“Now everything I was scared of has already happened,” Stevie inhales deeply. “Now I have nothing to lose.”
favourite.
He sits on the bench squeezed between Llorente and Marche, trying to maintain as much of a distance as he could from Pepe, not wanting a repeat of that cryptic conversation on the phone. He watches the match dully, picturing the last time he had played at the Bernabeu. It was almost a year ago, he realized, and it simultaneously felt so distant and so close. He watches Villa’s face screw up in frustration as a pass he serves Pedro skims off the goalie’s hand: he had less lines on his face, then, less stubble, that day, but no less frustration. Villa had fucked him later in the showers, and he had whimpered and bitten his own forearm in a bid to stay as quiet as he could, attuned to any surrounding sounds even though it was “just Valencia”; later, they had watched old soaps until 2 a.m. on their room’s clunky television set, fingers intertwined between their tired bodies.
LDSJHFJKSHJKFHDSHFSD.
And I just really really really want to know what was going through Xabi's mind when he saw them in the locker room.
You can definitely get used to goals, and victories, and awards, and fans pumping their fists in the air, and Merlin! Merlin! Merlin!, and hard kicks to the shin, and english swearwords, and to stepping on the pitch and feeling like you’re the center of the team, feeling like you’re pulling strings and goals and hearts with your kicks, feeling like every thing’s changed, but every thing is okay.
D: NO BUT I WANT YOU BACK AT VALENCIA D: D: D: :((( glad he's happy though jsdf.
“I’m happy for you, Gerrard,” says Silva politely, when he’s done digesting whatever scraps of English he could ingest from what Gerrard had been telling him. “Xabi looks happy. Say to him I say congratulations.”
“That’s not my point, mate,” sighs Gerrard on the other end. “My point is that...you shouldn’t do what I did. And I feel like I made you, you know, with me advice to you the last time. You...you got me thinking, mate. I need to return the favour.”
Silva pauses, drawing his knees to his chest. “Okay,” he says finally, simply, because his vocabulary was too limited for the complicated thoughts swimming in his head.
“You think it’s not my place to give advice,” comes Gerrard’s voice in reply. Silva has to give him credit; he didn’t expect him to catch on to that so easily. He exhales, and shrugs. “Well...,” he begins, and stops. You don’t know us, he thinks. We’re different, he thinks. He didn’t apologize, he thinks. I can stop caring, he thinks.
Just, Oh Goood to all of this. Oh God. Oh Stevie. Oh Silva. Listen to the scouser, Enano, he knows what he's saying JKjfkls. Also David your bf would have long apologized if you let himmmm.
But, puta madre,” his voice rises, “When I am in London, you are in fucking Greece, and then, when you’re in London, I am in Spain, and I swear, you just went to Kiev, I’m going to Ukraine exactly a month later, and--”
David Villa is David Villa, he does not get to the fucking point in just a few words when he can do it in many. Fact. And I love him, and love that you wrote him like this, and I love you.
favourite.
He sits on the bench squeezed between Llorente and Marche, trying to maintain as much of a distance as he could from Pepe, not wanting a repeat of that cryptic conversation on the phone. He watches the match dully, picturing the last time he had played at the Bernabeu. It was almost a year ago, he realized, and it simultaneously felt so distant and so close. He watches Villa’s face screw up in frustration as a pass he serves Pedro skims off the goalie’s hand: he had less lines on his face, then, less stubble, that day, but no less frustration. Villa had fucked him later in the showers, and he had whimpered and bitten his own forearm in a bid to stay as quiet as he could, attuned to any surrounding sounds even though it was “just Valencia”; later, they had watched old soaps until 2 a.m. on their room’s clunky television set, fingers intertwined between their tired bodies.
LDSJHFJKSHJKFHDSHFSD.
And I just really really really want to know what was going through Xabi's mind when he saw them in the locker room.
You can definitely get used to goals, and victories, and awards, and fans pumping their fists in the air, and Merlin! Merlin! Merlin!, and hard kicks to the shin, and english swearwords, and to stepping on the pitch and feeling like you’re the center of the team, feeling like you’re pulling strings and goals and hearts with your kicks, feeling like every thing’s changed, but every thing is okay.
D: NO BUT I WANT YOU BACK AT VALENCIA D: D: D: :((( glad he's happy though jsdf.
“I’m happy for you, Gerrard,” says Silva politely, when he’s done digesting whatever scraps of English he could ingest from what Gerrard had been telling him. “Xabi looks happy. Say to him I say congratulations.”
“That’s not my point, mate,” sighs Gerrard on the other end. “My point is that...you shouldn’t do what I did. And I feel like I made you, you know, with me advice to you the last time. You...you got me thinking, mate. I need to return the favour.”
Silva pauses, drawing his knees to his chest. “Okay,” he says finally, simply, because his vocabulary was too limited for the complicated thoughts swimming in his head.
“You think it’s not my place to give advice,” comes Gerrard’s voice in reply. Silva has to give him credit; he didn’t expect him to catch on to that so easily. He exhales, and shrugs. “Well...,” he begins, and stops. You don’t know us, he thinks. We’re different, he thinks. He didn’t apologize, he thinks. I can stop caring, he thinks.
Just, Oh Goood to all of this. Oh God. Oh Stevie. Oh Silva. Listen to the scouser, Enano, he knows what he's saying JKjfkls. Also David your bf would have long apologized if you let himmmm.
But, puta madre,” his voice rises, “When I am in London, you are in fucking Greece, and then, when you’re in London, I am in Spain, and I swear, you just went to Kiev, I’m going to Ukraine exactly a month later, and--”
David Villa is David Villa, he does not get to the fucking point in just a few words when he can do it in many. Fact. And I love him, and love that you wrote him like this, and I love you.
Reply
I KNOW RIGHT? i don't want my bb sad but ugh, valencia
Reply
Leave a comment