fic: Morning (David Villa/Santi Cazorla, PG-13)
Title: Morning
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football, Spanish National Team
Pairing: David Villa/Santi Cazorla
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this all up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Summary: It's the morning after the Euro 2008 final, and Santi is facing a disaster.
Dedication: For metalnurse, who requested this pairing when I offered drabbles.
Word Count: 3,214
Warning: Angst and fluff. Oh dear.
Thanks to casi_casi for the thorough, dedicated, detailed and most helpful beta. I can't thank you enough for what you did. I suppose not many beta readers would have had the guts to tell me to rewrite half the story, but you did, and I appreciate that immensely. You are fantastic and should be a role model for all beta readers. <3!
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from glomps to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
The proverbial morning after, Santi awoke with an enormous headache and a slightly nauseous feeling in his stomach. Too much celebrating, too much booze… and yet, he couldn't help a smile as images from the previous night flashed through his mind.
Campeones de Europa.
After over forty years of waiting, they had finally brought the cup back to Spain where it belonged.
He shifted lazily on the bed, blinking several times to accustom his eyes to the bright light of the sun shining into the room, and then checked the alarm clock…
… and realised it wasn't there.
Confused, he let his gaze wander across the room. It looked strangely familiar, but the more he saw of it, the more he began to doubt that this was his room. The picture on the wall was different, as was the suitcase next to the door. The wardrobe was shut, and he always left his wide open.
Then his eyes suddenly landed on his other side and spotted the sleeping form of a stark naked David Villa, and Santi nearly jumped out of the bed in shock.
Holy shit.
He glanced down at himself and found that he was wearing the same attire as his teammate: nothing at all. There were welts on his body; tell-tale crescent-shaped traces of fingernails that had dug into his skin; scratches that he couldn't explain, all along his stomach.
What had happened? What had they done?
He rose into a sitting position and stopped mid-motion, hissing at the sharp pain that jolted through him, and plopped right back down on his back.
For a couple of seconds, he just lay there, breathing deeply and trying to get his head around the situation - which was a lot more difficult than one might expect. He didn't remember anything of the previous night apart from winning the Euros and then returning to the hotel to party like there was no tomorrow. He didn't even remember being in Villa's room at all. Yet, considering what he had just discovered, there was no mistaking what had to have happened at some point during the night.
Santi closed his eyes, guilt washing over him.
Villa had to have been blind drunk to do this. He had a wife and a daughter. He had responsibilities.
And Santi had been too drunk to refuse him. With the alcohol lowering his inhibition threshold and clouding his ability to think reasonably, he had given in to Villa's advances and probably sent a prayer of thanks to the Heavens for finally granting him what he'd craved for so long: David Villa, wanting him.
Or, even worse, he had made advances himself, horny and unrelenting, and Villa had gone along with it, not realising in his inebriation that it wasn't his wife he was fucking into the mattress but his teammate.
The feeling of nausea in Santi's stomach increased.
He climbed out of the bed and walked to the bathroom, gritting his teeth at the soreness in his arse. Nothing in life came without a price. This was his fair punishment.
Santi turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face.
It would have been so easy to find excuses for what he had done. The adrenaline from the victory over Germany and, consequently, over Europe. The champagne, flowing freely all night, and the abundance of beer and wine in the hotel. It had happened out of a convenient opportunity, a misunderstanding, a misconception, and hadn't meant anything.
Only this last part wasn't true, at least not for Santi: to him it had meant the world. Still did. He couldn't say what was worse: that they had done this, or that he couldn't even bring himself to regret it for his own sake.
He had to leave; get out of the room before Villa woke up, and hope he wouldn't remember the previous night, especially not the identity of the person he'd slept with.
Quietly, Santi opened the bathroom door and hurried with soft steps to his clothes which were scattered all over the floor. They smelled of sweat and spilled drinks, but he couldn't have cared less. He'd change in his room and hope not to meet anyone on his way there.
The faint rustling of bed sheets behind him snapped Santi out of his thoughts and he turned around, only to look directly in the face of a drowsy David Villa.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Villa mumbled, "What're you doin'?" and gestured weakly at Santi standing near the door.
"I…" Santi swallowed, cursing himself for having taken so much time to get dressed.
"Get back in here." It wasn't even a request.
"But--"
"Santi." Villa's voice suddenly sounded firm and commanding and not sleep-ridden at all anymore.
The midfielder hesitated for a moment, wondering why Villa wanted him to stay. Probably to make it abundantly clear that this would just have been a one-off and nothing more, just to ensure Santi wouldn't read anything into it.
He slowly stepped back to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, keeping as much of a distance to Villa as possible.
The striker stretched lazily, practically flaunting his naked body. "Good morning."
No, it isn't, Santi wanted to reply, but instead he forced a smile, trying to ignore how ravishable Villa looked when he had just woken up, hair tousled, smelling of sweat and sex… Oh God. "Morning," he choked out, feeling the blush spreading over his face and hoping his teammate hadn't suddenly acquired the talent to read minds.
"Don't I get a good morning kiss?" Villa almost pouted at him.
Santi's eyes suddenly had a strong resemblance to saucers. He had expected quite a lot of things, ranging from a lecture about drunken one-night-stands to Villa threatening him he'd rip out his balls if he ever told anyone about what had happened, but nothing like this. Never this.
Villa must still have been drunk, or why else would he say such things?
Or was he just teasing him, challenging Santi to drop his guard and confess that he didn't just have friendly feelings for the other Asturian? And then laugh about his foolishness and utter naivety to even think for a second that he stood a chance? (Which was probably what he deserved for having allowed the previous night to happen, Santi thought bitterly.)
Maybe it would help to put on a mask of innocence and act as if he couldn't remember anything from the previous night? He contemplated that for a second but then realised that there was no way Villa would believe him. They had woken up naked in the same bed, after all, and even though the marks on his body were hidden underneath Santi's shirt and jeans, Villa didn't even need to see them; the tell-tale state of the bed sheet was enough.
"I… uhm…" Well, maybe a diversion would come in handy. He cleared his throat and tried to sound as casual as possible as he continued. "I haven't packed yet. When's the bus leaving?"
Villa frowned at him and then glanced at the clock on the wall. "If this thing still works, in two hours. Plenty of time left." He patted the spot on the bed next to him, gesturing to Santi to move closer. "You can pack later."
Santi sighed. That had gone well. "But I…"
The striker pulled himself up into a sitting position and chuckled. "I'd say after last night there's no need for you to play hard-to-get anymore."
So he did remember. Well, a complete blackout would probably have been a bit too much to ask.
Santi tried his utmost to ignore the lewd grin on his teammate's face, pull himself together and do what he had to do: be reasonable, find a good excuse, and leave.
"Guaje, I…" He gulped, frantically trying to sort his thoughts. "What happened last night was… a mistake. I'm… I don't know why it… why we… It can't…" Well, this was going nowhere. Honestly, how was he supposed to come up a sentence that began with 'I think' and ended with Villa agreeing that it was best to go back to what they'd been before when he himself didn't believe it? It was impossible.
The midfielder looked away, focusing his gaze on the painting on the wall as he collected his thoughts. "I think we… we should forget about it." His voice nearly cracked, but there was no other way. Someone had to be reasonable about things, and Santi figured that if he was that someone now, he would at least spare himself the humiliation of Villa coming to his senses and rejecting him.
There was a short silence before the striker spoke. "Will you say that to my face?" His voice sounded calm and collected, but it had a curious undertone that Santi couldn't quite read.
Did Villa think he wasn't serious?
Or was it that he didn't want him to be serious? (Santi figured there was nothing wrong with a bit of wishful thinking.)
In any case, there was no way Santi could look at him just then and at the same time keep his façade of indifference and reason that he'd made such an effort to construct, so he kept his gaze on the painting without even looking at it. He didn't speak. He had said it once; no more could be asked of him.
"If you really mean it, be man enough to say it to my face," Villa repeated, and the unexpected urgency in his voice as well as the implied reproach of cowardice finally did their job.
Santi was quite a lot of things, but he was no coward.
Slowly, he turned his head to face his teammate, determined to rise to the challenge, do the right thing, and repeat what he'd said earlier, but the moment his gaze locked with Villa's, he couldn't get the words out anymore.
His hung-over, still slightly exhausted brain was no match for the unrelenting, completely unreadable stare that Villa was directing at him - not to mention the fact that his teammate obviously thought it unnecessary to cover himself and was still flaunting his naked body in its full glory. Santi tried his best to keep his gaze focused on Villa's face, but he couldn't get the rest of him out of his head, and that didn't help his concentration at all.
The midfielder secretly cursed himself for having started this damned conversation so early in the morning.
Eventually, he settled for throwing his head back against the wall (a little more forcefully than he usually would, hoping it would get his brain back on track) and letting out a desperate sigh, hoping it would finally settle things, but Villa didn't look convinced.
"If you can't say it, you don't mean it," he said almost stubbornly, and Santi found it incredibly unfair that unlike him, his teammate could focus like this despite just having woken up.
"I've said it," Santi replied about as stubbornly, returning his gaze back to the picture on the wall. "And I mean it," he added, hoping Villa wouldn't pick up on how pathetic and feeble he sounded.
"And you mean it because you don't want me, or because you think I shouldn't want you?"
Sharply, Santi turned his head to stare at Villa, wondering if he was reading too much into his words or if Villa had indeed just admitted that he wanted him, still, even after having slept over it. "Well, you shouldn't, should you?" he choked out.
"Maybe not," Villa admitted, "but that doesn't change anything. Why do you think last night happened?"
"Because you were drunk!" Santi spluttered, completely losing his composure. "You were all over the place! I'm surprised you still remember what happened at all!"
Villa laughed. "I only had a couple of beers. Trust me: I knew what I was doing. Who I was doing," he clarified with a grin.
Santi felt as if he was glued to the spot, unable to move, think, or even breathe. "But… but… you're married!" he argued feebly once he remembered the Spanish language. "You have a family!"
"And I love Zaida," Villa said with a nod, and a little, fond smile ghosted over his lips. "But this isn't about her, is it?"
"And… Patricia?" The midfielder almost flailed. "She's your wife! You're crazy about her!"
"Who are you trying to convince of that? Me? Or yourself?"
Santi gasped, thunderstruck. If this was a joke, Villa was taking it too far. What the fuck was he talking about? Had he lost his mind? He was still drunk, wasn't he? God, he had to leave before this got worse. Villa was his friend, and it was his responsibility to protect him, even if it meant protecting him from himself.
"David, stop," he said finally, trying to sound as resolute as possible. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I mean it," Villa insisted. "I'm not--"
"Stop!" Santi all but shouted before slumping against the backrest, completely exhausted. "Stop talking. Please."
He couldn't take any more of this. He had to gather his thoughts, but it was impossible as his brain had already started flashing him images of a possible future with David Villa, and no matter how ridiculous and childish they made him feel, he couldn't switch them off.
Suddenly, Santi felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts, and he winced reflexively at the touch.
"Santi?" Villa asked carefully, and the gentle tone of his voice nearly made Santi freak out.
How could Villa be so fucking calm? Didn't he realise what he was doing to him? That he was getting his hopes up when there was nothing to hope for, because he'd only end up heartbroken?
Or was he punishing him? Was that his understanding of retribution for a moment of weakness? Telling him all those lies about not caring for Patricia and only wanting him until Santi believed it and then shrugging him off?
"Don't do this to me, David," Santi finally whispered without looking at his teammate. Whatever Villa was playing at, it had to stop. The guilt of having made a mistake was heavy enough; he didn't have to add humiliation to it.
"Do what?"
The midfielder slowly raised his head, feeling prepared to face Villa, to tell him once and for all that they had to forget about what had happened and get back to what they had been before (if that was at all possible after this), but when his gaze connected with Villa's, his defense crumbled like a corroded piece of wood and it all blurted out of him.
"Stop playing with me! I know I made a mistake last night, and I'm feeling horrible about it. If I could, I'd make it undone, but I can't. I'm just as weak now as I was last night."
He gulped, frantically trying to find the right words before he realised that there could never be right words for something that was wrong in every way, so he simply said the first thing that came to his mind.
"You're… you're everything to me. I wasn't planning on telling you because I know I stand no chance against who you could have instead of me, who you have already and would have to be insane to give up for someone like me. But last night, I was too drunk, too euphoric, too happy, and for the first time you wanted me back… I shouldn't have let you do what you did."
Villa looked as if he was about to interrupt him, but Santi continued, his voice getting weaker by the moment as he struggled to keep his composure.
"I'm not asking for your forgiveness. What I did can't be forgiven. But please, don't punish me further. I'm a fool, wanting what I can't have, so don't get my hopes up, don't--"
"Santi, please," Villa finally interrupted him, "I'm not playing with you!" He hesitantly stretched out his arm to rub over Santi's, as if this would help him understand what was going on. "And I'm not forgiving you, because there's nothing to forgive! Last night happened because we both wanted it. It's not your fault. You don't have to feel guilty for me. I've wanted this for ages and never had the guts to tell you. But now that I have, I'm not prepared to give up. I want more."
"But..." Santi didn't even know what to say first; that he didn't believe a single word, that this was crazy, that Villa should get himself a little dose of realism before he continued talking, that it was not fair to say all those things Santi had secretly wanted to hear but that were too impossible to believe. In the end, he said nothing at all and just stared at Villa in disbelief.
"Yes, this is insane," the striker conceded, interpreting Santi's silence as lack of conviction. "Believe me, I've spent enough time thinking about it to know that we would be absolutely certifiable to take this further. I could tell myself a million reasons why this won't work out, but I can't lie to myself. I know what I want, and who I want, and all the common sense I have can't change that."
He sighed. "I know perfectly well that I don't have much to offer you. You're better off with someone else who you don't have to hide and who doesn't have to hide you. So if you say it's not worth it, I'd understand and I'd accept your decision, but I won't agree with you."
Santi gaped at him, completely and utterly speechless. He couldn't believe what he had heard - or what he thought he had heard. Chances were that he had imagined everything and should wake the fuck up. Or it had been a joke, a stupid joke, and Villa would start laughing heartily in about ten seconds, utterly pleased with himself and amused at the undoubtedly brain-dead look on Santi's face.
But then, the striker suddenly moved towards him and stretched out his hand to cup the back of Santi's head with a tenderness of which Santi would never have expected Villa to be capable, and as the midfielder gazed into his teammate's eyes, no longer unreadable but damned obvious, he realised that he had no reason at all to doubt that this was happening.
It was inconceivable, impossible, insane, and incredibly hard to believe, but it was definitely happening, and Santi realised that if he continued gaping like an idiot and acting as if he was immobile, Villa would eventually interpret that as a negative reply to his question.
He didn't want that, and since he didn't quite trust his voice yet, or his coherency, he just wrapped his arms around Villa and pulled him close, greedily inhaling the other man's scent and savouring the closeness.
They would have quite a lot of obstacles ahead of them.
They'd probably never have each other completely.
Yet, Santi couldn't help agreeing that it was worth a try, for it was definitely better than not having each other at all.
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football, Spanish National Team
Pairing: David Villa/Santi Cazorla
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this all up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Summary: It's the morning after the Euro 2008 final, and Santi is facing a disaster.
Dedication: For metalnurse, who requested this pairing when I offered drabbles.
Word Count: 3,214
Warning: Angst and fluff. Oh dear.
Thanks to casi_casi for the thorough, dedicated, detailed and most helpful beta. I can't thank you enough for what you did. I suppose not many beta readers would have had the guts to tell me to rewrite half the story, but you did, and I appreciate that immensely. You are fantastic and should be a role model for all beta readers. <3!
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from glomps to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
The proverbial morning after, Santi awoke with an enormous headache and a slightly nauseous feeling in his stomach. Too much celebrating, too much booze… and yet, he couldn't help a smile as images from the previous night flashed through his mind.
Campeones de Europa.
After over forty years of waiting, they had finally brought the cup back to Spain where it belonged.
He shifted lazily on the bed, blinking several times to accustom his eyes to the bright light of the sun shining into the room, and then checked the alarm clock…
… and realised it wasn't there.
Confused, he let his gaze wander across the room. It looked strangely familiar, but the more he saw of it, the more he began to doubt that this was his room. The picture on the wall was different, as was the suitcase next to the door. The wardrobe was shut, and he always left his wide open.
Then his eyes suddenly landed on his other side and spotted the sleeping form of a stark naked David Villa, and Santi nearly jumped out of the bed in shock.
Holy shit.
He glanced down at himself and found that he was wearing the same attire as his teammate: nothing at all. There were welts on his body; tell-tale crescent-shaped traces of fingernails that had dug into his skin; scratches that he couldn't explain, all along his stomach.
What had happened? What had they done?
He rose into a sitting position and stopped mid-motion, hissing at the sharp pain that jolted through him, and plopped right back down on his back.
For a couple of seconds, he just lay there, breathing deeply and trying to get his head around the situation - which was a lot more difficult than one might expect. He didn't remember anything of the previous night apart from winning the Euros and then returning to the hotel to party like there was no tomorrow. He didn't even remember being in Villa's room at all. Yet, considering what he had just discovered, there was no mistaking what had to have happened at some point during the night.
Santi closed his eyes, guilt washing over him.
Villa had to have been blind drunk to do this. He had a wife and a daughter. He had responsibilities.
And Santi had been too drunk to refuse him. With the alcohol lowering his inhibition threshold and clouding his ability to think reasonably, he had given in to Villa's advances and probably sent a prayer of thanks to the Heavens for finally granting him what he'd craved for so long: David Villa, wanting him.
Or, even worse, he had made advances himself, horny and unrelenting, and Villa had gone along with it, not realising in his inebriation that it wasn't his wife he was fucking into the mattress but his teammate.
The feeling of nausea in Santi's stomach increased.
He climbed out of the bed and walked to the bathroom, gritting his teeth at the soreness in his arse. Nothing in life came without a price. This was his fair punishment.
Santi turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face.
It would have been so easy to find excuses for what he had done. The adrenaline from the victory over Germany and, consequently, over Europe. The champagne, flowing freely all night, and the abundance of beer and wine in the hotel. It had happened out of a convenient opportunity, a misunderstanding, a misconception, and hadn't meant anything.
Only this last part wasn't true, at least not for Santi: to him it had meant the world. Still did. He couldn't say what was worse: that they had done this, or that he couldn't even bring himself to regret it for his own sake.
He had to leave; get out of the room before Villa woke up, and hope he wouldn't remember the previous night, especially not the identity of the person he'd slept with.
Quietly, Santi opened the bathroom door and hurried with soft steps to his clothes which were scattered all over the floor. They smelled of sweat and spilled drinks, but he couldn't have cared less. He'd change in his room and hope not to meet anyone on his way there.
The faint rustling of bed sheets behind him snapped Santi out of his thoughts and he turned around, only to look directly in the face of a drowsy David Villa.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Villa mumbled, "What're you doin'?" and gestured weakly at Santi standing near the door.
"I…" Santi swallowed, cursing himself for having taken so much time to get dressed.
"Get back in here." It wasn't even a request.
"But--"
"Santi." Villa's voice suddenly sounded firm and commanding and not sleep-ridden at all anymore.
The midfielder hesitated for a moment, wondering why Villa wanted him to stay. Probably to make it abundantly clear that this would just have been a one-off and nothing more, just to ensure Santi wouldn't read anything into it.
He slowly stepped back to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, keeping as much of a distance to Villa as possible.
The striker stretched lazily, practically flaunting his naked body. "Good morning."
No, it isn't, Santi wanted to reply, but instead he forced a smile, trying to ignore how ravishable Villa looked when he had just woken up, hair tousled, smelling of sweat and sex… Oh God. "Morning," he choked out, feeling the blush spreading over his face and hoping his teammate hadn't suddenly acquired the talent to read minds.
"Don't I get a good morning kiss?" Villa almost pouted at him.
Santi's eyes suddenly had a strong resemblance to saucers. He had expected quite a lot of things, ranging from a lecture about drunken one-night-stands to Villa threatening him he'd rip out his balls if he ever told anyone about what had happened, but nothing like this. Never this.
Villa must still have been drunk, or why else would he say such things?
Or was he just teasing him, challenging Santi to drop his guard and confess that he didn't just have friendly feelings for the other Asturian? And then laugh about his foolishness and utter naivety to even think for a second that he stood a chance? (Which was probably what he deserved for having allowed the previous night to happen, Santi thought bitterly.)
Maybe it would help to put on a mask of innocence and act as if he couldn't remember anything from the previous night? He contemplated that for a second but then realised that there was no way Villa would believe him. They had woken up naked in the same bed, after all, and even though the marks on his body were hidden underneath Santi's shirt and jeans, Villa didn't even need to see them; the tell-tale state of the bed sheet was enough.
"I… uhm…" Well, maybe a diversion would come in handy. He cleared his throat and tried to sound as casual as possible as he continued. "I haven't packed yet. When's the bus leaving?"
Villa frowned at him and then glanced at the clock on the wall. "If this thing still works, in two hours. Plenty of time left." He patted the spot on the bed next to him, gesturing to Santi to move closer. "You can pack later."
Santi sighed. That had gone well. "But I…"
The striker pulled himself up into a sitting position and chuckled. "I'd say after last night there's no need for you to play hard-to-get anymore."
So he did remember. Well, a complete blackout would probably have been a bit too much to ask.
Santi tried his utmost to ignore the lewd grin on his teammate's face, pull himself together and do what he had to do: be reasonable, find a good excuse, and leave.
"Guaje, I…" He gulped, frantically trying to sort his thoughts. "What happened last night was… a mistake. I'm… I don't know why it… why we… It can't…" Well, this was going nowhere. Honestly, how was he supposed to come up a sentence that began with 'I think' and ended with Villa agreeing that it was best to go back to what they'd been before when he himself didn't believe it? It was impossible.
The midfielder looked away, focusing his gaze on the painting on the wall as he collected his thoughts. "I think we… we should forget about it." His voice nearly cracked, but there was no other way. Someone had to be reasonable about things, and Santi figured that if he was that someone now, he would at least spare himself the humiliation of Villa coming to his senses and rejecting him.
There was a short silence before the striker spoke. "Will you say that to my face?" His voice sounded calm and collected, but it had a curious undertone that Santi couldn't quite read.
Did Villa think he wasn't serious?
Or was it that he didn't want him to be serious? (Santi figured there was nothing wrong with a bit of wishful thinking.)
In any case, there was no way Santi could look at him just then and at the same time keep his façade of indifference and reason that he'd made such an effort to construct, so he kept his gaze on the painting without even looking at it. He didn't speak. He had said it once; no more could be asked of him.
"If you really mean it, be man enough to say it to my face," Villa repeated, and the unexpected urgency in his voice as well as the implied reproach of cowardice finally did their job.
Santi was quite a lot of things, but he was no coward.
Slowly, he turned his head to face his teammate, determined to rise to the challenge, do the right thing, and repeat what he'd said earlier, but the moment his gaze locked with Villa's, he couldn't get the words out anymore.
His hung-over, still slightly exhausted brain was no match for the unrelenting, completely unreadable stare that Villa was directing at him - not to mention the fact that his teammate obviously thought it unnecessary to cover himself and was still flaunting his naked body in its full glory. Santi tried his best to keep his gaze focused on Villa's face, but he couldn't get the rest of him out of his head, and that didn't help his concentration at all.
The midfielder secretly cursed himself for having started this damned conversation so early in the morning.
Eventually, he settled for throwing his head back against the wall (a little more forcefully than he usually would, hoping it would get his brain back on track) and letting out a desperate sigh, hoping it would finally settle things, but Villa didn't look convinced.
"If you can't say it, you don't mean it," he said almost stubbornly, and Santi found it incredibly unfair that unlike him, his teammate could focus like this despite just having woken up.
"I've said it," Santi replied about as stubbornly, returning his gaze back to the picture on the wall. "And I mean it," he added, hoping Villa wouldn't pick up on how pathetic and feeble he sounded.
"And you mean it because you don't want me, or because you think I shouldn't want you?"
Sharply, Santi turned his head to stare at Villa, wondering if he was reading too much into his words or if Villa had indeed just admitted that he wanted him, still, even after having slept over it. "Well, you shouldn't, should you?" he choked out.
"Maybe not," Villa admitted, "but that doesn't change anything. Why do you think last night happened?"
"Because you were drunk!" Santi spluttered, completely losing his composure. "You were all over the place! I'm surprised you still remember what happened at all!"
Villa laughed. "I only had a couple of beers. Trust me: I knew what I was doing. Who I was doing," he clarified with a grin.
Santi felt as if he was glued to the spot, unable to move, think, or even breathe. "But… but… you're married!" he argued feebly once he remembered the Spanish language. "You have a family!"
"And I love Zaida," Villa said with a nod, and a little, fond smile ghosted over his lips. "But this isn't about her, is it?"
"And… Patricia?" The midfielder almost flailed. "She's your wife! You're crazy about her!"
"Who are you trying to convince of that? Me? Or yourself?"
Santi gasped, thunderstruck. If this was a joke, Villa was taking it too far. What the fuck was he talking about? Had he lost his mind? He was still drunk, wasn't he? God, he had to leave before this got worse. Villa was his friend, and it was his responsibility to protect him, even if it meant protecting him from himself.
"David, stop," he said finally, trying to sound as resolute as possible. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I mean it," Villa insisted. "I'm not--"
"Stop!" Santi all but shouted before slumping against the backrest, completely exhausted. "Stop talking. Please."
He couldn't take any more of this. He had to gather his thoughts, but it was impossible as his brain had already started flashing him images of a possible future with David Villa, and no matter how ridiculous and childish they made him feel, he couldn't switch them off.
Suddenly, Santi felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts, and he winced reflexively at the touch.
"Santi?" Villa asked carefully, and the gentle tone of his voice nearly made Santi freak out.
How could Villa be so fucking calm? Didn't he realise what he was doing to him? That he was getting his hopes up when there was nothing to hope for, because he'd only end up heartbroken?
Or was he punishing him? Was that his understanding of retribution for a moment of weakness? Telling him all those lies about not caring for Patricia and only wanting him until Santi believed it and then shrugging him off?
"Don't do this to me, David," Santi finally whispered without looking at his teammate. Whatever Villa was playing at, it had to stop. The guilt of having made a mistake was heavy enough; he didn't have to add humiliation to it.
"Do what?"
The midfielder slowly raised his head, feeling prepared to face Villa, to tell him once and for all that they had to forget about what had happened and get back to what they had been before (if that was at all possible after this), but when his gaze connected with Villa's, his defense crumbled like a corroded piece of wood and it all blurted out of him.
"Stop playing with me! I know I made a mistake last night, and I'm feeling horrible about it. If I could, I'd make it undone, but I can't. I'm just as weak now as I was last night."
He gulped, frantically trying to find the right words before he realised that there could never be right words for something that was wrong in every way, so he simply said the first thing that came to his mind.
"You're… you're everything to me. I wasn't planning on telling you because I know I stand no chance against who you could have instead of me, who you have already and would have to be insane to give up for someone like me. But last night, I was too drunk, too euphoric, too happy, and for the first time you wanted me back… I shouldn't have let you do what you did."
Villa looked as if he was about to interrupt him, but Santi continued, his voice getting weaker by the moment as he struggled to keep his composure.
"I'm not asking for your forgiveness. What I did can't be forgiven. But please, don't punish me further. I'm a fool, wanting what I can't have, so don't get my hopes up, don't--"
"Santi, please," Villa finally interrupted him, "I'm not playing with you!" He hesitantly stretched out his arm to rub over Santi's, as if this would help him understand what was going on. "And I'm not forgiving you, because there's nothing to forgive! Last night happened because we both wanted it. It's not your fault. You don't have to feel guilty for me. I've wanted this for ages and never had the guts to tell you. But now that I have, I'm not prepared to give up. I want more."
"But..." Santi didn't even know what to say first; that he didn't believe a single word, that this was crazy, that Villa should get himself a little dose of realism before he continued talking, that it was not fair to say all those things Santi had secretly wanted to hear but that were too impossible to believe. In the end, he said nothing at all and just stared at Villa in disbelief.
"Yes, this is insane," the striker conceded, interpreting Santi's silence as lack of conviction. "Believe me, I've spent enough time thinking about it to know that we would be absolutely certifiable to take this further. I could tell myself a million reasons why this won't work out, but I can't lie to myself. I know what I want, and who I want, and all the common sense I have can't change that."
He sighed. "I know perfectly well that I don't have much to offer you. You're better off with someone else who you don't have to hide and who doesn't have to hide you. So if you say it's not worth it, I'd understand and I'd accept your decision, but I won't agree with you."
Santi gaped at him, completely and utterly speechless. He couldn't believe what he had heard - or what he thought he had heard. Chances were that he had imagined everything and should wake the fuck up. Or it had been a joke, a stupid joke, and Villa would start laughing heartily in about ten seconds, utterly pleased with himself and amused at the undoubtedly brain-dead look on Santi's face.
But then, the striker suddenly moved towards him and stretched out his hand to cup the back of Santi's head with a tenderness of which Santi would never have expected Villa to be capable, and as the midfielder gazed into his teammate's eyes, no longer unreadable but damned obvious, he realised that he had no reason at all to doubt that this was happening.
It was inconceivable, impossible, insane, and incredibly hard to believe, but it was definitely happening, and Santi realised that if he continued gaping like an idiot and acting as if he was immobile, Villa would eventually interpret that as a negative reply to his question.
He didn't want that, and since he didn't quite trust his voice yet, or his coherency, he just wrapped his arms around Villa and pulled him close, greedily inhaling the other man's scent and savouring the closeness.
They would have quite a lot of obstacles ahead of them.
They'd probably never have each other completely.
Yet, Santi couldn't help agreeing that it was worth a try, for it was definitely better than not having each other at all.