enough.
Title: Enough
Pairing: David Silva / David Villa
Rating: R (a little sex and language).
Disclaimer: Imagination - it's a beautiful thing, no?
Notes: For
kat_lys; I promised this to her ages ago. ♥
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
Villa thunders around his living room, Silva smiling a little to himself as he hears his lover grumbling and moaning. He sprinkles a little salt into the pan that's failing to hold as much of his attention as it should, and hears the television being switched off with a furious "Is this a TV or a fucking mirror?"
Silva throws out reasonable answers to Villa's questions (which are never quite as rhetorical as he tries to make them), patiently reminding him that two weeks is no less fair a recovery period for Villa than it is for anyone else, and that yes, there are other people in the Valencia line-up who are capable of scoring. Silva calls him into the kitchen to taste his concoction before Villa can inject any more irritation into the sighs which interrupt their dialogue.
"When I said 'give this a taste', I wasn't talking about me," Silva smirks as he twists out of Villa's grip, fingers trying to lock themselves around the younger man's waist. Silva lifts a spoon and pouts just enough to melt Villa's stubbornness, and his lips twitch into a triumphant smile as Villa, against his will, closes his eyes and devours.
In the time it takes for Villa to rummage through cupboards and find two (relatively) clean bowls, Silva is pulling on a jacket and peering through the curtains to frown disapprovingly at the oncoming darkness outside.
"Aren't you going to eat?"
Silva suppresses a chuckle at the childlike surprise on Villa's face. "You complain when I arrive unannounced. You complain when I mess up your kitchen - if it's even possible to mess it up any further. You complain when I don't comfort you. You complain when I do. You complain when I leave." He doesn't bother asking the question that's supposed to follow his list; the angry (rather than abashed) blush creeping up Villa's face already answers.
Villa grunts. Silva takes that as his cue to leave. As he is just about to close the door, wind whipping beneath his jacket and raising his skin in goosebumps, Villa clears his throat.
"Do you want to take some of this home?"
Silva pretends not to hear, and shuts the door noisily.
He isn't a very good cook anyway.
* * * * *
Villa's heart dances somewhat when he sees Silva in the locker room, and he wonders whether it's the hotter-than-usual morning sunlight, that cigarette he shouldn't have had, or Silva's bright and painfully innocent smile which gives him the impression that his bloodstream has turned into a Formula One track. He wants to ask him why he didn't turn up the night before, but it's the lack of an invitation or obligation that reminds him to stop being such a girl and return the grin.
He made do with leftovers, but of course the kitchen never smells as good when the oregano and basil and tomato and strange concoction of meat and cheese don't have something more human behind them. More human than a microwave and Villa's burnt fingers, anyway. He wonders, as he slips on his training kit and forgets to pretend to listen to the manager, whether Silva has left his smell on anything in his house. The sofa, or the bed, or just the air itself.
And he suddenly realises that Silva is standing right next to him and that he smells as good as ever, and Villa has to clench his jaw tightly and deflect consequent questions about his tension levels when Silva slides a hand over his back and under his shirt and beneath his waistband.
In a brief moment of uncharacteristic insight, Villa will realise that half an hour of Silva clattering around his kitchen is worth immeasurably more than sex. But jogging next to him in training, turning to look at Silva when Silva turns to look at the coach, Villa sees sex in the hair that messily drapes itself over his forehead and beads of sweat which trace lines over his temples. And he wants to tell - no, order - Silva to forget the (doubtless non-existent) plans he has, and resettle himself into the welcoming folds of Villa's blankets no later than after the dying rattle of the mailman's old bicycle.
But Silva, his timing exquisitely frustrating as always, jogs off at a right angle to Villa's considerably more lonesome path to join the younger players at the side of the field, and Villa's words slip off his tongue in a defeated sigh.
He forgets his disappointment when, minutes later, he lifts his head and notices Silva staring - no, gazing - at him, ignoring laughter and jostles in favour of a still, hungry moment of open and somehow unnoticed lust.
Two, maybe three seconds pass before Silva looks away.
Two, maybe three seconds pass before he looks back.
Villa smirks as his arrogance finds him again, and hours later, he lifts himself off his sofa to let Silva in.
* * * * *
Silva isn't ashamed of himself. He tells himself that shame is a weak, pointless emotion, and that it's far more useful to feel aggrieved yet wiser for it. He has learnt something, after all. He has learnt that Villa is cocksure in more than one way (although he is yet to decide which variant is more dangerous). He has learnt that Villa will never remind him to check the rain forecast if it means holding him hostage in his warm, dry house. Above all, he has learnt that, while it remains easier to say yes than to say no, the consequences of the former are far too soul-damaging to pursue.
"I've got you wrapped around my little finger, haven't I?"
It's one of those annoying questions which is more of a statement than anything.
"I wouldn't say that," Silva replies slowly. He certainly doesn't feel that he is any less assertive, just because he keeps dropping everything at Villa's beck and call, or crumbles under a mere look, or - "I wouldn't say that." Silva repeats, more firmly this time.
Villa's smug smile doesn't really disappear at all, despite the passage of days which separate all the painfully wonderful instants during which Silva manages to catch a glimpse of that face. That face to which he has, admittedly, succumbed through and through. And every time he falters just a little, Villa is quick to remind him, his eyes sparkling in that frustratingly gorgeous way they always do.
"Why are you out of breath?" That smug smile accompanies the question. (It's more telling when he isn't smug, in all honesty.)
"I'm not out of breath." Silva always manages to come across so much more defensively than he intends. "I'm just -"
"Exhilarated to see me." So smug.
"No." Yes. "I'm just - why are you asking me these questions? Do they make you feel better about yourself as a person or something?"
"A person or something?"
"What?"
"Your eloquence collapses when you're around me. Have you noticed that?" Smug. Smug. Smug.
"Well, your eloquence is smug -"
Villa collapses into snickers. "Do I really have that much of an effect on you?"
"No." Yes.
"Well, then, why is that whenever you're around me these days, you degenerate into a bumbling idiot?"
"Since when do you even know what 'degenerate' means?"
"Aaaand, he's back."
"Look, I'm out of breath because I've been running, unlike you, because I'll actually be playing a football match tomorrow."
Villa doesn't look hurt, per se, but the smirk is most definitely wiped off his face. And had Silva not been so wrapped up in self-defence, he would feel guilty.
"What happened to 'All footballers need at least two weeks to recover. You have nothing to feel shitty about'?" Villa asks with a raised eyebrow. And damn, even the raised eyebrow melts Silva all over again.
"I - I -" Silva sighs. "I'm sorry. Just - please, just stop. I have to go now."
"You do? Training just started."
Silva stares back, exhaustedly watching the sparkle return to Villa's eye beneath that (still-raised) eyebrow. "I have to go and do some squats."
"Some what?"
Of all the exercises to choose...
Indeed, the consequences are too soul-damaging to pursue.
The deceitfully simple solution is to play hard-to-get, and enjoy the befuddlement which lines that everpresent frown. The simplicity is deceitful because, as he realises after approximately two seconds in Villa's company, it remains difficult, to the point of impossibility, to watch him bending over to tie his shoelaces and not want to grab a nice, healthy portion of the flesh put on show. It takes an inconveniently large fraction of his energy to keep his fingers to himself in the shower, to politely decline a lift home from training, to resist the temptation to plant something satisfying on those lips which are getting more and more pursed each day.
He thinks he's succeeded when he wakes up one morning and clumsily rifles through no fewer than six desperate text messages. Not because he managed to get Villa to send them, but because he managed to get himself to ignore them.
He knows he's succeeded when the day ebbs into darkness and the curtain is lit up by the clumsy and intrusive light of a car. The customary two knocks are doubled this evening, and Silva smirks to himself as he saunters over to the door to witness the full glory of his plan come to fruition.
He wishes he hadn't succeeded when Villa aggressively forces Silva's hand up against the headboard of his bed, pushing into him and ignoring a slight yelp of pain. Silva regrets the last few days in a few instants: the moments it takes for Villa to glare at him, pin him down, and turn what was light and free of expectation into something laced with lechery. He winces as Villa's fingernails scratch at him and he feels himself being pulled apart.
And he wonders who's really succeeding after all.
* * * * *
Villa isn't entirely surprised when Silva abandons his ridiculous (and, to be honest, ridiculously short-lived) hard-to-get technique. He fleetingly wonders why Silva found him worth avoiding at all, but only fleetingly. He remains predictably preoccupied by Silva's glorious submission in bed; by the silence of his footsteps on the carpet; by the flicker of immediate comprehension in his eyes whenever Villa, lazily and irritably as always, gives up mid-sentence and stammers his defeat.
He enjoys Silva's company when he gives him a lift to training in the morning, and laughs when Silva asks to be let out a few streets away for the sake of remaining 'discreet'.
"What's the point? Everyone knows we're fucking anyway."
There is the briefest flash of worry across Silva's youthful features before he rolls his eyes. "Are you kidding? I'd never let anyone know that I've sunk so low as to be with you."
"Oh, fuck off."
"I'm trying!"
Villa can't explain how he has managed to find himself in another moment of weakness, but the confession is on the tip of his tongue as he greets his teammates.
"Hey, how are you? How was your weekend?"
Good. I fucked Silva, just like the fifty weekends before that. You? "Oh, alright."
Oh, it would be glorious. To broadcast this triumph - and it is such a triumph, although he could never admit that to Silva, who is far too small and precocious to be humbled - would wipe that smirk off Silva's face.
He toys with the idea for a few seconds until Silva fails to return his knowing smile, and doesn't laugh at his terrible jokes in the car, and leaves behind the scent of freshly cooked pasta in Villa's kitchen with the frustrating lack of excuse that Villa doesn't want to be used to.
But it isn't like last time. Silva doesn't ignore his calls, or refuse a handjob after returning the following day to "take care of the goddamn messiness of this living room". This inevitably entails cleaning, as Villa watches uselessly.
"Why do you do all this?" Villa eventually crumbles. "You do so much for me - and you know that I can cook my own damn food -" (he ignores Silva's snicker at this point) "But you never take anything. It's like you're doing me a favour, like you're not enjoying any of this."
Silva pauses, expressionless, duster in hand. "I do take. You gave me a lift to training -"
"That's not what I mean."
"I know what you mean." Christ, Silva can be annoying. "You want to know why I don't stay the night, or send you cute little text messages, or sneak kisses in public."
Villa's affirmation is his reddening cheeks.
"I don't need that," Silva says simply. "This much is enough, I think. Do you need that?"
Villa's denial is his reddening cheeks. "But -" he stammers. "But - are you okay with - just this?"
"What more is there?"
Villa has never been a quick thinker, which Silva is all too aware of. He continues dusting as Villa pours himself a much-needed lunchtime scotch.
* * * * *
When he gets home, Silva contemplates writing a message, telling Villa that it's more than enough to cook his dinner and know that he's happy; to see him every day at training and miss him when it's over; to crave his skin and smell, and love it when he is reminded of them.
It's a shame that messaging isn't Silva's style.
There is no lingering awkwardness after their exchange; they know each other too well for that. The sex, on occasion, hearkens back to the animalistic roughness that disconcerted Silva even if it didn't alarm him, but they remain largely as detached yet as oddly connected as they have been all along.
Silva still understands what each of Villa's sighs mean, so he doesn't bother enquiring after them, eliciting the infamous 'you just don't care about me' sigh, even though Villa never asks Silva how he is, either. Why should they deal with such pleasantries and formalities when they know the answers before the questions are asked?
Silva contemplates phoning him, to shove that question into Villa's face and hang up before Villa realises that he has nothing to say in reply.
Silva thanks the heavens that phoning isn't his style, either.
Life takes over, and he stops wondering what to do. It comes as quite a relief, because there are few things in the world that trouble Silva more than indecision. He reasons, nothing has changed, so there's no use in dwelling on it. But as things tend to do with Silva, it never quite leaves him alone; darting from the back to the front of his mind in the split second it takes Villa to hesitate before wrapping his arm around Silva's neck, or the seeming infinity between hearing a car horn and stepping into Villa's passenger seat.
* * * * *
"Raúl told me that you guys are going to lunch. Ditching me, huh?" Villa grins.
He feels a definite surge of concern when Silva's smile falters. "Yeah. But, it's not -"
"I know," Villa says more forcefully than he intends.
Silva nods. "You can come, if you want."
Villa chuckles. "Oh, I feel so welcome," he drawls.
"I told you," Silva splutters impatiently, "it's not -"
"I know."
Villa doesn't want to register the words "I think we should take a break", but he finds himself with little choice but to replay them over and over in his head, because Silva walks away so inconceivably quickly. Left with little but too much time and solitude, the whole scenario loops in his thoughts until Silva's voice turns into a snarl and his words become harsher and laced with swearing. Villa reminds himself that Silva never snarls or swears, but angrily convinces himself that Silva would if he wanted to.
The days that pass are few in number and relatively painless, the Valencia squad spending a couple of nights in Madrid for a match in which Villa was, again, not permitted to play. He watches Valencia lose and turns off his television set in a huff (at the exact moment when a close-up of Silva's face fills the screen, but it's a brave man who tries to get him to admit that). He doesn't sleep well, wondering if it's normal to be so angry with Silva over this, or if - God forbid - he himself did something wrong at any point.
Nah, he reasons. Me? Do something wrong? All I did was need him too much -
He sits bolt upright in the middle of the night, before carefully lowering himself back down onto his pillow, telling himself that it's only overly animate and usually quite annoying characters in bad movies who do that. He doesn't even know why he needs Silva. Is it even need? Or is it just - desire?
Don't be silly. Silva doesn't exist to be 'desired'. He's a kid, for fuck's sake. You can't lust after kids -
But he has lusted after this kid for too long now. Whether or not that makes him a desperate old creep is beyond Villa's concern. He lies in bed, counting all the manipulative little ways in which Silva managed to make himself so damn fuckable. He falls asleep as he's still counting, vaguely recognising, in a last, lethargic attempt at coherent thought, that if he doesn't fall asleep soon, he'll be counting until the sun rises.
In a brief moment of uncharacteristic insight, Villa realises that an hour of Silva clattering around his kitchen is worth immeasurably more than sex. As he struggles with his coffee machine the next day, in desperate need of caffeine after a disturbed sleep, he finds himself glancing at the clock on the microwave, counting down the minutes until the squad arrives back in Valencia. He fails to make sense of the appliance and burns his finger, nursing it with a stubborn frown until he hears a knock, and he drops the icepack in his hands after opening the door.
They don't speak until Silva is sitting down, Villa hovering awkwardly near the doorway leading to the kitchen. He figures that if the silence lingers for too much longer, he can just escape back to the fridge to grab some more ice (and most likely some alcohol to share the ice with).
"I was stupid and paranoid and impatient, and really, the reason why I'm here is because I made a mistake and I don't want it to have changed anything."
Villa swallows. The alcohol is looking really good right about now.
"Was that - an apology?"
Silva runs a hand tiredly through his hair. "Yeah, I guess. I'm sorry this is so complicated. I'm sorry for constantly trying to break up with you. I'm sorry for saying one thing and doing another. I'm sorry for - for ending up here again."
The silence is surprisingly tense, given that Villa feels his stomach fill with relief and gratitude, and can see Silva's shoulders falling with ease as he ticks off each 'sorry'.
Villa bites his lip, watching Silva, who refuses to look back. "Do you have anywhere to be?"
"Right now?" Silva raises his eyebrows. "No."
"Good," Villa says matter-of-factly, at last turning towards the kitchen and that awaiting bottle of Jack Daniel's. "I'm hungry and still have no idea how to cook."
Rummaging through his cupboards to find some glasses, he hears Silva joining him in the kitchen, and senses the slightest hesitation before he feels a warm hand on his back. He pauses for dramatic effect, knowing how his reluctance will cast a faint shadow of doubt over Silva's brave affection and make the moment just that little bit more precious. But Villa is as involved a viewer of this scene as Silva is, and pivots slowly on his heel to cup Silva's jaw in his hand and kiss him blithely on the mouth that's expecting him.
He has completely forgotten about the burn on his hand.
It's enough that Silva sticks around long enough to see the awkwardness slowly dissolve, pulling out unwashed bowls and tutting at them (but more so at Villa), while Villa resumes his habitual moaning at the television, if only to make the younger man feel at home again. The longing that Villa feels to wrap himself around him, to devour him, is quelled by a nibble on the ear, and a hand running down his side, and a promise that Silva will pop over for lunch the next day. It's enough to get a quick kiss goodbye and know that he'll get it again, and again.
Villa doesn't call or text Silva, and isn't surprised when his own phone remains silent overnight. He picks him up the next morning; they have lunch; they have sex until the sun disappears and Silva does, too. They carry on with life in all the moments that surround these treasured few. They turn away complication, and obligation, content with the threads of understanding that link them, and Villa's surprise makes way for a constant expectation that Silva will always be there, in some form or another. And, just before he falls asleep, too tired for this short tiptoe into a rare depth of thought to re-enter his mind in the morning, he tells himself that this, in its simplicity and deceptive ease, is enough.
Pairing: David Silva / David Villa
Rating: R (a little sex and language).
Disclaimer: Imagination - it's a beautiful thing, no?
Notes: For
kat_lys; I promised this to her ages ago. ♥
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
Villa thunders around his living room, Silva smiling a little to himself as he hears his lover grumbling and moaning. He sprinkles a little salt into the pan that's failing to hold as much of his attention as it should, and hears the television being switched off with a furious "Is this a TV or a fucking mirror?"
Silva throws out reasonable answers to Villa's questions (which are never quite as rhetorical as he tries to make them), patiently reminding him that two weeks is no less fair a recovery period for Villa than it is for anyone else, and that yes, there are other people in the Valencia line-up who are capable of scoring. Silva calls him into the kitchen to taste his concoction before Villa can inject any more irritation into the sighs which interrupt their dialogue.
"When I said 'give this a taste', I wasn't talking about me," Silva smirks as he twists out of Villa's grip, fingers trying to lock themselves around the younger man's waist. Silva lifts a spoon and pouts just enough to melt Villa's stubbornness, and his lips twitch into a triumphant smile as Villa, against his will, closes his eyes and devours.
In the time it takes for Villa to rummage through cupboards and find two (relatively) clean bowls, Silva is pulling on a jacket and peering through the curtains to frown disapprovingly at the oncoming darkness outside.
"Aren't you going to eat?"
Silva suppresses a chuckle at the childlike surprise on Villa's face. "You complain when I arrive unannounced. You complain when I mess up your kitchen - if it's even possible to mess it up any further. You complain when I don't comfort you. You complain when I do. You complain when I leave." He doesn't bother asking the question that's supposed to follow his list; the angry (rather than abashed) blush creeping up Villa's face already answers.
Villa grunts. Silva takes that as his cue to leave. As he is just about to close the door, wind whipping beneath his jacket and raising his skin in goosebumps, Villa clears his throat.
"Do you want to take some of this home?"
Silva pretends not to hear, and shuts the door noisily.
He isn't a very good cook anyway.
* * * * *
Villa's heart dances somewhat when he sees Silva in the locker room, and he wonders whether it's the hotter-than-usual morning sunlight, that cigarette he shouldn't have had, or Silva's bright and painfully innocent smile which gives him the impression that his bloodstream has turned into a Formula One track. He wants to ask him why he didn't turn up the night before, but it's the lack of an invitation or obligation that reminds him to stop being such a girl and return the grin.
He made do with leftovers, but of course the kitchen never smells as good when the oregano and basil and tomato and strange concoction of meat and cheese don't have something more human behind them. More human than a microwave and Villa's burnt fingers, anyway. He wonders, as he slips on his training kit and forgets to pretend to listen to the manager, whether Silva has left his smell on anything in his house. The sofa, or the bed, or just the air itself.
And he suddenly realises that Silva is standing right next to him and that he smells as good as ever, and Villa has to clench his jaw tightly and deflect consequent questions about his tension levels when Silva slides a hand over his back and under his shirt and beneath his waistband.
In a brief moment of uncharacteristic insight, Villa will realise that half an hour of Silva clattering around his kitchen is worth immeasurably more than sex. But jogging next to him in training, turning to look at Silva when Silva turns to look at the coach, Villa sees sex in the hair that messily drapes itself over his forehead and beads of sweat which trace lines over his temples. And he wants to tell - no, order - Silva to forget the (doubtless non-existent) plans he has, and resettle himself into the welcoming folds of Villa's blankets no later than after the dying rattle of the mailman's old bicycle.
But Silva, his timing exquisitely frustrating as always, jogs off at a right angle to Villa's considerably more lonesome path to join the younger players at the side of the field, and Villa's words slip off his tongue in a defeated sigh.
He forgets his disappointment when, minutes later, he lifts his head and notices Silva staring - no, gazing - at him, ignoring laughter and jostles in favour of a still, hungry moment of open and somehow unnoticed lust.
Two, maybe three seconds pass before Silva looks away.
Two, maybe three seconds pass before he looks back.
Villa smirks as his arrogance finds him again, and hours later, he lifts himself off his sofa to let Silva in.
* * * * *
Silva isn't ashamed of himself. He tells himself that shame is a weak, pointless emotion, and that it's far more useful to feel aggrieved yet wiser for it. He has learnt something, after all. He has learnt that Villa is cocksure in more than one way (although he is yet to decide which variant is more dangerous). He has learnt that Villa will never remind him to check the rain forecast if it means holding him hostage in his warm, dry house. Above all, he has learnt that, while it remains easier to say yes than to say no, the consequences of the former are far too soul-damaging to pursue.
"I've got you wrapped around my little finger, haven't I?"
It's one of those annoying questions which is more of a statement than anything.
"I wouldn't say that," Silva replies slowly. He certainly doesn't feel that he is any less assertive, just because he keeps dropping everything at Villa's beck and call, or crumbles under a mere look, or - "I wouldn't say that." Silva repeats, more firmly this time.
Villa's smug smile doesn't really disappear at all, despite the passage of days which separate all the painfully wonderful instants during which Silva manages to catch a glimpse of that face. That face to which he has, admittedly, succumbed through and through. And every time he falters just a little, Villa is quick to remind him, his eyes sparkling in that frustratingly gorgeous way they always do.
"Why are you out of breath?" That smug smile accompanies the question. (It's more telling when he isn't smug, in all honesty.)
"I'm not out of breath." Silva always manages to come across so much more defensively than he intends. "I'm just -"
"Exhilarated to see me." So smug.
"No." Yes. "I'm just - why are you asking me these questions? Do they make you feel better about yourself as a person or something?"
"A person or something?"
"What?"
"Your eloquence collapses when you're around me. Have you noticed that?" Smug. Smug. Smug.
"Well, your eloquence is smug -"
Villa collapses into snickers. "Do I really have that much of an effect on you?"
"No." Yes.
"Well, then, why is that whenever you're around me these days, you degenerate into a bumbling idiot?"
"Since when do you even know what 'degenerate' means?"
"Aaaand, he's back."
"Look, I'm out of breath because I've been running, unlike you, because I'll actually be playing a football match tomorrow."
Villa doesn't look hurt, per se, but the smirk is most definitely wiped off his face. And had Silva not been so wrapped up in self-defence, he would feel guilty.
"What happened to 'All footballers need at least two weeks to recover. You have nothing to feel shitty about'?" Villa asks with a raised eyebrow. And damn, even the raised eyebrow melts Silva all over again.
"I - I -" Silva sighs. "I'm sorry. Just - please, just stop. I have to go now."
"You do? Training just started."
Silva stares back, exhaustedly watching the sparkle return to Villa's eye beneath that (still-raised) eyebrow. "I have to go and do some squats."
"Some what?"
Of all the exercises to choose...
Indeed, the consequences are too soul-damaging to pursue.
The deceitfully simple solution is to play hard-to-get, and enjoy the befuddlement which lines that everpresent frown. The simplicity is deceitful because, as he realises after approximately two seconds in Villa's company, it remains difficult, to the point of impossibility, to watch him bending over to tie his shoelaces and not want to grab a nice, healthy portion of the flesh put on show. It takes an inconveniently large fraction of his energy to keep his fingers to himself in the shower, to politely decline a lift home from training, to resist the temptation to plant something satisfying on those lips which are getting more and more pursed each day.
He thinks he's succeeded when he wakes up one morning and clumsily rifles through no fewer than six desperate text messages. Not because he managed to get Villa to send them, but because he managed to get himself to ignore them.
He knows he's succeeded when the day ebbs into darkness and the curtain is lit up by the clumsy and intrusive light of a car. The customary two knocks are doubled this evening, and Silva smirks to himself as he saunters over to the door to witness the full glory of his plan come to fruition.
He wishes he hadn't succeeded when Villa aggressively forces Silva's hand up against the headboard of his bed, pushing into him and ignoring a slight yelp of pain. Silva regrets the last few days in a few instants: the moments it takes for Villa to glare at him, pin him down, and turn what was light and free of expectation into something laced with lechery. He winces as Villa's fingernails scratch at him and he feels himself being pulled apart.
And he wonders who's really succeeding after all.
* * * * *
Villa isn't entirely surprised when Silva abandons his ridiculous (and, to be honest, ridiculously short-lived) hard-to-get technique. He fleetingly wonders why Silva found him worth avoiding at all, but only fleetingly. He remains predictably preoccupied by Silva's glorious submission in bed; by the silence of his footsteps on the carpet; by the flicker of immediate comprehension in his eyes whenever Villa, lazily and irritably as always, gives up mid-sentence and stammers his defeat.
He enjoys Silva's company when he gives him a lift to training in the morning, and laughs when Silva asks to be let out a few streets away for the sake of remaining 'discreet'.
"What's the point? Everyone knows we're fucking anyway."
There is the briefest flash of worry across Silva's youthful features before he rolls his eyes. "Are you kidding? I'd never let anyone know that I've sunk so low as to be with you."
"Oh, fuck off."
"I'm trying!"
Villa can't explain how he has managed to find himself in another moment of weakness, but the confession is on the tip of his tongue as he greets his teammates.
"Hey, how are you? How was your weekend?"
Good. I fucked Silva, just like the fifty weekends before that. You? "Oh, alright."
Oh, it would be glorious. To broadcast this triumph - and it is such a triumph, although he could never admit that to Silva, who is far too small and precocious to be humbled - would wipe that smirk off Silva's face.
He toys with the idea for a few seconds until Silva fails to return his knowing smile, and doesn't laugh at his terrible jokes in the car, and leaves behind the scent of freshly cooked pasta in Villa's kitchen with the frustrating lack of excuse that Villa doesn't want to be used to.
But it isn't like last time. Silva doesn't ignore his calls, or refuse a handjob after returning the following day to "take care of the goddamn messiness of this living room". This inevitably entails cleaning, as Villa watches uselessly.
"Why do you do all this?" Villa eventually crumbles. "You do so much for me - and you know that I can cook my own damn food -" (he ignores Silva's snicker at this point) "But you never take anything. It's like you're doing me a favour, like you're not enjoying any of this."
Silva pauses, expressionless, duster in hand. "I do take. You gave me a lift to training -"
"That's not what I mean."
"I know what you mean." Christ, Silva can be annoying. "You want to know why I don't stay the night, or send you cute little text messages, or sneak kisses in public."
Villa's affirmation is his reddening cheeks.
"I don't need that," Silva says simply. "This much is enough, I think. Do you need that?"
Villa's denial is his reddening cheeks. "But -" he stammers. "But - are you okay with - just this?"
"What more is there?"
Villa has never been a quick thinker, which Silva is all too aware of. He continues dusting as Villa pours himself a much-needed lunchtime scotch.
* * * * *
When he gets home, Silva contemplates writing a message, telling Villa that it's more than enough to cook his dinner and know that he's happy; to see him every day at training and miss him when it's over; to crave his skin and smell, and love it when he is reminded of them.
It's a shame that messaging isn't Silva's style.
There is no lingering awkwardness after their exchange; they know each other too well for that. The sex, on occasion, hearkens back to the animalistic roughness that disconcerted Silva even if it didn't alarm him, but they remain largely as detached yet as oddly connected as they have been all along.
Silva still understands what each of Villa's sighs mean, so he doesn't bother enquiring after them, eliciting the infamous 'you just don't care about me' sigh, even though Villa never asks Silva how he is, either. Why should they deal with such pleasantries and formalities when they know the answers before the questions are asked?
Silva contemplates phoning him, to shove that question into Villa's face and hang up before Villa realises that he has nothing to say in reply.
Silva thanks the heavens that phoning isn't his style, either.
Life takes over, and he stops wondering what to do. It comes as quite a relief, because there are few things in the world that trouble Silva more than indecision. He reasons, nothing has changed, so there's no use in dwelling on it. But as things tend to do with Silva, it never quite leaves him alone; darting from the back to the front of his mind in the split second it takes Villa to hesitate before wrapping his arm around Silva's neck, or the seeming infinity between hearing a car horn and stepping into Villa's passenger seat.
* * * * *
"Raúl told me that you guys are going to lunch. Ditching me, huh?" Villa grins.
He feels a definite surge of concern when Silva's smile falters. "Yeah. But, it's not -"
"I know," Villa says more forcefully than he intends.
Silva nods. "You can come, if you want."
Villa chuckles. "Oh, I feel so welcome," he drawls.
"I told you," Silva splutters impatiently, "it's not -"
"I know."
Villa doesn't want to register the words "I think we should take a break", but he finds himself with little choice but to replay them over and over in his head, because Silva walks away so inconceivably quickly. Left with little but too much time and solitude, the whole scenario loops in his thoughts until Silva's voice turns into a snarl and his words become harsher and laced with swearing. Villa reminds himself that Silva never snarls or swears, but angrily convinces himself that Silva would if he wanted to.
The days that pass are few in number and relatively painless, the Valencia squad spending a couple of nights in Madrid for a match in which Villa was, again, not permitted to play. He watches Valencia lose and turns off his television set in a huff (at the exact moment when a close-up of Silva's face fills the screen, but it's a brave man who tries to get him to admit that). He doesn't sleep well, wondering if it's normal to be so angry with Silva over this, or if - God forbid - he himself did something wrong at any point.
Nah, he reasons. Me? Do something wrong? All I did was need him too much -
He sits bolt upright in the middle of the night, before carefully lowering himself back down onto his pillow, telling himself that it's only overly animate and usually quite annoying characters in bad movies who do that. He doesn't even know why he needs Silva. Is it even need? Or is it just - desire?
Don't be silly. Silva doesn't exist to be 'desired'. He's a kid, for fuck's sake. You can't lust after kids -
But he has lusted after this kid for too long now. Whether or not that makes him a desperate old creep is beyond Villa's concern. He lies in bed, counting all the manipulative little ways in which Silva managed to make himself so damn fuckable. He falls asleep as he's still counting, vaguely recognising, in a last, lethargic attempt at coherent thought, that if he doesn't fall asleep soon, he'll be counting until the sun rises.
In a brief moment of uncharacteristic insight, Villa realises that an hour of Silva clattering around his kitchen is worth immeasurably more than sex. As he struggles with his coffee machine the next day, in desperate need of caffeine after a disturbed sleep, he finds himself glancing at the clock on the microwave, counting down the minutes until the squad arrives back in Valencia. He fails to make sense of the appliance and burns his finger, nursing it with a stubborn frown until he hears a knock, and he drops the icepack in his hands after opening the door.
They don't speak until Silva is sitting down, Villa hovering awkwardly near the doorway leading to the kitchen. He figures that if the silence lingers for too much longer, he can just escape back to the fridge to grab some more ice (and most likely some alcohol to share the ice with).
"I was stupid and paranoid and impatient, and really, the reason why I'm here is because I made a mistake and I don't want it to have changed anything."
Villa swallows. The alcohol is looking really good right about now.
"Was that - an apology?"
Silva runs a hand tiredly through his hair. "Yeah, I guess. I'm sorry this is so complicated. I'm sorry for constantly trying to break up with you. I'm sorry for saying one thing and doing another. I'm sorry for - for ending up here again."
The silence is surprisingly tense, given that Villa feels his stomach fill with relief and gratitude, and can see Silva's shoulders falling with ease as he ticks off each 'sorry'.
Villa bites his lip, watching Silva, who refuses to look back. "Do you have anywhere to be?"
"Right now?" Silva raises his eyebrows. "No."
"Good," Villa says matter-of-factly, at last turning towards the kitchen and that awaiting bottle of Jack Daniel's. "I'm hungry and still have no idea how to cook."
Rummaging through his cupboards to find some glasses, he hears Silva joining him in the kitchen, and senses the slightest hesitation before he feels a warm hand on his back. He pauses for dramatic effect, knowing how his reluctance will cast a faint shadow of doubt over Silva's brave affection and make the moment just that little bit more precious. But Villa is as involved a viewer of this scene as Silva is, and pivots slowly on his heel to cup Silva's jaw in his hand and kiss him blithely on the mouth that's expecting him.
He has completely forgotten about the burn on his hand.
It's enough that Silva sticks around long enough to see the awkwardness slowly dissolve, pulling out unwashed bowls and tutting at them (but more so at Villa), while Villa resumes his habitual moaning at the television, if only to make the younger man feel at home again. The longing that Villa feels to wrap himself around him, to devour him, is quelled by a nibble on the ear, and a hand running down his side, and a promise that Silva will pop over for lunch the next day. It's enough to get a quick kiss goodbye and know that he'll get it again, and again.
Villa doesn't call or text Silva, and isn't surprised when his own phone remains silent overnight. He picks him up the next morning; they have lunch; they have sex until the sun disappears and Silva does, too. They carry on with life in all the moments that surround these treasured few. They turn away complication, and obligation, content with the threads of understanding that link them, and Villa's surprise makes way for a constant expectation that Silva will always be there, in some form or another. And, just before he falls asleep, too tired for this short tiptoe into a rare depth of thought to re-enter his mind in the morning, he tells himself that this, in its simplicity and deceptive ease, is enough.