private-only, back-to-posting, private-only... let's see how long this survives this time.
Okay, well, screw it, here, fic. *drops and goes back into hiding* No idea what I did there. Or why. Or how. All I know it's damned angsty and I wish it weren't, all I hope is if this is only remotely in character, as far as it can be, some parts I *hope* are not. All I wonder is, What the fucking pink and glittery heck is this? Me, torturing people? Can I ever be redeemed? Seriously, this is not how I want to see them. It just came over me and I couldn't resist. *shames* Why posted and not put this where it belongs, in a radioactive waste repository? Because, well, I did like some lines... *facepalm*
FAIL KITTEH WANTS BRAIN BACK NAO K?
ETA: I shall dedicate this to faeen, because.
WARNING: I'm sorry for mentioning David's family. I know many people hate that, and I often frown about it, too, but there was some bug that wanted brutal realism? Stupid and brainless as I was, I obeyed.
Songs of great Silence (David Silva/David Villa)
Expectations: When you came back to Valencia thinking you had matured, hungry for first team football (at a big club, at a Champions League club), feeling the excitement build up to the day when you could play alongside one of the best strikers of the nation, thinking how you would show them you're able to shoulder the responsibility of a first team player of such a big team, to shoulder responsibilities that would make you an adult, not the little boy whose hair people loved to ruffle -
You didn’t expect that.
That and that people still love to ruffle your hair, because changing clubs isn’t changing the fact that you’re still short enough to be in reach.
The first day of training is all shyness and trying to keep up with new faces, new rooms, a new tone, new voices, new exercises, new inside jokes, unknown anecdotes. Later, you sit in the passenger’s seat next to your dad, trying to sort what you’ve seen, faces to names, impressions to faces… “How was it?”, he asks.
“Good.” Nothing more, not yet. You don’t yet know what to think.
But things change. It takes a few days, weeks, to forget you ever felt like a stranger between them. You can sort names to faces, inside jokes to faces (these are yours now), to names, you divide between friends and acquaintances, you play football.
Things change.
This love imposes itself on you like the Trojan horse, it’s there and you’re not sure where it comes from, if it’s pretty or useful and so you acknowledge it, call it “friends” and it’s perfectly good that way.
But, like Odysseus, he secretly climbs out at night.
You remember to, at first, have likened him to a black chess pawn who strives to be king: Villa, 'born to seize the opportunity' (not true, but who cares), takes (and leaves) what he wants when he wants. He has perfected the art of grabbing his chances regardless of whatever or whoever might stand in his way, regardless of the consequences. (Or so it seems, and again no one cares about the truth.) The fans love him for that. "Villa!", they shout from the ranks.
One day (did it seem sudden and arbitrary? Or was it simply a wish fulfilled? Or was it something more natural, inevitable, because you do see through him and something there assured you), he decides he wants you. And because you want him, too, because Odysseus has long since defeated your days, you say yes (you say it with your lips, without uttering a sound, you say it with your fingers curling around his collar and accidentally - or deliberately - brushing the hairline on his neck) and there suddenly is something you had never dreamed of in your twenty, twenty-one youthful years: an affair. (Don’t say that word, it’s dirty, it is serious, it is heavy.)
He’s all family and responsibility and fucking duty and yes, he believes in it. He loves his family to bits, he shoulders his duties and he fucking performs. And cheats on his wife. A fact on paper. A fact in reality. A fact constructed. There is also a lie constructed carefully, (there is no wife, what wife, I can see him right here next to me and there is no wife) but shh, you don’t want to hear that, not know, not believe, to you he is all yours, even though that lie is giant and of loud colours. There, yesterdays smiles, last night’s touches leave an aftertaste like that of influenza syrup, a tooth-hurting sweetness on its way of turning sour, bitter medicine and stickiness. (But they are there, and they come back, and they make you happy. And you can't help yourself, not really. And he can’t help himself, too, despite the guilt - which guilt, there is no reason, he constructs. Because you still can see through him and there are different things you see. Different layers and personalities, and you both pick the one that suits the occasion; these layers are not constructed, they are no lies, these, finally, are real.)
You seem to own two different sets of vocabulary; one to think with and one to speak, and only one of them allows the word “love” to exist. (And you know he is the same, and so you acknowledge it and it’s perfectly fine that way.)
One day he tells you “you’re clingy.”
You don’t know if you should, in fact, feel hurt, or if it’s only something he says because he’s David and it’s something you should actually have expected him to say, be it the truth (you don’t think so, but then, everyone has their reality) or not. He is all carefully constructed sentences in one minute, he must say something like that, you think, and in the next… you, like him, stop thinking.
But another time you wake up early (all was grey, grey walls, grey air, a soft, dark, rainy early morning grey) to find him curled around you, his face pressed to your shoulder, mumbling in his sleep. To your surprise it's not random nonsense you hear him whisper, nor is it any random name (not hers) but a “David”.
Maybe he was just introducing himself. (But he wasn’t, and this you know, too. It is a fine line, really.)
When you kiss him (and even if you noticed that they have increased, you still can count the times he really, without hesitation, allows you to on your two hands) you leave your eyes open to assure yourself he’s really there.
But he always is, he is there.
FAIL KITTEH WANTS BRAIN BACK NAO K?
ETA: I shall dedicate this to faeen, because.
WARNING: I'm sorry for mentioning David's family. I know many people hate that, and I often frown about it, too, but there was some bug that wanted brutal realism? Stupid and brainless as I was, I obeyed.
Songs of great Silence (David Silva/David Villa)
Expectations: When you came back to Valencia thinking you had matured, hungry for first team football (at a big club, at a Champions League club), feeling the excitement build up to the day when you could play alongside one of the best strikers of the nation, thinking how you would show them you're able to shoulder the responsibility of a first team player of such a big team, to shoulder responsibilities that would make you an adult, not the little boy whose hair people loved to ruffle -
You didn’t expect that.
That and that people still love to ruffle your hair, because changing clubs isn’t changing the fact that you’re still short enough to be in reach.
The first day of training is all shyness and trying to keep up with new faces, new rooms, a new tone, new voices, new exercises, new inside jokes, unknown anecdotes. Later, you sit in the passenger’s seat next to your dad, trying to sort what you’ve seen, faces to names, impressions to faces… “How was it?”, he asks.
“Good.” Nothing more, not yet. You don’t yet know what to think.
But things change. It takes a few days, weeks, to forget you ever felt like a stranger between them. You can sort names to faces, inside jokes to faces (these are yours now), to names, you divide between friends and acquaintances, you play football.
Things change.
This love imposes itself on you like the Trojan horse, it’s there and you’re not sure where it comes from, if it’s pretty or useful and so you acknowledge it, call it “friends” and it’s perfectly good that way.
But, like Odysseus, he secretly climbs out at night.
You remember to, at first, have likened him to a black chess pawn who strives to be king: Villa, 'born to seize the opportunity' (not true, but who cares), takes (and leaves) what he wants when he wants. He has perfected the art of grabbing his chances regardless of whatever or whoever might stand in his way, regardless of the consequences. (Or so it seems, and again no one cares about the truth.) The fans love him for that. "Villa!", they shout from the ranks.
One day (did it seem sudden and arbitrary? Or was it simply a wish fulfilled? Or was it something more natural, inevitable, because you do see through him and something there assured you), he decides he wants you. And because you want him, too, because Odysseus has long since defeated your days, you say yes (you say it with your lips, without uttering a sound, you say it with your fingers curling around his collar and accidentally - or deliberately - brushing the hairline on his neck) and there suddenly is something you had never dreamed of in your twenty, twenty-one youthful years: an affair. (Don’t say that word, it’s dirty, it is serious, it is heavy.)
He’s all family and responsibility and fucking duty and yes, he believes in it. He loves his family to bits, he shoulders his duties and he fucking performs. And cheats on his wife. A fact on paper. A fact in reality. A fact constructed. There is also a lie constructed carefully, (there is no wife, what wife, I can see him right here next to me and there is no wife) but shh, you don’t want to hear that, not know, not believe, to you he is all yours, even though that lie is giant and of loud colours. There, yesterdays smiles, last night’s touches leave an aftertaste like that of influenza syrup, a tooth-hurting sweetness on its way of turning sour, bitter medicine and stickiness. (But they are there, and they come back, and they make you happy. And you can't help yourself, not really. And he can’t help himself, too, despite the guilt - which guilt, there is no reason, he constructs. Because you still can see through him and there are different things you see. Different layers and personalities, and you both pick the one that suits the occasion; these layers are not constructed, they are no lies, these, finally, are real.)
You seem to own two different sets of vocabulary; one to think with and one to speak, and only one of them allows the word “love” to exist. (And you know he is the same, and so you acknowledge it and it’s perfectly fine that way.)
One day he tells you “you’re clingy.”
You don’t know if you should, in fact, feel hurt, or if it’s only something he says because he’s David and it’s something you should actually have expected him to say, be it the truth (you don’t think so, but then, everyone has their reality) or not. He is all carefully constructed sentences in one minute, he must say something like that, you think, and in the next… you, like him, stop thinking.
But another time you wake up early (all was grey, grey walls, grey air, a soft, dark, rainy early morning grey) to find him curled around you, his face pressed to your shoulder, mumbling in his sleep. To your surprise it's not random nonsense you hear him whisper, nor is it any random name (not hers) but a “David”.
Maybe he was just introducing himself. (But he wasn’t, and this you know, too. It is a fine line, really.)
When you kiss him (and even if you noticed that they have increased, you still can count the times he really, without hesitation, allows you to on your two hands) you leave your eyes open to assure yourself he’s really there.
But he always is, he is there.