naivety
I don't suppose there's any need for me to comment on the sheer fabulosity of yesterday's match. Suffice to say that I am one very happy chappy. XD
Title: Naivety
Pairing: David Silva / David Villa
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing more than the product of a restless imagination.
Notes: Silva's POV. Can be read as a stand-alone, or with Conviction as a companion piece.
Feedback > life. My writing won't get any better without constructive criticism.
Fighting for the same cause on the pitch, the colours of your shirt binding you both together, there is, undeniably, something between you.
The heated rush of fully realised supremacy, no matter how exaggerated or naïve, comes blazing towards you in the form of outstretched arms and the waterfall of loved-up words trickling into your ear after the ball has finally given up its stubborn fight and made its way into the net.
The elevated satisfaction of a task completed. The elation that you feel, and can see in his eyes as well. The parts of your bodies that touch, rather than those that don't.
It's not just your name, it's not just your club, or your country. It goes beyond the call of duty that rings in your ears every time you slip that jersey over your head, and it outweighs the pressure of expectation and fear which you mostly place upon yourself, but are so quick to attribute to others.
It's so much bigger than your faults and your weaknesses - it makes you believe that, maybe, you're doing things right after all.
Maybe, the sparkling passion in his eyes when he leans in to kiss you signifies something more than impulse and brevity. Maybe, the fact that he seems to gravitate almost unwillingly towards you says more about the strength of his feelings than the absence of them.
Maybe, just maybe, he finds you as alluring as you find him.
But in truth, off the pitch, you mean nothing. You're just rough lips brushing against his mouth and a tentative hand around his neck before he dutifully forgets you and reprises his role as a husband and a father. Just the leftover regrets from moments of uninhibited joy which went too far anyway. You're nothing more than the impatiently sighing and perpetually wanting memory of a mistake that he just wants to forget.
Maybe, you're more. But really, you're not.
And there's nothing in his words or his movements to convince you otherwise, yet you remain stubbornly - childishly - convinced. Emotionally quiet, he never says what you need, consoles what aches, reassures what questions.
He is a brief hug and a soft kiss, never a hand to hold, or a man to love. He is the sex you dream of when sunlight threatens to wake you up, hot yet shivering, as you hopelessly clutch the sheets that nobody else has slept on. He is the smiling yet indifferent symbol of the future you will never have, yet to step out of your dreams and into your reality.
He is a lie which you insist upon believing.
"I love you."
"Yeah, me too."
It's the possibility that behind those words lies a truth which reflects your own - the mirror of your infatuation hidden behind an unavoidable veil of political correctness - which forces you to continue searching in his eyes for the same exaltation that you feel whenever you see him, which makes you hope that the celebratory embraces are as much a vehicle of unspoken desire for him as they are for you.
Because even though you know, somewhere between his dismissive sighs and the pangs of disappointment that race through you, that it was never real to begin with, it's easier to cling to hope, to relive yesterdays instead of waiting for tomorrow, to get lost in a beautiful world of fiction rather than wading through the mess of reality.
It's easier to think that there is, undeniably, something between you.
Title: Naivety
Pairing: David Silva / David Villa
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing more than the product of a restless imagination.
Notes: Silva's POV. Can be read as a stand-alone, or with Conviction as a companion piece.
Feedback > life. My writing won't get any better without constructive criticism.
Fighting for the same cause on the pitch, the colours of your shirt binding you both together, there is, undeniably, something between you.
The heated rush of fully realised supremacy, no matter how exaggerated or naïve, comes blazing towards you in the form of outstretched arms and the waterfall of loved-up words trickling into your ear after the ball has finally given up its stubborn fight and made its way into the net.
The elevated satisfaction of a task completed. The elation that you feel, and can see in his eyes as well. The parts of your bodies that touch, rather than those that don't.
It's not just your name, it's not just your club, or your country. It goes beyond the call of duty that rings in your ears every time you slip that jersey over your head, and it outweighs the pressure of expectation and fear which you mostly place upon yourself, but are so quick to attribute to others.
It's so much bigger than your faults and your weaknesses - it makes you believe that, maybe, you're doing things right after all.
Maybe, the sparkling passion in his eyes when he leans in to kiss you signifies something more than impulse and brevity. Maybe, the fact that he seems to gravitate almost unwillingly towards you says more about the strength of his feelings than the absence of them.
Maybe, just maybe, he finds you as alluring as you find him.
But in truth, off the pitch, you mean nothing. You're just rough lips brushing against his mouth and a tentative hand around his neck before he dutifully forgets you and reprises his role as a husband and a father. Just the leftover regrets from moments of uninhibited joy which went too far anyway. You're nothing more than the impatiently sighing and perpetually wanting memory of a mistake that he just wants to forget.
Maybe, you're more. But really, you're not.
And there's nothing in his words or his movements to convince you otherwise, yet you remain stubbornly - childishly - convinced. Emotionally quiet, he never says what you need, consoles what aches, reassures what questions.
He is a brief hug and a soft kiss, never a hand to hold, or a man to love. He is the sex you dream of when sunlight threatens to wake you up, hot yet shivering, as you hopelessly clutch the sheets that nobody else has slept on. He is the smiling yet indifferent symbol of the future you will never have, yet to step out of your dreams and into your reality.
He is a lie which you insist upon believing.
"I love you."
"Yeah, me too."
It's the possibility that behind those words lies a truth which reflects your own - the mirror of your infatuation hidden behind an unavoidable veil of political correctness - which forces you to continue searching in his eyes for the same exaltation that you feel whenever you see him, which makes you hope that the celebratory embraces are as much a vehicle of unspoken desire for him as they are for you.
Because even though you know, somewhere between his dismissive sighs and the pangs of disappointment that race through you, that it was never real to begin with, it's easier to cling to hope, to relive yesterdays instead of waiting for tomorrow, to get lost in a beautiful world of fiction rather than wading through the mess of reality.
It's easier to think that there is, undeniably, something between you.