(no subject)
title: we will build a new world
rating: r
pairing: david villa/leo messi
words: ~1450
summary: AU; future civil war in spain; “When the first bombs fall on Madrid, David shows up on Leo’s doorstep.”
author’s note: anything resembling political commentary here is unintentional.
When the first bombs fall on Madrid, David shows up on Leo’s doorstep. David loves his own house, the high white walls that have kept him sane and safe for many years; still, he barely hesitates when he leaves. He doesn’t bring anything with him, but it doesn’t matter. He never goes home again.
14 days after David moves into Leo’s home, starts wearing his clothes, eating his food, using his toothbrush, a pair of uniformed officers knock on the door.
Like robots, they inform David and Leo that all foreigners are now required to be registered and wear identification at all times. It takes David a minute to realize that they’re referring to Leo, Leo’s a foreigner, and he wants to laugh, because even now he doubts there’s anyone in the country, in the world, that doesn’t know who Lionel Messi is.
He looks at Leo, but he doesn’t seem to see the humor in it. Leo takes the small laminated card, pins it to his shirt. He fills out the paperwork the officers give him, his face stony, unmoving.
And then the officers turn to David, hold out a pin for him too, and he realizes, he’s not from Catalunya, he’s a foreigner now too--
As soon as the door shuts, Leo rips his pin off, tosses it to the ground. There’s a long tear in the pocket of his shirt, and he throws it in the garbage. They don’t go out anymore, after that.
During the day, they try to act normal, as much as they can. They wake up early and get dressed, and most days they’ll kick a football around, inside, of course. David is glad Leo’s house has long hallways. They hit a lot of vases and picture frames, but Leo doesn’t seem to care; on the contrary, he actually seems to take pleasure in breaking his things. It’s always David who stoops down, scoops up shards of glass gingerly.
At night, they lay in bed, and only then do they whisper the things they’ve spent all day thinking, into the dark, into the quiet.
25 days after David moves into Leo’s home, they get a call from Iker.
“I got out,” he says, “I’m in London,” and David can hardly bear to listen to him, the scratch of his voice, sounding like his heart’s been cracked in two; David supposes it has. He and Leo have watched Madrid burning, on TV, had seen the Bernabeu going up in flames.
“I’m glad, Iker,” he says.
“You’re staying, then? In Barcelona?”
He looks at Leo, then, his eyes focused out the window, looking over the city, and he says, “Yes. We’re staying.” And then he quickly passes the phone to Leo and goes into the hall bathroom, shuts the door, sinks onto the tile.
There’s no windows in this bathroom, and it’s in the middle of the house, so sounds from outside are muffled. They spend a lot of time in there.
Every few days, Leo’s brother brings them food. He unpacks canvas bags in the kitchen, mostly canned goods; he apologizes for the lack of fresh food, but Leo and David wave him off.
Each time he leaves, Leo takes longer to say goodbye, leaning his forehead against the older man’s, murmuring into his ear. Rodrigo’s laminated identification card presses into Leo’s chest. David watches them, the matching slopes of their cheeks and curves of their noses, two pairs of the same eyes blinking heavily at each other, until one day he can’t look at them anymore. It’s too much like Leo is saying goodbye to himself.
David spoke to his own family only once, 8 or 9 days after he moved into Leo’s house. He’d managed to get a hold of his sister, and she told him they were leaving, the whole family, trying to get out of the country, going east. She’d pleaded with him to go with them, hysteria creeping into her voice.
David had been looking at Leo, laying on the couch, wide eyes trained on the TV and a football balanced on the top of his foot, when he’d said, “I’m staying,” and, “I’m sorry.”
He gave them Leo’s number, their emergency numbers, emails, everything, but he hasn’t heard from them since. Every night he prays feverishly to a god he doesn’t believe in that they made it out.
43 days after David moves into Leo’s house, Madrid forces bomb Camp Nou. They hear the explosion through the walls, rush to the television, stand frozen in front of the images flashing across the screen.
David can’t look at Leo’s face, can’t bear it. Leo locks him out of the hall bathroom, and David falls asleep leaning against the door.
In all the time David has been in Leo’s house, occupying his space, using his things, they have barely touched. Even at night, when they whisper the things they can’t face in the daylight, at most there is the brush of a knee against a thigh, the pass of a hand over hair.
On this night, though, when Leo crawls out of the bathroom, when David gets off the floor with a crick in his neck and shaking hands-
David leads Leo into his own darkened room, lays him on the bed, undresses him. Leo barely moves; in the dark, David can’t even see if he’s watching, as David undresses himself, prepares himself with slick fingers.
David drags his mouth down Leo’s body, breathing over his flushed skin, his tongue tracing curves of muscle and bone, and when Leo’s hard, David sinks down onto him, rocking his hips, bent over him like in prayer. He pushes his palms into Leo’s chest, as if he can put the pieces back together, hold them in place.
Leo comes silently, his nails digging into David’s forearms.
57 days after David moves into Leo’s house, 48 days after the last time he speaks to his family, 33 days after they speak to Iker, 14 days after Camp Nou falls, and 6 days after Rodrigo comes over for the last time, they wake up in the morning and it’s like the explosions and shots and war are right outside their window.
They lay in the hall bathroom for awhile, but it barely muffles the sounds anymore, and eventually Leo says, “I don’t want this- this bathroom- it could be the last thing-“
And David says, “Yeah, okay.” They move to a spot under a window in the living room, where they can’t see out at the destruction in the city below them, but the sunshine still spills over them, diluted by the dust and debris in the air but still a bright orange glow above them.
They lay on the floor with their feet pointed in opposite directions, their heads on each other’s shoulders. David links his hands over his chest, and Leo presses his knuckles into one of them, his arm lifted over his head.
“What do you think heaven is like?” he asks.
David moves his hand, so it’s pressed palm to palm with Leo’s. “I don’t know that there is one,” he says.
“Assume there is.”
“Okay,” David says, and he looks at the ceiling in thought, ignores the explosions outside. “If there’s a heaven, then I think it’s filled with football pitches.”
Leo laughs. “I knew you would say that.”
“So would you,” David says, pressing his fingertips into Leo’s, one by one.
“Yeah,” Leo concedes. Then: “Football pitches with real grass, not that artificial crap.”
“Obviously,” David says.
“And puppies,” Leo says. “There would be lots of puppies.”
“On the football pitches?” David asks. He can’t see Leo’s face but he knows he smiles.
“No, not on the pitches. In the palaces. Where our families live.”
“Oh, of course,” David says, nodding seriously.
“And I can eat all the empanadas I want and never get fat,” Leo finishes.
“And I can drink all the Asturian cider I want and never be hungover,” David says.
“I’m not sure that’s possible, even in heaven,” Leo says, and David twists to poke him in the side.
They settle back down and for a moment, even outside, it’s completely quiet. Suddenly, urgently, David says, “Leo, you know- you know I-“
He stops, because he doesn’t know how to finish. -thank you, he wants to say, and he wants to say, love you, and, miss you, god, I already miss you-
He feels Leo turn his head, pressing his face into David’s neck. His breath is hot on David’s skin. “Yes,” Leo says. “Yes.”
They stay there like that. They wait.
rating: r
pairing: david villa/leo messi
words: ~1450
summary: AU; future civil war in spain; “When the first bombs fall on Madrid, David shows up on Leo’s doorstep.”
author’s note: anything resembling political commentary here is unintentional.
When the first bombs fall on Madrid, David shows up on Leo’s doorstep. David loves his own house, the high white walls that have kept him sane and safe for many years; still, he barely hesitates when he leaves. He doesn’t bring anything with him, but it doesn’t matter. He never goes home again.
14 days after David moves into Leo’s home, starts wearing his clothes, eating his food, using his toothbrush, a pair of uniformed officers knock on the door.
Like robots, they inform David and Leo that all foreigners are now required to be registered and wear identification at all times. It takes David a minute to realize that they’re referring to Leo, Leo’s a foreigner, and he wants to laugh, because even now he doubts there’s anyone in the country, in the world, that doesn’t know who Lionel Messi is.
He looks at Leo, but he doesn’t seem to see the humor in it. Leo takes the small laminated card, pins it to his shirt. He fills out the paperwork the officers give him, his face stony, unmoving.
And then the officers turn to David, hold out a pin for him too, and he realizes, he’s not from Catalunya, he’s a foreigner now too--
As soon as the door shuts, Leo rips his pin off, tosses it to the ground. There’s a long tear in the pocket of his shirt, and he throws it in the garbage. They don’t go out anymore, after that.
During the day, they try to act normal, as much as they can. They wake up early and get dressed, and most days they’ll kick a football around, inside, of course. David is glad Leo’s house has long hallways. They hit a lot of vases and picture frames, but Leo doesn’t seem to care; on the contrary, he actually seems to take pleasure in breaking his things. It’s always David who stoops down, scoops up shards of glass gingerly.
At night, they lay in bed, and only then do they whisper the things they’ve spent all day thinking, into the dark, into the quiet.
25 days after David moves into Leo’s home, they get a call from Iker.
“I got out,” he says, “I’m in London,” and David can hardly bear to listen to him, the scratch of his voice, sounding like his heart’s been cracked in two; David supposes it has. He and Leo have watched Madrid burning, on TV, had seen the Bernabeu going up in flames.
“I’m glad, Iker,” he says.
“You’re staying, then? In Barcelona?”
He looks at Leo, then, his eyes focused out the window, looking over the city, and he says, “Yes. We’re staying.” And then he quickly passes the phone to Leo and goes into the hall bathroom, shuts the door, sinks onto the tile.
There’s no windows in this bathroom, and it’s in the middle of the house, so sounds from outside are muffled. They spend a lot of time in there.
Every few days, Leo’s brother brings them food. He unpacks canvas bags in the kitchen, mostly canned goods; he apologizes for the lack of fresh food, but Leo and David wave him off.
Each time he leaves, Leo takes longer to say goodbye, leaning his forehead against the older man’s, murmuring into his ear. Rodrigo’s laminated identification card presses into Leo’s chest. David watches them, the matching slopes of their cheeks and curves of their noses, two pairs of the same eyes blinking heavily at each other, until one day he can’t look at them anymore. It’s too much like Leo is saying goodbye to himself.
David spoke to his own family only once, 8 or 9 days after he moved into Leo’s house. He’d managed to get a hold of his sister, and she told him they were leaving, the whole family, trying to get out of the country, going east. She’d pleaded with him to go with them, hysteria creeping into her voice.
David had been looking at Leo, laying on the couch, wide eyes trained on the TV and a football balanced on the top of his foot, when he’d said, “I’m staying,” and, “I’m sorry.”
He gave them Leo’s number, their emergency numbers, emails, everything, but he hasn’t heard from them since. Every night he prays feverishly to a god he doesn’t believe in that they made it out.
43 days after David moves into Leo’s house, Madrid forces bomb Camp Nou. They hear the explosion through the walls, rush to the television, stand frozen in front of the images flashing across the screen.
David can’t look at Leo’s face, can’t bear it. Leo locks him out of the hall bathroom, and David falls asleep leaning against the door.
In all the time David has been in Leo’s house, occupying his space, using his things, they have barely touched. Even at night, when they whisper the things they can’t face in the daylight, at most there is the brush of a knee against a thigh, the pass of a hand over hair.
On this night, though, when Leo crawls out of the bathroom, when David gets off the floor with a crick in his neck and shaking hands-
David leads Leo into his own darkened room, lays him on the bed, undresses him. Leo barely moves; in the dark, David can’t even see if he’s watching, as David undresses himself, prepares himself with slick fingers.
David drags his mouth down Leo’s body, breathing over his flushed skin, his tongue tracing curves of muscle and bone, and when Leo’s hard, David sinks down onto him, rocking his hips, bent over him like in prayer. He pushes his palms into Leo’s chest, as if he can put the pieces back together, hold them in place.
Leo comes silently, his nails digging into David’s forearms.
57 days after David moves into Leo’s house, 48 days after the last time he speaks to his family, 33 days after they speak to Iker, 14 days after Camp Nou falls, and 6 days after Rodrigo comes over for the last time, they wake up in the morning and it’s like the explosions and shots and war are right outside their window.
They lay in the hall bathroom for awhile, but it barely muffles the sounds anymore, and eventually Leo says, “I don’t want this- this bathroom- it could be the last thing-“
And David says, “Yeah, okay.” They move to a spot under a window in the living room, where they can’t see out at the destruction in the city below them, but the sunshine still spills over them, diluted by the dust and debris in the air but still a bright orange glow above them.
They lay on the floor with their feet pointed in opposite directions, their heads on each other’s shoulders. David links his hands over his chest, and Leo presses his knuckles into one of them, his arm lifted over his head.
“What do you think heaven is like?” he asks.
David moves his hand, so it’s pressed palm to palm with Leo’s. “I don’t know that there is one,” he says.
“Assume there is.”
“Okay,” David says, and he looks at the ceiling in thought, ignores the explosions outside. “If there’s a heaven, then I think it’s filled with football pitches.”
Leo laughs. “I knew you would say that.”
“So would you,” David says, pressing his fingertips into Leo’s, one by one.
“Yeah,” Leo concedes. Then: “Football pitches with real grass, not that artificial crap.”
“Obviously,” David says.
“And puppies,” Leo says. “There would be lots of puppies.”
“On the football pitches?” David asks. He can’t see Leo’s face but he knows he smiles.
“No, not on the pitches. In the palaces. Where our families live.”
“Oh, of course,” David says, nodding seriously.
“And I can eat all the empanadas I want and never get fat,” Leo finishes.
“And I can drink all the Asturian cider I want and never be hungover,” David says.
“I’m not sure that’s possible, even in heaven,” Leo says, and David twists to poke him in the side.
They settle back down and for a moment, even outside, it’s completely quiet. Suddenly, urgently, David says, “Leo, you know- you know I-“
He stops, because he doesn’t know how to finish. -thank you, he wants to say, and he wants to say, love you, and, miss you, god, I already miss you-
He feels Leo turn his head, pressing his face into David’s neck. His breath is hot on David’s skin. “Yes,” Leo says. “Yes.”
They stay there like that. They wait.