’s quiet for too long.
David hums, a noncommittal answer. He picks up another photo; Leo with Kun’s family, his wife and kid. “You’re not married,” he says idly, hardly thinking about it.
“Neither are you,” Leo returns, and David should have expected it, but he didn’t, not from Leo. He sets the frame back down too hard and the shelf shakes.
“No,” he says sharply. “Not anymore.” He turns away from Leo and picks up another frame, hardly even seeing what it is. Just wanting the subject to drop.
“Why not?” Leo asks, not getting the hint. For the first time all day that familiar anger creeps into David’s chest, and his muscles tense.
“Because things happen,” he says, turning toward Leo, daring him to ask more questions.
But Leo’s face is soft, almost sad, and he takes another drink, studying David’s face above the rim of his glass, and David’s anger dissipates.
David turns back to the shelf, runs his finger along the smooth edges of a gilded frame. “It’s strange, you know?” he says quietly. Because maybe Leo does know, even if he wasn’t married, even if their lives were very different. “When you stop playing, everything changes. It’s hard to remember who you are without football. What you used to be.”
Leo doesn’t respond and David turns to see if he’s still there, if he’s even listening. He is, and still just watching David, observing. David sighs; maybe he doesn’t understand, but it feels good to say it out loud, anyway. He drains the rest of his drink.
Leo follows suit and stands up, walks to David to get his cup. Their fingers brush as he takes it and he’s still just looking at David, those wide dark eyes, and David has to turn away because it’s hard to focus suddenly. He thinks maybe he should stop drinking, but when Leo returns he takes the refilled glass and takes a long sip anyway.
Leo doesn’t go back to his seat; he stands beside David, surveying the things in front of him. He picks up the Champions League photo David had looked at earlier, holding it close to his face and smiling gently.
“Do you remember this?” Leo asks, not taking his eyes from the picture. “Isn’t it hard to believe that was us?” he asks. David thinks maybe he does understand.
“Of course I remember,” he says, and Leo looks up at him, his face so close; David’s eyes flicker down to the picture again, finding the two of them, and he thinks maybe they’re not that different now, maybe they don’t have to be.
Leo looks back at the picture one more time before replacing it on the shelf. “That was the perfect day,” he says quietly, a small smile pulling at his lips. He looks up suddenly, face serious and eyes bright, and he says, “We’re going to be okay,” but David doesn’t get it, doesn’t get it, until Leo says it again, “Both of us, we’ll be okay.”
David’s head spins. He realizes it now, he’s been wrong about Leo all along. Leo doesn’t have it figured out, he didn’t handle any of it better than David, and maybe he was even wrong about the others too, even Andres. He puts a hand out, resting it on the shelf, steadying himself, and he knows he's staring at Leo but he can't stop and Leo doesn't look away either.
He blames the shock of it and the buzzing in his head, the warmth pooling in his stomach, when he leans in and catches Leo clumsily on the corner of his mouth.
He pulls back quickly and Leo just looks at him. His heart thuds. He feels nervous; he feels brave. He takes another sip of his drink, if only to give him a moment to steady his hands.
Leo just looks at him, for so long David starts to feel sick, thinks he might need to leave. And then Leo laughs quietly, asks, “Is that it?” and he takes David’s glass, sets it next to his own on the shelf and David doesn’t know who moves but his hands are in Leo’s hair and they’re breathing the same air, faces so close but not touching, Leo’s hands at his waist and he wants to laugh suddenly, loudly until he can’t breathe anymore, but before he can move at all Leo’s lips are brushing his again and he forgets anything else that he wants.
It’s been a long time since David kissed anyone but it comes back easily; how to move his head and where to put his hands, it’s all familiar. And Leo’s familiar too, even if David’s never kissed him before, never even thought about it-but that’s a lie of course, just one that David’s told himself enough times that it’s easier to believe than the truth-
David’s getting desperate. Leo feels so good, soft and pliant against him, and he tastes good and David just wants to pull him closer, get closer, as close as he can, so he’s pulling and he’s pushing and their teeth are clashing and it takes a minute to notice that Leo’s pulling back, he’s trying to pull back, and David lets go in a rush.
Leo doesn’t pull back that far. “Hey,” he says, still close enough that their lips touch when he talks. “Calm down.” He leans in, presses into David again but David’s too embarrassed to respond. And Leo must know it, because he pushes his forehead against David’s until David meets his eyes, breathing heavily. Even though David’s embarrassed he takes in Leo’s dark eyes, his swollen lips and his head spins.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he closes his eyes against Leo’s face, leaning into him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Leo says, and he pulls away entirely but he takes David’s hand and pulls him. David doesn’t bother to ask where they’re going, just follows quietly, his eyes trained on the back of Leo’s head, not thinking about anything else.
Leo leads him into a bedroom. It’s dark, the curtains pulled, but David hardly sees anything about it, still tunnel visioned into Leo. Leo pulls him in again, hands fisted in his shirt, and kisses him hard, hungry, and David lets himself be pulled, just tries to keep up.
Leo strips him of his clothes with deft hands and David stands there and lets him. Leo shucks his own shirt but stays in his sweats, low across his hips, and even in the dark David can see the dip of his muscle at his pelvis, wants to drag his tongue there but daren’t move.
Leo pushes him back into the bed and climbs on him, hovering over his face. For a moment they’re still, Leo’s eyes sweeping across his face, down his body, and David still doesn’t move, content to let Leo do what he wants.
What Leo does is dip his head, their lips meeting again but soft now, gentle. David can feel every part of Leo against him and his hands move slowly, over his ribs and over his back and his shoulders, pulling at them, molding against his spine. Eventually Leo pulls back, pushes David’s hands away, down by his sides, and holds them there loosely.
He drags his lips across David’s cheeks, down his jaw and across his neck. He takes his time and David lets him; sweeps his tongue out occasionally, lets his teeth drag. He’s slow and meticulous and David’s head is still hazy, heavy, it’s hard to think but David gets the feeling that Leo is trying to put him back together, tiny stitches with his lips across his chest and down his belly, swipes of his tongue like glue, careful to linger long enough to let it dry.
David wants to touch him too, give him something back but anytime he reaches out Leo kisses his palms and then pushes his hands back, down at his sides, until David gives up. Instead he lifts an arm under his head, holding himself up so he can watch Leo move down his body, head down in concentration but looking up at him with darkened eyes every now and then.
Leo moves lower, lips ghosting over his hipbones. He drags a hand down David’s side, making him shiver, and says, so quietly David thinks he isn’t meant to hear it, “You’re still so thin,” and David wants to answer him but Leo’s lips close over him suddenly and all that comes out is a groan, low and rough in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Leo’s fingers dig into his sides, hard enough to hurt, and when David reaches out now Leo doesn’t push him away, lets David thread his fingers in Leo’s hair. David’s sweating now, his hips jerking, and he pulls Leo off of him finally, gasps, “I want, I want,” and Leo moves to hover over his face now, dips his head and lets his swollen lips rest against David. David finally gets to touch him, hands down his chest, his sides, dipping at his ribs and finally finding the band of his sweats and Leo helps him slide them off.
It seems like his head’s been swirling and foggy for so long, but when he finally slides inside Leo, everything slows down, clears. He focuses on Leo’s face above him, and he’s looking down, looking down at where their hips are joined but David grabs his chin and forces his head up, meets his eyes brazenly, and Leo swallows hard and kisses him again, hair falling into his face, his eyes wide open the entire time.
It’s been so long, too long, and David tries to hold off as long as he can before he rolls his hips up, fingertips pressed into Leo’s hips, and shudders, trying to keep his eyes on Leo’s. Leo stills, holding David until he comes down, still hard between them, and then David takes him into his hands, whispering into his ear and moving quickly and Leo doesn’t last long either, spilling over his hands and stomach with a groan.
They move slowly then, groggy and tired and Leo brings him a cloth and then falls into bed beside him, never bothering to turn a light on. David falls asleep with his fingers tight around Leo’s wrist.
David sleeps more soundly than he can remember in recent times and the sun is already high in the sky when he wakes. Leo is still beside him; if David was surprised at how young he still looked yesterday, seeing him now, face soft with slumber, it’s like he hasn’t aged a day since David first met him all those years ago, when his hair was long, always falling into his face and his voice barely breached a whisper.
He stirs and David pulls away, hesitant in the morning light. “Hey,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep, and Leo blinks slowly several times before he smiles softly.
“Hey,” he returns.
David turns to look for a clock on the bedside tables and as he does, Leo slides a hand up his spine. He’s warm but David shivers. The clock glows brightly and informs him it’s late in the morning. He turns back to Leo.
“My flight’s in a few hours,” he says. Leo’s on his stomach, mouth pressed into the mattress, and he moves to rest it on David’s arm.
“Okay,” he says. Simple. David smiles at him.
“You could stay, you know,” Leo says after a minute. His words are muffled in David’s skin but David understands. Leo lifts his head anyway, eyes close to David’s. “I’d like it if you stayed.”
David thinks about it. Thinks about how easy it would be, to call the airline and cancel his flight. Send an email to his family saying he’d be gone a few more days, a few weeks, a few months. How easy it would be stay here, to push Leo into the mattress again, to disappear into Argentina and not go back.
“I don’t think I can,” he says, and Leo doesn’t look surprised.
“The offer’s open,” he says.
“I’d like to,” David says. Leo doesn’t look disappointed or offended, but David wants him to know how tempting it is. But he thinks of Andres, he thinks of unanswered voicemails, of the people he’s ignored for so long. “I have plans in Barcelona this weekend, though.”
Leo smiles at him, sincere. “Good, then.” He flops onto his back, splayed across the bed, and David looks over at him. “I think I have plans in Chile this week, anyway,” he says, and David turns over onto him, pinning him to the bed, and laughs into his neck, his shoulder. His fingers find Leo’s, sliding between them, and he holds on for a little bit longer.
Later, when he’s at the airport, bag nestled between his feet, his pulls his phone out, taps out a message.
And after Chile? Think you could spare a weekend to come to bcn?
The reply is quick. I think it could be arranged.
David smiles.
pairing: david villa/leo messi
rating: r
words: 5500
summary: future fic; post-retirement; david goes to argentina to play in a charity game.
There was a time in David’s life when travel was routine, easy and familiar, but it’s not like that anymore. The airport seems crowded and loud and the flight is long and boring with no one to waste time with. Long flights used to mean playing games or reading sports dailies or just chatting, talking tactics and rumors and making fun of each other. Now it’s just sitting, crammed in next to a stranger in a space that’s much too small.
He remembers the nice planes they had in Barcelona, with tons of leg room and television monitors in the backs of each seats. Not like this; even first class feels cramped and he’s bored and his legs start to hurt so much earlier than they used to. He falls asleep with his head against the window and doesn't wake up until they announce they’re starting their descent into Buenos Aires. His knees creak and crack when he stands up.
The air feels gritty outside. He’s been to a lot of big cities, even Buenos Aires a few times, but he’s been in Tuilla for so long that it feel huge, and loud. Crowded. Not in a bad way, but it takes a few minutes to get used to, to get his bearings.
In the cab, the driver keeps looking back at him, like he knows David from somewhere but can’t pinpoint how. David gets that a lot these days. He gives the driver a small smile and turns to look out the window. In the background a radio host is speaking quickly and he hears they’re talking about the game, hears Leo’s name, “Messi, Messi,” and it takes him back.
“El guaje,” the cab driver says finally, and David looks up.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice is raspy so he clears it. “Hello.”
The driver smiles, satisfied. “We heard you were coming,” he says, reaching out to turn the radio down, “But there are so many rumors, we never believed it.”
David smiles, self-conscious. “I wasn’t sure I could make it,” he says, “But here I am,” and it really was like that, almost last minute, not that he was too busy but just that he didn’t know if it was he wanted, if it was time yet.
“It will be nice to see you with Leo again,” the driver muses, and he says it like that, Leo, like it’s one of his old friends, or his son; someone he knows, familiar. David just smiles tightly and turns back to the window.
His hotel is nice; big, sterile, a chain place, with stark white sheets and curtains. He feels dirty after being outside and stands in the stream of his shower until his fingers prune. Jet lag hits him harder than it used to and he’s in bed before the sun goes down, trying to remember why he came.
It feels early when his phone rings, but he looks at the clock and he’s been asleep close to 12 hours. The voice on the other end informs him that this is his wakeup call, and he doesn’t remember scheduling a wakeup call but he doesn’t argue. He stumbles out of bed and is trying to figure out the coffee machine when there’s a knock on his door. He thinks it’s a little bit over kill after the call but throws a robe on to answer it anyway.
He squints into the hallway and his heart jumps into his throat when the face comes into focus. “Andres,” he mumbles, and he pulls the other man in so quickly Andres barely has time to pull his hands out of the way, grasping paper coffee cups. He laughs into David’s shoulder.
“I don’t remember you being such a morning person, Guaje,” he says, and David pulls the door open wider for him.
He gratefully accepts the coffee Andres hands him. “I brought you 2 sugars,” Andres says, fishing them out of his pocket. “I don’t know if you still take it that way…”
David doesn’t, he drinks his coffee black now, but he’s so surprised that Andres remembered that he takes them anyway and dumps them into his cup. The sugar might give him a headache but it doesn’t matter.
“Let me put pants on,” David mumbles, gesturing at Andres to sit at the small table by the window. He rushes to dress, swiping a hand over his hair and glaring into the bathroom mirror. His skin looks sallow in the hotel lighting, and he slaps at his cheeks to get some color in them.
“When did you get here?” he asks Andres, ducking back into the room and trying to tidy it up a bit. Andres looks relaxed in his chair.
“Yesterday afternoon,” he says, sipping at his coffee and peering at his phone screen. “Spent the day shopping in the city. Valeria wants an awesome souvenir.”
David smiles at the mention of her, thinking of his own girls. “And how is she? It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”
Andres smiles up at him as David joins him at the table. “Maybe if you returned a call now and then you’d see her more,” he says lightly, and David looks down into his cup, pretends to be focused on swirling it around.
“Yeah,” he says awkwardly, “Sorry about that. I always mean to call back…”
Andres laughs, and he leans over to hit David’s knee. “I was joking, Guaje. It’s fine.”
David appreciates his kindness but he doesn’t laugh along. “It’s not fine, Andres,” he says, peering up at him. But Andres doesn’t dwell.
“Anyway, she’s fine. I’m sure she’d love to see Zaida and Olaya, if you’re ever near Barcelona.” And David does let himself smile then, thinking of them, thinking of all of them and of visiting Andres in Barcelona.
They catch up. Andres tells David about Victor coaching youth squads and Xavi and his scouting, about Pique and Cesc and Iker and all the other people David hasn’t seen in years, and David watches him, watches his face. He still looks young, younger than David would expect; there are tell tale wrinkles around his eyes, and his hair recedes back even further than it used to, David can see that even though it’s shaved close, but he looks happy. David thinks it doesn’t matter anyway, what he sees now; in David’s memory, Andres will always look the same: blue shorts, a white shirt with marker scrawled across it, hands stretching toward the African sky.
Andres asks him questions about himself, what he’s been up to and how his life is. He dodges them as best he can and when the silence stretches he clicks the TV on. Leo’s face is splashed across the screen, the newscasters talking in quick, high voices about the game, about Messi’s return and about all of them. David lets his eyes scan over Leo’s face, older but not old-looking, still full and childlike, a thick mop of hair still falling over his forehead. The broadcast changes to a reel of highlights from his career and a smile tugs at David’s face in spite of himself.
“They’ve really never gotten over him, have they?” he asks, because now, in Spain, where he lives, when he watches tv, there are new names. New heroes. And it’s rare to hear one that he knows, see a face he recognizes.
Andres doesn’t look up from his phone screen, sipping on his coffee. “Mmm,” he hums. “If he was yours, would you?”
David doesn’t respond to that. He keeps his eyes on the screen. “Have you seen him?” he asks.
Andres sets his phone down and David feels his eyes but doesn’t look. “Texted him when I got here. He said to come over after the game.” Andres finishes his drink and tosses the paper cup into a trashcan. “You’re invited too, I’m sure.”
David grimaces through the last mouthful of coffee; it’s lukewarm and gritty with sugar. “I don’t know,” he says. “We were never that close.”
Andres laughs then, shaking his head at David. “You’re still crazy, you know that?”
David does.
A car takes he and Andres from the hotel to the stadium where the game is. First, though, there’s a lunch for all the players, tables heaped high with pasta and proteins. The room is big and loud, full of players David recognizes, some he knows personally and some he only knows from the pitch or from TV.
And there’s Leo of course. David sees him across the room, a crowd of people around him, but he’s not surprised to see Leo isn’t talking; someone else is, and Leo’s eyes flicker around the room. It makes David laugh a little, to see he’s still not good at pretending to like conversation.
It takes a minute but Leo sees them; David sees the exact moment when, because he snaps to attention, a tiny smile on his face, and it doesn’t take him long to extract himself from the group and make his way toward them, brushing past people who try to stop him on the way.
He goes to Andres first, or maybe Andres steps toward him; either way they embrace tightly. David can see Leo’s lips moving near Andres’s ear but can’t hear his voice. Not that he wants to; he looks away, unwilling to intrude on their privacy, even as the rest of the room watches them.
And then Leo’s hand is fisted in his shirt, pulling him in, and it’s unexpected but he goes with it; can’t help smiling into his hair.
“I’m glad you came,” Leo says, lowly enough that no one else can hear, his arms tight across David’s spine.
“Me too,” David mutters into his shoulder, relaxing, pressing his hand flat against the small of Leo's back, and maybe he didn’t know it until now but it’s true. “Me too.”
Leo starts to chat with them but it’s not long before someone comes and pulls him away. “You’re coming over after, right?” he calls as he’s walking away from them, his eyes on Andres; David looks away, hands in his pockets.
“Yeah,” Andres says.
Leo’s almost out of ear shot but he looks at David, says, “You, too, right?” And David tells himself he doesn’t have time to say anything but yes, so he does. He says yes. To Leo, for Leo, again.
He doesn’t start in the game. The coach is a guy he doesn’t know, someone from Argentina, but he doesn’t really mind. He likes watching from up close. Andres is in, and Leo too, and even now it’s hard to take his eyes off them; they might be slower, not as sharp, but it’s still beautiful to watch how they still know where the other is without even looking.
At halftime the coach motions him up and he stands with his toes on the touchline, bouncing slightly, his heart in his throat because it’s been so long, too long. And then he’s out there, grass under his boots, and it’s not as easy as it used to be but it still comes naturally, he still sees the ball moving in slow motion, thinking two moves ahead, slowly remembering what he’s supposed to do and where he’s supposed to be.
Near the end of the game he takes off-he’s offside, so far offside and he knows it but it’s a charity game and the linesman is laughing and waving him on, and Leo pushes the ball gently towards him to slot home easily and even though it’s not really real, not like it used to be, it still make him feel inexplicably, unbearably happy for that moment. Leo swings around and heads for him, grinning openly and he can’t help but return the smile, slinging an arm around his shoulder and he still slots there perfectly, under David’s arm, familiar as anything.
When the game ends David doesn’t have any idea who won-supposes it doesn’t matter, really-and he’s tired, worn out and hungry but happier than he’s felt in a long time.
Two hours later Leo pulls his door open. He’s in sweats and a plain white undershirt, his wet hair falling into his eyes. He has a phone pressed against his ear and he motions them in, turning back down the hallway in front of them. His feet are bare against the tile floor.
David expected something big and sprawling but his house isn’t that flashy; comfortably large, of course, but cozy, with pictures and memorabilia littering every surface. There are surprisingly few awards; David sees a golden boot tucked on a shelf in the corner, but mostly it’s just letters and photos and other reminders of all the people who loved and still love Leo.
Leo leads to the living room and gestures that they should sit down. “Yes, Mama,” he says into the phone, and David thinks some thing never do change. Leo disappears into the kitchen and returns with a kettle a moment later, filling them cups of strong, steaming tea- mate, David figures.
When he returns from the kitchen again he’s off the phone. He tosses it onto the coffee table and swipes a pile of newspapers from an overstuffed arm chair before sinking into to it.
“I like your place,” David offers, sipping the tea carefully. It’s strong and bitter but he gets used to it fast.
“Thank you,” Leo says, sprawling out like he’s tired. “Hard to believe I’ve only been here a few days, huh?” He uses a toe to poke a stack of mail threatening to spill over on the table, gestures around to the mess.
“Are you still living in Rosario full time?” Andres asks.
“Mmm,” Leo hums in confirmation around his glass. “Technically, but before this I was in Brazil for a charity thing-Dani says hi, by the way-and before that in the United States for an event with adidas, and before that-“
He cuts himself off, looks up like he’s thinking. He shrugs. “I don’t remember before that, but not Rosario.” He laughs; he looks happy about it, and David wonders if that’s it, if that’s the trick-keep yourself too busy to notice your entire life has changed and you don’t know how to live it anymore. Maybe that’s what he did wrong, all the relaxing, the taking time to himself.
“And you, David?” Leo asks, snapping him out of his thoughts. “What are you up to these days?”
David swallows too much tea; he burns his tongue and hisses. Leo smiles faintly but keeps looking at him, waiting for an answer.
“He’s gonna come visit us in Barcelona soon,” Andres jumps in.
“Yeah,” David says when he’s recovered. “Not doing much, still in Tuilla. I get to see my family a lot, and I’ll try to get over to Barca and see everyone soon…”
“You need to come out soon, too, Leo,” Andres says, and David’s grateful that the pressure’s off him to account for his time, for his life. He doesn’t really want to share it.
“I do,” Leo says, running a hand through his hair, and David just can’t get over how much he’s still the same, still looks the same, but he’s so much older, more mature, more relaxed than David's ever seen him. “It’s been too long. I haven’t even met Geri’s kids yet.”
“Oh my god,” Andres says, and he laughs thinking of them. “You have to. They’re just like him, but in tiny little girl form. And he treats them like royalty.”
Leo smiles fondly. “Yeah, that's about what I would expect.”
Time goes quickly as they talk; David doesn’t contribute much, but he leans his head back and listens closely, watches both of them, and it’s relaxing and nice.
He excuses himself to the bathroom and when he looks at his watch he’s surprised to see that it’s been hours. He takes his time, trailing through Leo’s house, looking at the pictures on the walls and the random stuff he has everywhere, letters from fans and autographs from other players. He finds a picture in the front hallway that he’s in, his arm tight around Leo’s shoulders while the rest of the team crowds around them from behind, and he wishes he could remember what the occasion was but he can’t.
As he walks slowly back to the living room, their voices drift toward him, low and hushed now. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop but he hears, hears Andres and how his voice sounds sad, worried even.
“…didn’t hear from him…” he says, and then muffled words. “Pepe said… didn’t know … but he was crushed. He must have been.”
David lets his footsteps fall heavily in the hall, so they have a chance to stop talking about him before he reenters.
It’s not much longer before Andres says, “My flight’s in a few hours. I should get back to the hotel.”
David’s disappointed because he’s not ready to leave, to go back to his sterile room by himself, but he stands and reaches for his wallet and his phone on the coffee table.
“Is your flight tonight too?” Leo asks, watching him.
“Tomorrow,” he says, stretching his stiff back. “But we’re at the same hotel, so…”
“So stay,” Leo says. His eyes almost look pleading.
David hesitates. He looks at Andres. “Stay,” Andres encourages. “I’m just going to leave and there’s nothing to do at the hotel anyway.”
“Are you sure you want to ride back alone…” David starts, but Andres laughs him off and David knows it’s not a real reason to go. Doesn’t even really want to, though he doesn’t know why.
“Okay,” he says. He sets his things back on the coffee table and turns toward Andres. He doesn't want to say goodbye to him yet. Andres pulls him in tightly and over his shoulder David sees Leo drift over to a shelf, looking at books there and giving them a moment of privacy.
“It was so good to see you,” Andres says in his ear. “Really, David, really really good.”
David doesn’t know why but his throat feels tight and it makes him feel stupid and trite. “I know,” he says, swallowing it away, “Me too.”
“You need to get up to Barcelona soon,” Andres says, pulling back but keeping a hand at his side, keeping him close. “Next weekend, even.”
David manages a smile, and in that moment, he really wants to say yes. So he does. “Okay,” he says. It feels easier to smile, and Andres returns it. “Next weekend.”
They hug again and Leo walks Andres to the front hall. It’s quiet for awhile, and David wanders over to the bookshelf to see what Leo was looking at. It’s just more stuff, more pictures and papers and evidence of the life Leo’s lived, all the things he’s done and seen and it’s almost overwhelming to look at and then think that he’s still not that old.
Eventually David hears the front door open and shut and he knows Andres is gone. Leo returns to the room and shoots him a quiet smile before he clears away their teacups.
“More?” he asks, holding David’s up.
David shakes his head and Leo looks at him for another long moment. “I think I’ll get us something stronger,” he says finally, and it’s not a question. David would say yes anyway.
He’s in more of the pictures on these shelves. He finds a framed photo from Wembley-his first Champions-and it’s almost hard to find himself at first, hard to believe that was him, and not really that long ago. Hard to believe he’s ever been that happy in his life. But he does remember it vaguely, the moment he’d hit that ball and watched it curve just past van der Sar’s fingertips; crashing onto the pitch in a pile of elation and disbelief. The cool metal of the cup under his fingers. Little details. He remembers.
Leo returns and hands him a glass half full of amber liquid, and he drinks it without asking what it is. It’s smoky and smooth, obviously something nice. He still winces as it goes down; he doesn’t let himself drink often, aware of how easy it would be to rely on it, get attached.
Leo settles on the arm of a chair, watching David look at his things.
“Find anything interesting?” he asks finally, when it’s quiet for too long.
David hums, a noncommittal answer. He picks up another photo; Leo with Kun’s family, his wife and kid. “You’re not married,” he says idly, hardly thinking about it.
“Neither are you,” Leo returns, and David should have expected it, but he didn’t, not from Leo. He sets the frame back down too hard and the shelf shakes.
“No,” he says sharply. “Not anymore.” He turns away from Leo and picks up another frame, hardly even seeing what it is. Just wanting the subject to drop.
“Why not?” Leo asks, not getting the hint. For the first time all day that familiar anger creeps into David’s chest, and his muscles tense.
“Because things happen,” he says, turning toward Leo, daring him to ask more questions.
But Leo’s face is soft, almost sad, and he takes another drink, studying David’s face above the rim of his glass, and David’s anger dissipates.
David turns back to the shelf, runs his finger along the smooth edges of a gilded frame. “It’s strange, you know?” he says quietly. Because maybe Leo does know, even if he wasn’t married, even if their lives were very different. “When you stop playing, everything changes. It’s hard to remember who you are without football. What you used to be.”
Leo doesn’t respond and David turns to see if he’s still there, if he’s even listening. He is, and still just watching David, observing. David sighs; maybe he doesn’t understand, but it feels good to say it out loud, anyway. He drains the rest of his drink.
Leo follows suit and stands up, walks to David to get his cup. Their fingers brush as he takes it and he’s still just looking at David, those wide dark eyes, and David has to turn away because it’s hard to focus suddenly. He thinks maybe he should stop drinking, but when Leo returns he takes the refilled glass and takes a long sip anyway.
Leo doesn’t go back to his seat; he stands beside David, surveying the things in front of him. He picks up the Champions League photo David had looked at earlier, holding it close to his face and smiling gently.
“Do you remember this?” Leo asks, not taking his eyes from the picture. “Isn’t it hard to believe that was us?” he asks. David thinks maybe he does understand.
“Of course I remember,” he says, and Leo looks up at him, his face so close; David’s eyes flicker down to the picture again, finding the two of them, and he thinks maybe they’re not that different now, maybe they don’t have to be.
Leo looks back at the picture one more time before replacing it on the shelf. “That was the perfect day,” he says quietly, a small smile pulling at his lips. He looks up suddenly, face serious and eyes bright, and he says, “We’re going to be okay,” but David doesn’t get it, doesn’t get it, until Leo says it again, “Both of us, we’ll be okay.”
David’s head spins. He realizes it now, he’s been wrong about Leo all along. Leo doesn’t have it figured out, he didn’t handle any of it better than David, and maybe he was even wrong about the others too, even Andres. He puts a hand out, resting it on the shelf, steadying himself, and he knows he's staring at Leo but he can't stop and Leo doesn't look away either.
He blames the shock of it and the buzzing in his head, the warmth pooling in his stomach, when he leans in and catches Leo clumsily on the corner of his mouth.
He pulls back quickly and Leo just looks at him. His heart thuds. He feels nervous; he feels brave. He takes another sip of his drink, if only to give him a moment to steady his hands.
Leo just looks at him, for so long David starts to feel sick, thinks he might need to leave. And then Leo laughs quietly, asks, “Is that it?” and he takes David’s glass, sets it next to his own on the shelf and David doesn’t know who moves but his hands are in Leo’s hair and they’re breathing the same air, faces so close but not touching, Leo’s hands at his waist and he wants to laugh suddenly, loudly until he can’t breathe anymore, but before he can move at all Leo’s lips are brushing his again and he forgets anything else that he wants.
It’s been a long time since David kissed anyone but it comes back easily; how to move his head and where to put his hands, it’s all familiar. And Leo’s familiar too, even if David’s never kissed him before, never even thought about it-but that’s a lie of course, just one that David’s told himself enough times that it’s easier to believe than the truth-
David’s getting desperate. Leo feels so good, soft and pliant against him, and he tastes good and David just wants to pull him closer, get closer, as close as he can, so he’s pulling and he’s pushing and their teeth are clashing and it takes a minute to notice that Leo’s pulling back, he’s trying to pull back, and David lets go in a rush.
Leo doesn’t pull back that far. “Hey,” he says, still close enough that their lips touch when he talks. “Calm down.” He leans in, presses into David again but David’s too embarrassed to respond. And Leo must know it, because he pushes his forehead against David’s until David meets his eyes, breathing heavily. Even though David’s embarrassed he takes in Leo’s dark eyes, his swollen lips and his head spins.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he closes his eyes against Leo’s face, leaning into him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Leo says, and he pulls away entirely but he takes David’s hand and pulls him. David doesn’t bother to ask where they’re going, just follows quietly, his eyes trained on the back of Leo’s head, not thinking about anything else.
Leo leads him into a bedroom. It’s dark, the curtains pulled, but David hardly sees anything about it, still tunnel visioned into Leo. Leo pulls him in again, hands fisted in his shirt, and kisses him hard, hungry, and David lets himself be pulled, just tries to keep up.
Leo strips him of his clothes with deft hands and David stands there and lets him. Leo shucks his own shirt but stays in his sweats, low across his hips, and even in the dark David can see the dip of his muscle at his pelvis, wants to drag his tongue there but daren’t move.
Leo pushes him back into the bed and climbs on him, hovering over his face. For a moment they’re still, Leo’s eyes sweeping across his face, down his body, and David still doesn’t move, content to let Leo do what he wants.
What Leo does is dip his head, their lips meeting again but soft now, gentle. David can feel every part of Leo against him and his hands move slowly, over his ribs and over his back and his shoulders, pulling at them, molding against his spine. Eventually Leo pulls back, pushes David’s hands away, down by his sides, and holds them there loosely.
He drags his lips across David’s cheeks, down his jaw and across his neck. He takes his time and David lets him; sweeps his tongue out occasionally, lets his teeth drag. He’s slow and meticulous and David’s head is still hazy, heavy, it’s hard to think but David gets the feeling that Leo is trying to put him back together, tiny stitches with his lips across his chest and down his belly, swipes of his tongue like glue, careful to linger long enough to let it dry.
David wants to touch him too, give him something back but anytime he reaches out Leo kisses his palms and then pushes his hands back, down at his sides, until David gives up. Instead he lifts an arm under his head, holding himself up so he can watch Leo move down his body, head down in concentration but looking up at him with darkened eyes every now and then.
Leo moves lower, lips ghosting over his hipbones. He drags a hand down David’s side, making him shiver, and says, so quietly David thinks he isn’t meant to hear it, “You’re still so thin,” and David wants to answer him but Leo’s lips close over him suddenly and all that comes out is a groan, low and rough in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Leo’s fingers dig into his sides, hard enough to hurt, and when David reaches out now Leo doesn’t push him away, lets David thread his fingers in Leo’s hair. David’s sweating now, his hips jerking, and he pulls Leo off of him finally, gasps, “I want, I want,” and Leo moves to hover over his face now, dips his head and lets his swollen lips rest against David. David finally gets to touch him, hands down his chest, his sides, dipping at his ribs and finally finding the band of his sweats and Leo helps him slide them off.
It seems like his head’s been swirling and foggy for so long, but when he finally slides inside Leo, everything slows down, clears. He focuses on Leo’s face above him, and he’s looking down, looking down at where their hips are joined but David grabs his chin and forces his head up, meets his eyes brazenly, and Leo swallows hard and kisses him again, hair falling into his face, his eyes wide open the entire time.
It’s been so long, too long, and David tries to hold off as long as he can before he rolls his hips up, fingertips pressed into Leo’s hips, and shudders, trying to keep his eyes on Leo’s. Leo stills, holding David until he comes down, still hard between them, and then David takes him into his hands, whispering into his ear and moving quickly and Leo doesn’t last long either, spilling over his hands and stomach with a groan.
They move slowly then, groggy and tired and Leo brings him a cloth and then falls into bed beside him, never bothering to turn a light on. David falls asleep with his fingers tight around Leo’s wrist.
David sleeps more soundly than he can remember in recent times and the sun is already high in the sky when he wakes. Leo is still beside him; if David was surprised at how young he still looked yesterday, seeing him now, face soft with slumber, it’s like he hasn’t aged a day since David first met him all those years ago, when his hair was long, always falling into his face and his voice barely breached a whisper.
He stirs and David pulls away, hesitant in the morning light. “Hey,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep, and Leo blinks slowly several times before he smiles softly.
“Hey,” he returns.
David turns to look for a clock on the bedside tables and as he does, Leo slides a hand up his spine. He’s warm but David shivers. The clock glows brightly and informs him it’s late in the morning. He turns back to Leo.
“My flight’s in a few hours,” he says. Leo’s on his stomach, mouth pressed into the mattress, and he moves to rest it on David’s arm.
“Okay,” he says. Simple. David smiles at him.
“You could stay, you know,” Leo says after a minute. His words are muffled in David’s skin but David understands. Leo lifts his head anyway, eyes close to David’s. “I’d like it if you stayed.”
David thinks about it. Thinks about how easy it would be, to call the airline and cancel his flight. Send an email to his family saying he’d be gone a few more days, a few weeks, a few months. How easy it would be stay here, to push Leo into the mattress again, to disappear into Argentina and not go back.
“I don’t think I can,” he says, and Leo doesn’t look surprised.
“The offer’s open,” he says.
“I’d like to,” David says. Leo doesn’t look disappointed or offended, but David wants him to know how tempting it is. But he thinks of Andres, he thinks of unanswered voicemails, of the people he’s ignored for so long. “I have plans in Barcelona this weekend, though.”
Leo smiles at him, sincere. “Good, then.” He flops onto his back, splayed across the bed, and David looks over at him. “I think I have plans in Chile this week, anyway,” he says, and David turns over onto him, pinning him to the bed, and laughs into his neck, his shoulder. His fingers find Leo’s, sliding between them, and he holds on for a little bit longer.
Later, when he’s at the airport, bag nestled between his feet, his pulls his phone out, taps out a message.
And after Chile? Think you could spare a weekend to come to bcn?
The reply is quick. I think it could be arranged.
David smiles.