conviction
Title: Conviction
Pairing: David Villa / David Silva
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing more than the product of a restless imagination.
Notes: Villa's POV. Can be read as a stand-alone, or as a companion piece to Naivety. Countless thanks to the wonderful drbillbongo, who not only suggested I write this, but gave me such fantastic ideas and inspiration. ♥
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
"I'm sorry - it's only until we find a decent babysitter."
You cringe inwardly as he closes the door behind him, his footsteps pattering away as the cries of your daughter grow louder. Turning to rush back upstairs, faintly hearing the revving of an engine from outside, you tend to your girl, as your boy leaves, dispirited, again.
You promise that you'll call him, but weary and worn out from football and parenthood, little things like that slip your mind. You want to go and visit him, but duties are to be done, and time is so stubbornly unforgiving. All the words you have never said and the gestures you have never made remained locked in the deep crevices of your conscience, a hollowed out factory of incomplete notions which will never become anything more.
Convincing yourself that you have no choice, his perpetual needs and imploring looks of dissatisfaction become needy and clingy, your annoyance betraying your guilt as obligation flashes before you every time he speaks in that self-deprecating tone that you've come to associate with relationships. The unrelenting need to be understood, accompanied by a hatred of explanation, leaves you sighing irritably whenever he demands one. Though you feel somewhat culpable when you turn your head, walk away, leave his questions hanging hopefully in the air, it seems to you that time gone wanting should be self-explanatory anyway, and that his lilting tones and wide eyes are still stuck in that youthful innocence and ignorance which makes him feel sorry for himself, as if you're deliberately trying to tear him down.
In a way, though, you are. You try to ignore alternatives, telling him plaintively, or angrily, or nonchalantly, that there are none.
The time you share with him now takes the shape of stolen moments on the pitch, against a wall, in an isolated carpark where, for a fleeting instant, all those expectations heaped on top of you dissolve as you fall into his fragile embrace, wanting more than just a kiss but constantly pulled back by the voice of reason that seems to speak for both of you.
And you have to ignore his advances and his pleas, because they terrify you. Laced with lust and the allure of memory, his words whisper sin, and betrayal, and a future which will never last, a relationship based on physical desire which will fade as your looks and your charm and your skills begin to fritter away. You are a man in a child's world, clinging to frivolity and absent morals as though you can get away with it, when, increasingly, you realise that you can't. You have a family, a child, a future to create - and yours is a choice between this and remaining in an endless spiral of teasing and tempting.
You still want him, your desires bitterly fighting the nagging voice of integrity which keeps the door closed, deletes the text messages, plasters a frown on your uninterested face when all you want to do is take him into your arms and show him that you need him just as much as he needs you. You shudder when his fingers reach out to grab whatever part of you he can get, your sighs telling him that you don't want it, your crawling skin and goosebumps telling you how much you do.
But ultimately, you can't risk the pull of that kind of bond. It's too much to assume that you'll screw him once and never want to do it again, since it's hard enough trying to forget what his lips taste like when they're slowly ravishing yours. The only solution comes in the form of abstinence, making the heart grow colder, making the memories fade such that they become mere possibilities of what could have been, rather than fragments of what was.
So, though it kills you to see your everlasting silence killing him, you have no choice but to watch him leave, dispirited, again and again.
Pairing: David Villa / David Silva
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing more than the product of a restless imagination.
Notes: Villa's POV. Can be read as a stand-alone, or as a companion piece to Naivety. Countless thanks to the wonderful drbillbongo, who not only suggested I write this, but gave me such fantastic ideas and inspiration. ♥
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
"I'm sorry - it's only until we find a decent babysitter."
You cringe inwardly as he closes the door behind him, his footsteps pattering away as the cries of your daughter grow louder. Turning to rush back upstairs, faintly hearing the revving of an engine from outside, you tend to your girl, as your boy leaves, dispirited, again.
You promise that you'll call him, but weary and worn out from football and parenthood, little things like that slip your mind. You want to go and visit him, but duties are to be done, and time is so stubbornly unforgiving. All the words you have never said and the gestures you have never made remained locked in the deep crevices of your conscience, a hollowed out factory of incomplete notions which will never become anything more.
Convincing yourself that you have no choice, his perpetual needs and imploring looks of dissatisfaction become needy and clingy, your annoyance betraying your guilt as obligation flashes before you every time he speaks in that self-deprecating tone that you've come to associate with relationships. The unrelenting need to be understood, accompanied by a hatred of explanation, leaves you sighing irritably whenever he demands one. Though you feel somewhat culpable when you turn your head, walk away, leave his questions hanging hopefully in the air, it seems to you that time gone wanting should be self-explanatory anyway, and that his lilting tones and wide eyes are still stuck in that youthful innocence and ignorance which makes him feel sorry for himself, as if you're deliberately trying to tear him down.
In a way, though, you are. You try to ignore alternatives, telling him plaintively, or angrily, or nonchalantly, that there are none.
The time you share with him now takes the shape of stolen moments on the pitch, against a wall, in an isolated carpark where, for a fleeting instant, all those expectations heaped on top of you dissolve as you fall into his fragile embrace, wanting more than just a kiss but constantly pulled back by the voice of reason that seems to speak for both of you.
And you have to ignore his advances and his pleas, because they terrify you. Laced with lust and the allure of memory, his words whisper sin, and betrayal, and a future which will never last, a relationship based on physical desire which will fade as your looks and your charm and your skills begin to fritter away. You are a man in a child's world, clinging to frivolity and absent morals as though you can get away with it, when, increasingly, you realise that you can't. You have a family, a child, a future to create - and yours is a choice between this and remaining in an endless spiral of teasing and tempting.
You still want him, your desires bitterly fighting the nagging voice of integrity which keeps the door closed, deletes the text messages, plasters a frown on your uninterested face when all you want to do is take him into your arms and show him that you need him just as much as he needs you. You shudder when his fingers reach out to grab whatever part of you he can get, your sighs telling him that you don't want it, your crawling skin and goosebumps telling you how much you do.
But ultimately, you can't risk the pull of that kind of bond. It's too much to assume that you'll screw him once and never want to do it again, since it's hard enough trying to forget what his lips taste like when they're slowly ravishing yours. The only solution comes in the form of abstinence, making the heart grow colder, making the memories fade such that they become mere possibilities of what could have been, rather than fragments of what was.
So, though it kills you to see your everlasting silence killing him, you have no choice but to watch him leave, dispirited, again and again.