(no subject)
title: there will be a day
pairing: david silva/sergio agüero; implied leo messi/david villa and past david silva/david villa
rating: r
words: ~1650
summary: sergio 'kun' agüero transfers to city and it all looks familiar to david silva.
Villa calls him almost immediately, as soon as he hears the news. Silva doesn’t want to pick up, never wants to pick up, but he does, as always.
“You excited?” Villa asks, and he sounds casual, sounds rested. Silva imagines him reclining on a beach somewhere, golden skin in the sun. Imagines, forces himself to imagine, his wife next to him.
“About what,” he says, his voice flat.
“Kuuuuuuuuun,” Villa says, drawing it out, teasing.
Silva flops back onto his couch. It’s raining outside, like usual, but he wishes he were out in it, wishes he were on a pitch already.
“Sure,” he says. “He’s a good player.”
“He is,” Villa says. He sounds distracted; Silva wonders if maybe his daughters are there, running around his feet, grabbing at him, demanding his attention. His daughters. It’s quiet for a moment and then Villa’s back. “Leo says he’s a great guy.”
There’s something soft about his voice when he says that, when he says Leo, something Silva hasn’t heard in a long time. Maybe ever. He blanches.
“I have to go,” he says, and clicks off without waiting for an answer.
Kun-that’s how he introduces himself, but he says they can call him whatever, Kun or Sergio or Agüero, says it in that soft lilting Argentinean accent-he is nice, a great guy or whatever Villa had said. Silva already knew him a little bit, from La Liga, but of course it’s different being teammates, and Kun holds his hand out for Silva on the first day, his smile wide and contagious, perfect white teeth against deeply tanned skin, jet black hair. And it already looks familiar.
There’s no particular reason Kun should stick to Silva; he already knows Zaba, and Carlitos, is already close to them from the national team. But he does, he sits next to Silva on the bus and waits for him after practice, and when Silva finally manages to find a way to ask why, he hardly looks embarrassed.
Instead, he gets a faraway look in his eye, a fond smile on his face. “You remind me of…” he starts, and like a punch to the stomach Silva gets it. “Home,” he finishes, “For some reason, even more than Zaba and Carlitos, you remind me of home,” but they both know he means something different.
Silva figures it’s fair, because the first time he kisses Kun, he thinks, you are the same person in different wrapping. Thinks, there will be a day I will seek less complicated men, less interesting men, lesser men. Thinks it always tastes the same, thrill and shame, bursting hope and wilting disappointment.
He’s not the same as Villa, of course. His smile is wider, laugh comes easier; he’s younger, younger than Silva even, hard as it is to believe sometimes, more laid back.
And he likes different things than Villa; a different twist of the hand, no teeth; likes Silva to be gentle where Villa liked to be marked; comes with quiet groans where Villa was stark silent, staring at Silva from above.
But for Silva, they’re not different in any of the ways that matter.
“So, Kun.” Villa again, voice dripping with something else now. Silva’s too tired to figure it out.
“Kun,” Silva replies, and his voice is always so flat when he talks to Villa, like all the emotion is sucked out of Silva’s life the moment the phone rings.
“Quite a debut,” he says, and he might be trying to sound casual but it’s only kind of working. “You work well together.” He lets it hang in the air before he finishes. “On the pitch.”
Silva laughs, reckless. “On the pitch,” he echoes, laughs some more. “On the pitch, off the pitch. It works,” and it would be a sneer if he could muster the energy.
There’s a shaky moment of silence before Villa laughs. “Oh, Silva,” he says, sounds more amused than jealous or upset and Silva should have expected it. “Things never change, do they?”
Silva’s thinking of Messi when he answers, hair swept across his face, his young face, his smile when Villa throws himself on top of him on the pitch. “No, they don’t.”
Silva doesn’t know how, but Adam knows.
“Gotta be careful with that there,” he says, sweat dripping in his eyes, voice gruff. He doesn’t look at Silva while he says it and it gives Silva a chance to study him.
Silva thinks about playing dumb; he thinks about laughing. He knows he could shock Adam, tell him, you think I haven’t done this before? You think I don’t know all the tricks?
But he doesn’t. He leans into Adam, head on his chest, and when Adam softens, he elbows him in the stomach, just enough to make him laugh.
“Thanks, asshole,” he mutters. Cheek pressed against Adam’s chest, rising and falling gently, he thinks of simple men.
Villa scores a hat trick and Silva calls to make fun of him for playing in a league where he’ll never be top scorer.
When that’s out of the way, Villa says, apropos of nothing, “You know, I’m not sure Maradona is someone I’d want to make an enemy of.”
It takes Silva awhile to catch up to him; he thinks first of Messi, of Villa making Maradona upset because of Messi. And then he remembers Giannina; thinks, if Maradona is the worst punishment I get, I’m a lucky bastard. But says, “Like anyone takes him seriously now, anyway.”
Villa laughs; Silva wonders why he brought it up.
They’re watching a Barcelona Champions League game in bed, sheets draped over them, damp with sweat. Kun tenses every time Messi gets near the ball, gets a chance; Silva rests his hand on Kun’s back, feeling the tightening of the muscles there but not pressing down, not loosening him up.
“You’re close to him,” Silva says, a statement instead of a question. “Messi.”
Kun’s eyes flick over and if he shifts away, it’s barely noticeable. “Sure.”
Silva’s careful to keep his face blank. “Have you ever?” he asks. “With him?”
He can see Kun swallowing; it’s time like these Silva remembers he’s the older one. “We’re friends,” he says. “Close friends.” They both know it’s not the question Silva asked, but he gets his answer anyway.
Silva moves closer, drapes an arm over Kun’s chest, if only so he knows Silva isn’t upset. Kun’s not smiling and Silva misses it. “What if we played them?” he asks. “In Champions.”
Kun turns toward him. Their faces are very close. “I’ve played against Leo before,” he says, shrugs like it’s nothing.
Later, when they watch their names pulled out of a bowl to meet Barcelona in the quarterfinals, Kun elbows him in the side. “You jinxed us,” he says. Silva thinks maybe he did.
“Does Messi know you call me?” Silva asks Villa one Sunday afternoon, draped over his couch. It’s raining and he’s bored; he has the day off after their Saturday game, and when he’d invited Kun over, Kun had said, “I promised Benjamin I’d take him to the aquarium.”
And Silva had thought, Benjamin; added him to a list in his head, Zaida, Olaya, Benjamin, wondered how much longer he’d allow the list to grow.
In his ear, Villa exhales sharply, snaps, “Do you know Kun calls Leo?”
Silva’s stomach twists; not from the revelation, but from the careless way they keep playing this game, no end in sight, no chance that anyone will ever win.
The first leg of the tie against Barcelona is miserable, cold and wet; Silva can barely stay on his feet, much less get off a good pass.
When Villa scores in the 61st minute, Silva isn’t watching; the moment Villa’s boot touched the ball Silva knew it was a goal and turned away. Instead of looking at the other team celebrate he turns, looks up into the stands; looks at their supporters, his supporters, rain running down their cheeks, dripping off their eyelashes, goosebumps dotting their skin. He thinks, sorry, so sorry.
Afterward Villa walks by him, touches the back of his head, but by the time Silva’s turned and sees him he’s already gone, disappearing into the tunnel, and Silva feels vaguely relieved.
He glances around at the emptying pitch; at center circle are Kun and Messi, standing close and talking quietly. Silva makes his way toward them.
“Good game,” he says, offering Messi a hand. He shakes it but Silva’s hand are so cold he barely feels it.
“Can I have your shirt?” Silva asks, not for any reason except that it’s Messi.
Kun laughs suddenly, pushes his elbow into Silva’s ribs. “I wanted his shirt,” he says.
Messi smiles, says in his quiet voice, “You have plenty of my shirts, boludo.” His eyes are soft, fond, looking at Kun. He turns to Silva. “In the tunnel, okay?”
The three of them turn, ambling toward the touchline; Messi gets pulled away by others congratulating him, wanting to shake his hand. Silva pauses to wait for him and Kun smiles, honest and understanding, but keeps walking.
Messi catches up finally and it’s quiet; he pulls his shirt over his head, wet fabric sticking to his underarmor, and Silva does the same. Above their wet shirts, Silva catches his eye, wonders if he imagines the flash of recognition, of solidarity there; it’s gone so fast he thinks he probably did.
Silva takes hold of Messi’s shirt but the other man doesn’t let go right away. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, and Silva, not knowing why, braces himself for it. But he closes his mouth again quickly, smiles at Silva politely and lets go of the shirt.
“Good luck,” he says, turning toward the Barcelona dressing room.
Silva repeats the loaded sentiment; he knows they’ll both need it.
pairing: david silva/sergio agüero; implied leo messi/david villa and past david silva/david villa
rating: r
words: ~1650
summary: sergio 'kun' agüero transfers to city and it all looks familiar to david silva.
Villa calls him almost immediately, as soon as he hears the news. Silva doesn’t want to pick up, never wants to pick up, but he does, as always.
“You excited?” Villa asks, and he sounds casual, sounds rested. Silva imagines him reclining on a beach somewhere, golden skin in the sun. Imagines, forces himself to imagine, his wife next to him.
“About what,” he says, his voice flat.
“Kuuuuuuuuun,” Villa says, drawing it out, teasing.
Silva flops back onto his couch. It’s raining outside, like usual, but he wishes he were out in it, wishes he were on a pitch already.
“Sure,” he says. “He’s a good player.”
“He is,” Villa says. He sounds distracted; Silva wonders if maybe his daughters are there, running around his feet, grabbing at him, demanding his attention. His daughters. It’s quiet for a moment and then Villa’s back. “Leo says he’s a great guy.”
There’s something soft about his voice when he says that, when he says Leo, something Silva hasn’t heard in a long time. Maybe ever. He blanches.
“I have to go,” he says, and clicks off without waiting for an answer.
Kun-that’s how he introduces himself, but he says they can call him whatever, Kun or Sergio or Agüero, says it in that soft lilting Argentinean accent-he is nice, a great guy or whatever Villa had said. Silva already knew him a little bit, from La Liga, but of course it’s different being teammates, and Kun holds his hand out for Silva on the first day, his smile wide and contagious, perfect white teeth against deeply tanned skin, jet black hair. And it already looks familiar.
There’s no particular reason Kun should stick to Silva; he already knows Zaba, and Carlitos, is already close to them from the national team. But he does, he sits next to Silva on the bus and waits for him after practice, and when Silva finally manages to find a way to ask why, he hardly looks embarrassed.
Instead, he gets a faraway look in his eye, a fond smile on his face. “You remind me of…” he starts, and like a punch to the stomach Silva gets it. “Home,” he finishes, “For some reason, even more than Zaba and Carlitos, you remind me of home,” but they both know he means something different.
Silva figures it’s fair, because the first time he kisses Kun, he thinks, you are the same person in different wrapping. Thinks, there will be a day I will seek less complicated men, less interesting men, lesser men. Thinks it always tastes the same, thrill and shame, bursting hope and wilting disappointment.
He’s not the same as Villa, of course. His smile is wider, laugh comes easier; he’s younger, younger than Silva even, hard as it is to believe sometimes, more laid back.
And he likes different things than Villa; a different twist of the hand, no teeth; likes Silva to be gentle where Villa liked to be marked; comes with quiet groans where Villa was stark silent, staring at Silva from above.
But for Silva, they’re not different in any of the ways that matter.
“So, Kun.” Villa again, voice dripping with something else now. Silva’s too tired to figure it out.
“Kun,” Silva replies, and his voice is always so flat when he talks to Villa, like all the emotion is sucked out of Silva’s life the moment the phone rings.
“Quite a debut,” he says, and he might be trying to sound casual but it’s only kind of working. “You work well together.” He lets it hang in the air before he finishes. “On the pitch.”
Silva laughs, reckless. “On the pitch,” he echoes, laughs some more. “On the pitch, off the pitch. It works,” and it would be a sneer if he could muster the energy.
There’s a shaky moment of silence before Villa laughs. “Oh, Silva,” he says, sounds more amused than jealous or upset and Silva should have expected it. “Things never change, do they?”
Silva’s thinking of Messi when he answers, hair swept across his face, his young face, his smile when Villa throws himself on top of him on the pitch. “No, they don’t.”
Silva doesn’t know how, but Adam knows.
“Gotta be careful with that there,” he says, sweat dripping in his eyes, voice gruff. He doesn’t look at Silva while he says it and it gives Silva a chance to study him.
Silva thinks about playing dumb; he thinks about laughing. He knows he could shock Adam, tell him, you think I haven’t done this before? You think I don’t know all the tricks?
But he doesn’t. He leans into Adam, head on his chest, and when Adam softens, he elbows him in the stomach, just enough to make him laugh.
“Thanks, asshole,” he mutters. Cheek pressed against Adam’s chest, rising and falling gently, he thinks of simple men.
Villa scores a hat trick and Silva calls to make fun of him for playing in a league where he’ll never be top scorer.
When that’s out of the way, Villa says, apropos of nothing, “You know, I’m not sure Maradona is someone I’d want to make an enemy of.”
It takes Silva awhile to catch up to him; he thinks first of Messi, of Villa making Maradona upset because of Messi. And then he remembers Giannina; thinks, if Maradona is the worst punishment I get, I’m a lucky bastard. But says, “Like anyone takes him seriously now, anyway.”
Villa laughs; Silva wonders why he brought it up.
They’re watching a Barcelona Champions League game in bed, sheets draped over them, damp with sweat. Kun tenses every time Messi gets near the ball, gets a chance; Silva rests his hand on Kun’s back, feeling the tightening of the muscles there but not pressing down, not loosening him up.
“You’re close to him,” Silva says, a statement instead of a question. “Messi.”
Kun’s eyes flick over and if he shifts away, it’s barely noticeable. “Sure.”
Silva’s careful to keep his face blank. “Have you ever?” he asks. “With him?”
He can see Kun swallowing; it’s time like these Silva remembers he’s the older one. “We’re friends,” he says. “Close friends.” They both know it’s not the question Silva asked, but he gets his answer anyway.
Silva moves closer, drapes an arm over Kun’s chest, if only so he knows Silva isn’t upset. Kun’s not smiling and Silva misses it. “What if we played them?” he asks. “In Champions.”
Kun turns toward him. Their faces are very close. “I’ve played against Leo before,” he says, shrugs like it’s nothing.
Later, when they watch their names pulled out of a bowl to meet Barcelona in the quarterfinals, Kun elbows him in the side. “You jinxed us,” he says. Silva thinks maybe he did.
“Does Messi know you call me?” Silva asks Villa one Sunday afternoon, draped over his couch. It’s raining and he’s bored; he has the day off after their Saturday game, and when he’d invited Kun over, Kun had said, “I promised Benjamin I’d take him to the aquarium.”
And Silva had thought, Benjamin; added him to a list in his head, Zaida, Olaya, Benjamin, wondered how much longer he’d allow the list to grow.
In his ear, Villa exhales sharply, snaps, “Do you know Kun calls Leo?”
Silva’s stomach twists; not from the revelation, but from the careless way they keep playing this game, no end in sight, no chance that anyone will ever win.
The first leg of the tie against Barcelona is miserable, cold and wet; Silva can barely stay on his feet, much less get off a good pass.
When Villa scores in the 61st minute, Silva isn’t watching; the moment Villa’s boot touched the ball Silva knew it was a goal and turned away. Instead of looking at the other team celebrate he turns, looks up into the stands; looks at their supporters, his supporters, rain running down their cheeks, dripping off their eyelashes, goosebumps dotting their skin. He thinks, sorry, so sorry.
Afterward Villa walks by him, touches the back of his head, but by the time Silva’s turned and sees him he’s already gone, disappearing into the tunnel, and Silva feels vaguely relieved.
He glances around at the emptying pitch; at center circle are Kun and Messi, standing close and talking quietly. Silva makes his way toward them.
“Good game,” he says, offering Messi a hand. He shakes it but Silva’s hand are so cold he barely feels it.
“Can I have your shirt?” Silva asks, not for any reason except that it’s Messi.
Kun laughs suddenly, pushes his elbow into Silva’s ribs. “I wanted his shirt,” he says.
Messi smiles, says in his quiet voice, “You have plenty of my shirts, boludo.” His eyes are soft, fond, looking at Kun. He turns to Silva. “In the tunnel, okay?”
The three of them turn, ambling toward the touchline; Messi gets pulled away by others congratulating him, wanting to shake his hand. Silva pauses to wait for him and Kun smiles, honest and understanding, but keeps walking.
Messi catches up finally and it’s quiet; he pulls his shirt over his head, wet fabric sticking to his underarmor, and Silva does the same. Above their wet shirts, Silva catches his eye, wonders if he imagines the flash of recognition, of solidarity there; it’s gone so fast he thinks he probably did.
Silva takes hold of Messi’s shirt but the other man doesn’t let go right away. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, and Silva, not knowing why, braces himself for it. But he closes his mouth again quickly, smiles at Silva politely and lets go of the shirt.
“Good luck,” he says, turning toward the Barcelona dressing room.
Silva repeats the loaded sentiment; he knows they’ll both need it.