(no subject)

[brojan]

He spends plenty of time over the next few days camped out in the living room, working, and Silva tells himself he works better outside of his room but he can't deny to himself that he would like to see Villa and apologize about Juan, maybe even explain about Juan. He doesn't know why it feels important, but it does, and so he waits.

But Villa never comes. Silva doesn't know if he's coming and going when Silva's on campus, or maybe he's sleeping in his office and not coming home at all.

He's sprawled on the couch, holding a large novel over his head and squinting up at it, but when he hears the front door open he sits up so quickly he almost drops it on his face. He knows he'll look stupid, sitting there at attention, up on his knees, when Villa walks in, but at this point he doesn't care.

It's not Villa who walks in, though. It's a tall blonde man, in a suit almost as nice as Villa's but not quite as nicely pressed, looking harried and busy.

"Hello?" Silva calls when he doesn't look over at the living room, and the man jumps like he's shocked.

He stops short, pivoting toward Silva. "I'm sorry!" he calls immediately. Silva can see how blue his eyes are from here, and Jesus, he's tall. "So sorry! Villa didn't mention you'd be here."

Silva gets to his feet and takes a few steps closer to the man. "You know Villa?" he asks suspiciously. Even though the man looks way too nicely dressed to be a burglar or something, Silva’s heart is pounding with nerves.

"I'm his assistant," he says. "Gerard Pique." He walks briskly towards Silva, his hand outstretched. "You must be David Silva."

Silva shakes his hand, peering up at him in confusion rather than suspicion now. "You know who I am?" he asks dumbly.

Gerard scratches his head. "Well, yeah," he says after a moment. He eyes the hallway. "Look, I'm sorry to burst in here and scare you and everything but I'm in kind of a hurry, Mr. Villa left some paperwork here and he needs it immediately."

"Oh," Silva says, backing away. "Okay. No problem." Gerard takes off down the hallway and up the stairs like he's been here a million times, and Silva wonders how many times he’s been here since Silva moved in.

Gerard reappears a moment later, a sheath of papers in his hand, and he waves at Silva. "Nice to finally meet you," he calls, out of breath and still moving quickly toward the door.

Silva jumps up again. "Wait!" he calls, and Gerard pauses in the doorway, sending him a questioning look. "Do you..." Silva starts, takes a breath and just says it. "Do you know when Villa's coming home?" He tries to say it blankly, like he's just wondering for planning purposes or something, but Gerard's face softens and he wonders how he must sound, how he must look, what Gerard really knows about him.

"Well," Gerard says slowly, scratching his neck. "This deal that he's been working on," and he gestures at the papers under his arm, "Should be done this afternoon. After that, he shouldn't be so..." he trails off.

"Busy?" Silva supplies.

Gerard looks at him for a moment longer and then seems to remember he's still in a hurry. "Sure," he says. "Busy." He pulls the front door open and ducks out. "See you later, Silva," he calls behind him. Silva falls back into the couch.

Gerard was right, apparently, because the door opens at 9 that night and Villa appears in the front hallway, looking tired and stressed. His dress shirt's not even fully tucked into his slacks, and it would make Silva smile if he didn't feel so inexplicably nervous.

"Hey," he calls anyway, and when Villa doesn't acknowledge him, "You finished your deal?"

He looks up then, his eyebrow creasing, and he stretches out his back, his neck, like he's been hunched over a desk for too long.

"Your assistant was here today," Silva says in explanation.

"Oh," he says, brow furrowing further. "I didn't know you were here."

"Yeah," Silva says. He gestures to his ever present pile of books on the coffee table. "Researching, like usual." He laughs a little to lighten up the mood, but Villa's face remains drawn.

"Sorry," he says finally. "Shouldn't have strangers bursting in here like that. You must have thought it was a robber," he says, a tiny smile pulling at his face, but Silva thinks it's better than nothing and he smiles back, full force.

"Too well dressed for that," he says. "Besides," he goes on, and gestures to their living room, all of Villa's nice things. "You have more to lose than me."

Villa's face immediately closes off, and he doesn't take his eyes off Silva, doesn't move at all, until Silva wants to shrink away under the gaze.

"Yeah," Villa says finally, his tone dull. "I do." He turns on his heel and walks away, slowly enough that Silva could call after him, catch him, but he doesn't. It's not late but he goes straight to his room, lies in bed with the lights off and falls asleep knowing Villa will be gone when he wakes up. Wonders why he's suddenly not okay with that.

He has his last classes of the semester the next week, and he doesn't wait for Villa in the living room anymore, barely spends any time there at all. He wakes up and goes to library, goes to class, back to the library, over to see Cesc, or Xavi, or Raul if he doesn't have anything else to do. He only goes home when he's ready to go to bed.

When the time comes to go to his parents' for the holidays, he thinks he could just leave and Villa wouldn't notice-- or if he did, he’d probably be happy-- but he remembers that last time, how his voice had sounded when he asked if Silva could leave a note, and so he does. He thinks about leaving a gift, too, but in the end he gets a card, the most understated one he can find, and scrawls a note on the inside-- Going to my parents for the break. Hope you enjoy your holidays.

He thinks about adding something else. Maybe a smiley face, but he knows even as he thinks it Villa would find it as obnoxious as he does. He wishes he could just add something at the end, a P.S. Juan slept on the floor, but he knows that's not the answer, that it isn't quite that easy and maybe that's not even the problem.

In the end he just signs it Silva and leaves it propped up in front of the coffeemaker, where he knows Villa will see it.

It's hectic at his parents' house with so many relatives getting ready for the holidays. It's easy to forget everything else for a few days, get lost in cooking and decorating, playing with his nieces and nephews, catching up with his cousins and older family members. Christmas is a loud and crowded event in his family, and he enjoys it but it's a little overwhelming. He's lived in quiet for so long.

The house starts to clear out after Christmas and he's able to spend quality time with his parents and old friends he hasn't seen in months or even years. Still, it's odd but he finds himself longing for home, the high ceilings, his own bed, the fresh coffee, the knowledge of Villa sleeping soundly above him, even when he doesn't see his face. He'd been planning to stay through the end of his break from school but he finds himself packing his bags up the night before New Years Eve, ready to leave the next day.

Driving home, he wonders if Villa's even there. He doesn't know much about his family, just the little he'd heard about his dad, and for all he knows Villa went to see them, or maybe he even invited them to their apartment, knowing Silva would be gone. He starts to regret going back early but he doesn't turn around.

He opens the door and it's warm inside, practically toasty, and there's soft music coming from the living room. Jazz. Villa's sitting there, staring at the door, papers piled on the coffee table in front of him, and he's wearing a knit sweater and flannel pants. His hair isn't gelled, and looks freshly washed, curling across his forehead.

"You're home," he says, and it sounds like a breath of relief.

Silva smiles slightly. Whatever nerves or anxiety he had fizzle away. "I'm home." He takes his bags to his room, changes into sweatpants and thick socks and goes to the kitchen to make tea. Then he pads back to the living room, not looking at Villa but not looking away either, and lets himself fall sideways into the arm chair, curling up and pressing his face into the back, eyes closed.

For awhile they're both silent, and Silva relaxes back to the sound of the music and Villa shuffling papers, the occasional scratch of his pen or clink of his mug against the table. He's half asleep when Villa speaks suddenly, like he can't help himself. "I thought you'd be gone until the university opened."

Silva opens his eyes and glances over, but Villa's looking down, so he lets his head fall back into the chair. "I thought so too," he says, and doesn't offer any other explanation, mostly because he couldn't.

"Big New Years Eve plans?" Villa asks when Silva doesn't go on.

Silva opens his eyes again and stretches his leg out, still stiff from the drive. "No. Not at all. You?"

Villa looks at him for a beat too long and then back down at the table in front of him, gesturing to the stacks of paper there. "Just work, I guess," he says. "The office building was closed, so I couldn't go in at all."

Silva smiles. "Come on, it must be nice not to wear a suit for once," he says, teasing.

But Villa frowns. "No," he says, "I like wearing suits," and his face is so serious that Silva laughs out loud and even more when Villa looks confused because of it.

"You're really not doing anything with Cesc?" Villa presses after Silva's quieted. "Or... anybody?"

Silva knows what he's getting at and he wants to laugh again but he doesn't. "No," he says. "I don't really like New Years Eve. It feels like a couple's holiday, you know?" he asks, letting his eyes close again so he doesn't have to look at Villa. "And I'm not... that. So."

Villa's quiet for a long time. "I don't know,” he says finally. "I kind of like New Years."

Silva opens his eyes and looks over at him, because he's surprised to hear there's really anything that Villa "kind of likes." "Why's that?" he asks. He sips his tea, now getting cold.

Villa looks uncomfortable under his gaze. "It's just kind of a nice idea, I guess," he says. "That you get to start everything again." He looks up at Silva then, and Silva nods a little, and then they slip into a comfortable silence, Silva dozing, Villa working, the music playing on the background.

When Silva wakes up it's completely dark out. Villa's still there on the couch, working quietly, and Silva looks at him for a moment, watching his profile, before he stretches himself out, calling attention to the fact that he's awake. When he looks over again, Villa's looking at him, a strange expression on his face, but he rearranges it quickly.

"We should do something," Silva says. "To acknowledge your favorite holiday."

"I didn't say it was my favorite," Villa mumbles, but he sits back and studies Silva. "Like what should we do?"

Silva shrugs. "We could watch one of the countdowns at least," he says.

Villa reaches forward and grabs two remotes off the table. He uses the first to shut off the music.

"Oh, you're fancy," Silva laughs, and laughs some more when Villa colors slightly but ignores him otherwise. He flips on to one of the countdowns, showing celebrations where it's already midnight in other parts of the world.

"Too bad we don't have champagne or anything," Silva says, watching people toast each other at elaborate parties, in sparkling outfits.

"I have champagne," Villa says. Silva looks over.

"You do?"

Villa raises an eyebrow, like, of course. They both rise at the same time and trek into the kitchen.

Silva lifts himself to sit on the counter while Villa rummages through the bottom of the pantry, looking. He emerges a few moments later with a dusty green bottle and hands it to Silva. "I think I have a champagne chiller, too," he mutters, and stoops to go through a low cabinet.

Silva looks at the label on the champagne and almost chokes. "This is like, real champagne," he says to Villa's back. "Like, not sparkling wine. This is really nice stuff." Villa makes a noise from the back of the cabinet that doesn't really mean anything.

"I can't drink this," Silva tells him when he emerges, dusty himself but with the chiller in hand. Villa starts to give him a scathing look but then sneezes instead.

"You can," he says when he's stood and recovered, starting to fill the chiller with ice.

"No," Silva says, but it's really just to be stubborn and Villa must know it because he shoots him a look as he moves to stand next to Silva and put the bottle in the holder.

Silva hands it to him and their fingers touch. Villa's close and he looks young like this, in the dim light, out of his suit and his unstyled hair. Silva wants to reach over and touch it, see if it's as soft as it looks, push it out of his eyes. Instead he holds on tightly to the counter.

"Okay," Villa says, putting the bottle in the refrigerator. "It should be cold by midnight."

Silva nods and tells him he's going to go shower first. He suddenly really needs to get out of there.

He feels better when he’s done showering, refreshed and clear headed.

“I’m starving!” he calls, heading towards the kitchen. “Are you starving?”

“I could eat,” Villa says, coming in from the living room.

Silva pokes his head into the pantry and the fridge, checking out what he has after the long break. “What do you feel like?” he asks Villa, who’s taken a seat at the breakfast bar to watch Silva move around.

Villa shrugs. “I don’t really cook,” he says, “I don’t think I have any food here.” Silva already knows that from his inventory of their supply, not to mention the past four months, but he doesn’t say that.

“Okay, well, I’m thinking pasta, yeah? Quick and easy,” he says, setting a pot on to boil.

“Okay,” Villa says, and then stands awkwardly. “Can I do something to help?”

He looks lost and Silva searches for something easy for him to do. He finds a tomato on the counter, only a little bit too soft and decides it’s good to use. He grabs a knife out of the holder and places them both in front of Villa’s seat. “Can you slice this for me?” he asks, and turns back to the pantry to find some garlic.

When he turns back around, Villa’s still, poised with the knife over the tomato but not cutting. He looks up. “Am I doing it right?” he asks.

Silva raises his eyebrow at him. “Well, you have to press down first,” and then when Villa makes an impatient noise, he goes on, “It’s a tomato. There’s not really a wrong way.”

Villa breaks the skin with the tip of the knife hesitantly, and when nothing goes wrong he pushes forward, making small vertical slices, juice leaking out over his hands and the countertop.

“What do you even eat?” Silva asks, pulling some oil out of a cupboard and dumping a box of angel hair pasta into the pot.

“My firm has an account at the restaurant in our building,” he says, focused intently on his task, moving slightly faster now but not much. “How big do you want these?”

“Cut them into chunks,” Silva says, “As big as you want. I’m just going to toss the pasta with oil and garlic and these.” He sets a pan out to heat the oil.

“So you eat out every meal,” Silva ponders when they both get back to their tasks.

“It’s not out,” Villa argue, chopping into little pieces. “It’s in. In my office.”

“What do you do, anyway?” Silva asks, leaning back against the counter while he waits for the pasta to cook. Villa looks up with an eyebrow raised, an incredulous smile spreading across his face.

“You don’t know what I do?” he asks. He uses the edge of the knife to push the tomato pieces toward Silva, who nods his thanks.

“Like you know what I do,” Silva scoffs.

“You’re a student,” Villa says automatically.

“Well, yeah, but you don’t know-“

“You’re in the last year of a doctorate program in comparative literature,” Villa interrupts, almost cocky, looking at Silva like, now what?

Silva turns to strain the pasta and also so Villa won’t see the look on his face. He must understand Silva’s silence anyway though, because he says, “I do listen when you talk.”

Silva wants to say, I listen when you talk too, but you never say anything, but instead he bites his lip and doesn’t react.

Villa wipes down the counters and tells Silva about his job, something to do with real estate development. Silva doesn’t get it but he nods along, happy to let Villa talk, and when it’s done Silva hands him a big bowl of steaming pasta.

Villa inhales over it deeply. “It smells wonderful,” he says, looking at Silva like he’s almost in awe that he made it.

“The magic of garlic,” Silva tells him, and leads him back into the living room to watch TV while they eat.

When it gets close to midnight, Villa gets the champagne and two flutes from the kitchen and carefully pops the cork, pointing it away from Silva just in case it gets away from him.

It’s definitely cold enough; Silva shivers when he takes the first sip, and he can tell the stuff’s quality from the taste alone.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling at Villa. “For sharing.”

“No problem,” Villa says, keeping his eyes on the television, and it just makes Silva smile more.

On TV people start counting down, looking cold but excited, and suddenly Silva doesn’t know what to do when the clock strikes twelve. Obviously he’s not going to kiss Villa, and he’s not going to hug him either, but what? A handshake? A high five?

Instead he raises his glass at him in a silent toast, just as everyone on TV starts kissing, and he concentrates on taking a long drink. When he can’t do that anymore, he gets up and walks to the window to peer out; overhead, he can hear fireworks going off, and they sound close by but he can’t see anything from the window.

“I like fireworks,” he says, turning back to Villa, who’s watching him from the couch. “Wish we could see them.”

“We could from the roof,” Villa says.

Silva stares at him. “We have a roof?”

“Yes, Silva,” he says, smiling slightly now, “It’s what keeps the rain out.”

Silva rolls his eyes, says, “Wow, thanks. Tell me more.”

And Villa smiles fully now, standing up and grabbing the bottle of champagne. “I’ll show you. Grab a blanket.”

He leads Silva up the stairs to his floor, and it turns out the little door Silva had thought was a closet actually opens up to another set of stairs, leading up to another door and then the roof. It’s a small area, but high up and with a perfect view. Just as Silva steps out onto it, a firework explodes overhead, so close and loud that he jumps, cowering a bit. Villa laughs at him.

There’s not much up there, but there is a small swinging loveseat, and Villa heads for it so Silva joins him, even though it’s cramped. He spreads the blanket over their laps, because it’s cold and breezy this high up, and then another firework goes off overhead and it’s so close it seems to fill up the entire sky above them.

“Wow,” he says. “I had no idea this was here.”

Villa shrugs. Silva’s not looking at him but they’re pressed close enough he can feel it. He feels suddenly reckless and moves even closer, as though cold, and Villa’s pressing back but then he looks over, disapproving.

“Your hair’s still wet,” he says.

Silva reaches up and pats it. “Maybe a little,” he says. “Not much.”

And then Villa reaches over himself, he elbow half pushing Silva away, and he drags his own fingers through the wet strands, pushing them back from Silva’s forehead, and all Silva can do is watch. Villa barely even touches his skin, but he’s close enough that Silva can feel the warmth from his arm across his face.

“Still wet,” he says softly, letting his arm drop.

Silva can’t look away from him and for once Villa doesn’t look away either. “I’ll be okay,” Silva tells him. A firework overhead seems to startle Villa and he looks up at it, face bathed in silver and gold stars across his face and maybe Silva could trace the colors along his cheekbones but they’re gone too fast.

Silva looks away, takes in the rest of the rooftop. There’s a large square space, raised and covered with a tarp.

“You garden?” he asks, gesturing to it.

“No,” Villa says, like it’s a shame that he doesn’t.

Silva laughs a little. “Then why is this here?”

Villa studies it like he’s not sure himself. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “Maybe someday someone will.”

As soon as the fireworks end, Villa ushers him inside. “You’re going to catch pneumonia,” he mutters, closing and locking the door behind them.

“I’m tougher than I look,” Silva tells him, but he’s sniffling from the cold and he thinks maybe the point isn’t as strong as it could be.

“Sure you are,” Villa smirks, but he almost looks fond when he says it, like they’re familiar now, like they’re friends, even like they’re close. And Silva knows that’s not really true, but at least there’s a possibility that it could be.

“I’m going to bed,” Villa says when they get to the second level. He reaches over and drapes the blanket around Silva’s shoulders, holding it closed at the neck, his face close. “I suggest you do the same.” All Silva can do is nod, but he doesn’t go to sleep; he watches the door shut behind Villa, and then he goes downstairs and cleans up their dishes, leaving them in the sink for the morning. He turns off the television and he folds the blanket, and then he sits in the chair, looking out the window; all that’s left of the night’s celebrations is smoke floating against the sky and Silva watches it until he can’t see it anymore, until it all disperses, and he thinks of Villa’s words, “You get to start everything over again.” Silva thinks about what he would do, if he could do it all again, and he doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time.

The semester takes off quickly. Silva throws himself into finishing his thesis and his last semester, foregoing almost everything else except his other classes and his Thursday night football games, when he allows himself a few hours off.

He's a few weeks into this new routine, typing up the final section of his paper when Cesc calls. He sees him every week at football but still somehow feels like he hasn't seen his friend in a long time, not in any meaningful way.

"What's up?" he answers, stretching out on the couch and closing his eyes. He's getting used to the nightly headaches he gets from staring at his computer screen for too long.

"You're coming to dinner," Cesc says matter of factly. "I'm not inviting you so much as telling you."

Silva frowns and looks at his watch. "It's 10:30," he tells Cesc.

"Not tonight, idiot," Cesc says, as if it's unlike him to forget dinner until late and not even realize it. Silva smirks to himself. "This week though."

Silva frowns at his stack of notes and the accompanying books, all citations he has to finish so he can turn in his paper and start getting ready for his presentation. "I really have a lot of work to finish, Cesc," he says.

"Silva," Cesc says, exasperated. "Aren't friendships more important than papers?"

"Well," Silva says. "It's not just any paper. It's a paper I've dedicated two years of my life to."

"Is that paper going to take you out celebrating when you turn it in?" Cesc asks, his voice rising. "Is it going to house you when you're broke and homeless because you got a doctorate in literature? Remember who your real friends are, Silva."

Silva rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to hang out with you if you're going to talk like that all night," he says.

"Whatever," Cesc brushes him off. "You have to come over. Daniella thinks you're dead and I'm lying to her so she won't be upset."

Silva laughs, letting his head hang back to stretch his neck. "Sometimes I wish I were, instead of writing this paper."

"It's only a few more weeks," Cesc reassures him. "Anyway, just come over after football. You won't even have to take an extra night off." Silva knows he should say no, because he really does have a lot to do, but Cesc is right. He says yes, and he doesn't feel bad about it.

On Thursday when they get to practive, Xavi comes up, throws an arm around Villa's shoulders. Silva starts, surprised. He's known Villa for months now, a lot longer than anyone else, and still they barely touch. He tries not to think about it; he concentrates on what Xavi's saying.

"We're going out after the game," he says. "Right, Guaje?"

Guaje? Silva thinks.

Villa smiles, small but not uncomfortable, not with Xavi anyway. "I told you I would." Silva can’t remember when this conversation could have taken place.

"Everyone else in?" Xavi asks. Silva starts to say yes -- he has to, he tells himself, he drove over with Villa -- but Cesc interrupts.

"Silva and I have plans," he says, and Silva's head swivels toward him in confusion until he remembers. They do have plans.

He looks at Cesc, trying to convey with his eyes his thoughts -- can't we do it another night? Cesc steadily avoids his gaze, unwavering.

"Yeah," Silva agrees reluctantly. He speaks to Villa. "Sorry, I forgot to tell you."

"No worries," Xavi says, still hanging off of Villa's shoulders. "I can drive him." Villa's still smiling; he tries to shove Xavi off his shoulder, but not very much. They laugh at something and Silva doesn't know what; it seems private.

"Great," he hears himself saying. "Sounds great."

Cesc rushes him out after practice. "Daniella's waiting," he says, tugging on his arm. Silva drags, putting his things away slowly.

"Okay," he says, "I'm coming. Calm down."

Villa's next to him, quietly listening to Xavi and Andres discussing something that happened during while they were scrimmaging. Silva stands, swinging his bag over his shoulder, and Villa looks up at him, his face blank.

"See you at home," Silva says, shrugging, and lets Cesc lead him out to the parking lot.

Whatever bad mood he was in evaporates when he gets to the old apartment. Walking in, it's changed even more than last time; just small things, a new slipcover, new artwork on the wall, the bookcase in the living room painted. But it all looks very different, and Silva barely feel like he ever lived there at all. It doesn't feel like home anymore.

Daniella hugs him tightly and promptly admonishes him for his absence. She brushes off his excuses, sounding eerily like Cesc when she warns him that education can't replace your friends.

"You guys are scary," he tells them.

They eat pizza and drink beer and watch bad television while they catch up.

"I know you don't want to hear about it," Silva tells them, "But all I've been doing for months is trying to finish off this paper. My presentation is in April, and then I’m free forever."

Cesc rolls his eyes but Daniella at least pretends to be interested, asking questions like how much he has left to write and what he'll have to do to prepare for the presentation.

"So what else?" she asks when he's done. "Not seeing anyone?"

"Still like living with the Ice King?" Cesc asks before Silva can respond, taking a swig of his beer. "How's he doing?"

Silva stares at him. "A, you just saw him at practice, and B, Ice King? I thought you liked him now."

Cesc shrugs, standing and clearing away empty bottles and heading toward the kitchen to get more. "He's fine, I guess," he calls from the other room. "I just like calling him that."

Silva grunts and accepts a new beer when Cesc re-enters, picking at the label. "Yeah, he's okay," he says, shrugging. He doesn't know how to talk about Villa with them. He throws back a mouthful of beer, grimacing as he swallows; it's too cold. "Apparently he's friends with Xavi now, so."

Neither of them say anything and when he looks up they're both giving him knowing looks and he doesn't understand. "What?" he asks testily.

"Jealous much?" Cesc asks, letting a grin through. Daniella looks like she's trying not to smile, but she's not very successful.

"Jealous?" Silva asks, staring dumbly. "Of what?"

"That Xavi stole your boyfriend," Cesc says nonchalantly, and Silva almost chokes on his beer.

He shakes his head at Cesc. "There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don't know where to start," he says.

"Well, I agree with that," Cesc tells him, grinning widely, like he's figured Silva out. But that’s impossible; Silva hasn't even figured himself out.

It's late when Silva gets home, and he expects Villa to be there, but the lights are off and it's quiet. It's possible he's in bed already, but Silva thinks he would have left a light on for him at least; he always does.

He lays on the couch, an arm thrown over his face, and doesn't let himself consider that he's waiting; he's resting, he's getting ready to do some more work, he's taking a breather, but he's not waiting.

But he hasn't moved at all when the doorbell rings, and when he sits up and looks at the clock it's been over an hour since he got home. He stumbles to the door, the lights in the entryway still off, and he's not sure what to expect: maybe Villa lost his key, maybe it's not him at all.

It is. Rather, it's him and Xavi, the latter propping the former up, but barely, by the looks of it. Once he’s assessed the situation, Silva quickly leans in and gets his arm around Villa's waist; he almost thinks his roommate is passed out, but then he looks up at Silva, eyes wide open, and smiles lazily.

"Take long enough to answer the door, Silva?" Xavi asks, groaning as Silva shoulders some of Villa's dead weight.

"What did you do to him?" Silva demands, more in wonder than in anger; he's never seen Villa even slightly out of control, not even when they've been drinking.

"Yeah, it was me that did this," Xavi says sarcastically, helping Silva maneuver Villa inside the door.

"I've got him," Silva says, getting Villa’s arm around his shoulder and a grip around him. He's not big at all, barely bigger than Silva, but he's leaning heavily and Silva doesn't know how Xavi got him up from the garage.

Xavi steps back and surveys them, shaking his head. "Raul's in even worse shape," he says. "No idea how Juan's going to get him home."

"Okay," Silva grinds out, his arm burning. "Good night, Xavi. And thanks."

Xavi steps into the doorway, looking at Silva dubiously. "Are you sure you don't need help?"

Silva shakes his head. "I'm sure."

Xavi shrugs and closes the door behind him, and it's not until then that Silva lets himself take a moment to really look at his roommate, draped over him.

"Hello," Villa says loudly, when he sees Silva looking.

“Hello,” Silva returns, stumbling forward a few steps. “Come on, buddy, help me out here.”

Villa ignores him. His eyes close and his head lolls over onto Silva’s shoulders. “Silva,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?” Silva says, moving them forward minutely.

But Villa doesn’t seem to hear him. “I want Silva,” he says. His head rolls forward, his forehead against Silva’s chin, and Silva freezes, letting his words sink in.

He’s just mumbling and Silva knows it’s all nonsense, he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, but Silva’s straining to hear it anyway, unabashedly. “I want Silva,” and “Where’s Silva,” over and over.

Eventually he falls quiet, even manages to take a few steps, but when Silva reaches the stairway and looks up, he knows they’ll never make it up. Instead he drags Villa into his own room, lays him down and pulls the blankets around his shoulders.

He starts to straighten up but Villa untangles an arm from the blankets and reaches up, dragging fingertips across his cheek. He looks so young, his eyes wide. “Silva,” he says.

Silva has to force himself to stand, to pull away, and Villa’s arm hangs there in the air before he pulls it back under the blanket.

“I’ll get you some water, okay?” Silva tells him, and then backs out of the room. In the hallway he puts a hand against the wall, leans there; he breathes deeply and lets himself think for a minute, before he continues on to the kitchen.

When he gets back, Villa’s already asleep, breathing low and steady. Silva sets the water next to him, allows himself a moment of indulgence when he sweeps his hand over his hair, pushing it out of his face. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him. He goes to the living room, gets a blanket off the couch and pulls it around his shoulders, and then he climbs up to the roof, sits on the loveseat, his toes against the garden where maybe someday something will grow, and he sits there, thinking of a man asleep in his bed, thinking of words that he never should have heard, thinking of Cesc’s face and violets and ashtrays and champagne, and he doesn’t go inside until he’s so cold he’s shaking.

He sleeps on the couch and is woken up by a crash and a low stream of cursing from the kitchen. He rubs his eyes and gives Villa a few minutes to get himself together before he swings himself up and wanders in.

Villa’s collapsed in one of the chairs at the breakfast bar, his arms folded in front of him and his head pillowed on them, eyes closed, like he’d lost the energy to make it all the way into the kitchen halfway there. He must feel Silva standing there, though, because he opens one eye and then shuts it quickly, making a low, pathetic noise in the back of his throat. Silva laughs to himself.

He drops into the seat next to Villa. “Can I get you something?” he asks finally, his own voice low and gravelly and he thinks he might have given himself a cold, sitting out there on the roof for so long last night.

Villa grunts. Silva thinks it means “no,” or maybe, “death.”

Silva laughs to himself and gets to his feet, touching the back of Villa’s head as he passes into the kitchen. “I’ll make you food, you need to eat,” he says, sliding open the cabinet and pulling out a frying pan to cook up some bacon.

It’s quiet while he cooks, and at one point he looks and Villa’s lifted his head, propped up onto his hand watching Silva. Silva looks for something there-whether he remembers the things he’d said last night, whether it could have meant anything-but his gaze is blank, dull.

He flips the bacon and it sizzles. When the sound lessens, he hears Villa clear his throat.

“You know your lease is up soon,” he says. Not what Silva was expecting and he pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder with furrowed brows.

“Oh,” he says, when Villa doesn’t go on.

“If you wanted to move out earlier,” he says, keeping his eyes on his fingers, tracing patterns in the granite. “It’s fine. I won’t hold you to it.” Silva takes the pan off the burner, turning to stare at Villa now. “The lease, I mean,” Villa tries to clarify, as if that clears up anything.

Silva’s quiet as he plates the food he’s made. He’d thought-he’d thought a lot of things, but at the very least that they’d been friends now. That at least he’s been a good roommate.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral, sliding the bacon over to Villa, getting him a napkin.

But Villa just says, “Thanks,” softly, and keeps his head down as he starts to eat. Silva takes it as an admission, as a yes, and he’s angry suddenly, angry that he would drop this on Silva, angry that he never says what he’s thinking, angry that he’s drunkenly calling for Silva one minute and telling him he should move out the next. Angry that this is supposed to be his home too, but it never really has been. He never had a chance.

He gets Villa a glass of water, with two ice cubes, just how he likes it, and sets it in front of him carefully, hoping that it shows Villa how mad he is, even though he’s not lifted his head enough to see the fire in Silva’s eyes.

“I’ll move out if you want me to,” Silva says, emphasizing the last part, so that Villa knows whatever happens is on him and him alone. “Can you do one thing for me though?” Wearily, Villa lifts his eyes, and he looks so tired and so sick, but Silva doesn’t care. “Will you tell me why you bought this huge place to live in alone?” After a beat of silence that Silva never expected to be filled, he goes on. “Why did you ever post that ad? Why did you ever let me in? Am I just here to fill up the space?”

Villa starts to straighten up, and his mouth opens slowly, but nothing comes out. Silva shoves his plate away, toward Villa.

“Enjoy it,” he calls, leaving the room. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

He retreats to his own bedroom, but even though it’s always felt so spacious to him, now it’s too small, too cramped, and he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe. He opens his door and stalks across the hall, up the staircase, careful not to turn his head and see if Villa’s still sitting there in the kitchen.

He’s never been on the roof in the daytime. It’s a clear day, and cloudless; it seems like he can see for miles, see anything. Everything. He stretches out across the loveseat, taking up all the space, and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see it.

The sun sears into his eyelids and he doesn’t know how long it is until he hears slow footsteps on the stairs, and then the creak of the door opening, the soft click as it shuts. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes until he hears Villa’s voice.

“I was young when I bought this place,” he says, and then Silva looks at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the garden area, folded up into himself, looking very small as well as pale and tired and all around miserable. His hair flaps in the wind across his eyes but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Twenty… early twenties,” he goes on. “I never thought it would be just me for so long. I thought it was the perfect starter house, you know? A wife, a first kid.” He’s pressing his fingertips into his temples and Silva can imagine the headache blooming there, how the sun won’t be making it any better, but he’s not going to stop him now.

“But that never happened. I don’t know-- I don’t know why. It’s easy to lose track of time, you know?” He’s asking a question, but Silva doesn’t think it’s to him, and he doesn’t say anything. “I don’t know why I posted that ad. I thought about taking it down immediately. Telling whoever showed up that it was taken.” Silva sits up slowly, letting his feet swing out, making room on the loveseat, but Villa doesn’t move or seem to notice at all. “And then you showed up, and the next thing I knew I was signing a lease.” Silva wants to laugh, remembering how he almost backed out too, how it seemed like agreeing to live there came out of nowhere, but he keeps himself quiet, willing Villa to go on.

“I know I’m not a good roommate,” he says, looking at Silva for the first time; squinting up at him against the sun. “And I just meant to tell you that whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

Silva leans back and sighs, trying to process what he’s just been told. Finally he says, “Cesc leaves dishes in the sink until they mold.”

Villa looks up at him, confused. “What?”

Silva smiles now, the tension broken. “When we lived together, Cesc would leave dishes in the sink without washing them so long that they would grow mold.”

Villa’s nose wrinkles. “That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Silva agrees. “But he’s my best friend.”

Villa shakes his head like he doesn’t get it, so Silva spells it out for him. “Every roommate has their things, right? Cesc won’t do dishes, and I leave my schoolwork everywhere, and you…” he trails off, not sure how to describe Villa. “Well, you’re you.” Villa smiles for the first time, turning his head to look out over the city, leaving Silva to watch him in profile.

“What I’m saying is,” Silva goes on, stretching his legs out in front of them until his toes are on the garden wall, right next to Villa, “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stay.”

Villa’s face is serious but lighter somehow, and when he moves his hand and it brushes Silva’s ankle, he leaves it. “Okay,” he says. Leans back. Watches Silva watching him, wind in his hair, sun on his shoulders, until Silva drags him back inside for some aspirin and water.

Silva turns in his thesis on a Tuesday, and Dr. Emory asks to meet with him on Friday. He goes through the week with a brick in his stomach, more anxious than he’s ever been in his life that his advisor’s going to tell him it’s still not good enough, it still needs work.

“Will you stop?” Villa asks on Thursday evening. It’s after practice and they’re sitting on the couch, Villa reviewing a contract while Silva pretends to watch television but really just frets and bites his already worn down nails.

“Will you stop?” Silva snaps, because he’s stressed and he can’t help himself. But he does lower his hand from his mouth, clasping them together tightly in his lap instead, until his knuckles turn white.

“Testy, testy,” Villa murmurs, and before Silva knows what’s happening his hand slides over Silva’s, trying to pull them apart. Silva lets him out of shock, and Villa doesn’t look at him as he folds one of Silva’s hands into his own, pulling it over to rest between them. He goes back to his paperwork, head turned away.

Silva looks back at the TV blankly, his head spinning. Eventually he smiles to himself, twisting his hand in Villa warm grasp, because the plan had worked; he’d forgotten his paper for a moment.

Silva practically skips home from his meeting with Dr. Emory on Friday afternoon. He smiles at the lady selling roses on the corner; he smiles at the doormen standing outside their building; he drops a five in the hat of the homeless man on the corner across from his apartment.

And when he gets home and Villa’s sitting there in the kitchen, home early from work, writing on a legal pad and eating leftover pasta, Silva stops in the entrance and grins at him too, until he lifts his head.

Villa grins back almost automatically. “Do I even need to ask how it went, then?”

Silva sweeps into the kitchen dramatically, pausing with a serious face to lean at the counter next to Villa. He can’t hold it for very long, though, and his grin breaks out again. “He loooooooved it,” he crows.

Villa laughs quietly, his face reflecting Silva’s happiness like a mirror. “I, for one, am not surprised at all,” he says.

Silva laughs too, turning to walk to the refrigerator. He’d been too nervous to eat before the meeting and now he’s starving.

“No offense, but you don’t know anything about comparative literature or my paper, so I don’t know how you were so confident.”

Silva tosses him a look, another smile, but he pauses at Villa’s face; soft, happy. “Because I know you,” he says simply.

Silva lets the refrigerator fall shut as he turns to study Villa full on. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the endorphins, some other hormone he’s never heard of, but he barely thinks or registers his feet moving before he’s in front of Villa, looking up at him from his seat curiously but still with that softness, and Silva does what he’s wanted to do for so long now, maybe since New Years, maybe even before. Silva kisses him.

Villa makes a sound, a low grunt because of the sudden impact, but it’s just that moment and then he’s pushing back, his hand coming up to grab Silva’s jaw, tight, almost painful, almost desperate. Silva angles down, nipping at his lip, and when it hits him what’s happening he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face again, so that Villa’s lips slide against his teeth, but neither of them care.

They’re only interrupted when Silva’s stomach growls loudly. He’s happy to ignore it, tilting his head down and pushing back against Villa-but then Villa’s pulling away, his eyes opening and hands going to Silva’s shoulders, holding him back.

There’s a tiny smile on his face, his reddened lips pulled wide. “You’re hungry,” he says, pushing back when Silva tries to lean in again.

“No,” Silva mumbles, getting forward enough to reach Villa, but Villa ducks away and Silva’s lips barely brush the top of his cheek.

Villa’s laughing. “Eat,” he says. “I’ll-I’ll still be here. When you’re done.”

Silva groans, frustrated, but he pulls away and goes back to find some food. He slaps a sandwich together, flops down in the chair next to Villa to eat it, but he can’t keep up the annoyed act for long and ends up grinning at Villa around bites of sandwich. In the end, Villa keeps his word; he is still there when Silva’s done.

“What if I fuck this up and they don’t let me graduate?” Silva asks suddenly, interrupting the silence and dropping his head into his hands with a groan. A month ago he’d been on top of the world, after Dr. Emory’s glowing review on his paper, but now, with his thesis presentation is only a few days away, that euphoria has given way to a greater anxiety about the last step.

Villa doesn’t even look up from his laptop. They’re at his office, Silva stationed behind his large and imposing desk to finish his notes while Villa works from the couch. “You’re not going to fuck it up.”

“I could,” Silva insists.

Villa does look up at him then, exasperated. “Want me to have Pique do the presentation for you?” he asks finally, and it does its job in making Silva laugh.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m sure they’d never be able to tell the difference between me and your 6 foot 5 blonde assistant.” He groans again and then turns back to the computer to finish a slide.

“You’re going to be fine,” Villa says absently, bending over his coffee table to get a closer look at something, and Silva watches him. He’s amazed at how quickly things change, how different he seems now; now that Silva actually knows him, real things about him, his family and his life and what he looks like in the morning and how he likes to be touched.

“Villa,” he calls, and the other looks up at him, paused over his work, waiting. “I love you,” Silva says after a beat.

Villa smiles at him, small but honest, and goes back to his work. Sometimes he says it back and sometimes he doesn’t, and Silva doesn’t care because he already knows, from the other things, things more important than words; from violets and ashtrays, lights left on and looks when it’s quiet and no one else is around.

He sighs and turns to his powerpoint, but it’s all a blur and seems nonsensical now, not at all impressive. “Can I stop doing this now?” he asks, and Villa looks up, already rolling his eyes. “Please? Come on. We could have sex on your desk instead,” he points out brightly.

“No,” Villa says, and then, after he stops to think, he amends to, “Maybe later.”

Silva does get back to his work. He finishes slides; he adds pictures; he puts in meticulous citations. He makes notes for himself and then note cards, and a crib sheet to hand out to the faculty. It’s hours before he snaps out of the zone, dusky light slanting in the windows over the desk, and when he looks at Villa all his work is put away and he’s just sitting quietly the couch, watching Silva.

“All done?” he asks softly, standing to move closer, leaning over the desk toward Silva. Silva wants to say yes, to lean in too, but he’s so close to finished.

“Just a bit more,” he says, turning back to the screen. “I promise.”

“Silva,” Villa says, leaning in and covering the hand that’s on the mouse. “You’ve been working for hours.”

“I know,” he says, “But I’m so close to done…”

“You have time,” Villa reminds him.

Silva looks up at his face and wants to say yes, but. “Half an hour more?” he tries to bargain.

Villa straightens up. “I didn’t want to have to do this,” he says, “But if you don’t stop in five minutes I’m going to call Cesc.”

Silva pulls a face. “Please don’t,” he says. “I don’t need to hear his lecture about what’s important in life ever again.”

Villa smiles. “So five minutes?”

“Five minutes,” Silva agrees.

In the elevator after they leave, he leans against Villa, closing his eyes, tired from looking at the screen all day. “We never had sex on your desk,” he says through a yawn, and feels Villa laugh a little next to him.

“I have a desk at home,” he mumbles into Silva’s hair, pressing a kiss there.

Silva smiles. “Home,” he repeats, and holds onto Villa’s wrist as they walk to the car.