five times david silva missed david villa
Title: Five times David Silva missed David Villa
Pairing: guess.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is FICTION and I am not making a cent from it.
A/N: for nahco3; beta'd by ladytelemachus, who is a treasure.
5 Times David Silva missed David Villa
1. 2008
It had been a long time since he had last noticed how long days could be, and that there was a different type of heaviness to a leg that could not move at all, as opposed to one that was just tired from running.
He flicked the tiny empty bit of plastic - a single container of a high-dose painkiller, messily cut away from the others - across the desk, back and forth. His mother administered them to him; he'd take too many. Not for the pain, the pain was normal. It was just stronger than the usual constant, which that was so there he often forgot to notice it - it was just--- He didn't even know why.
He watched the sunset paint the palm trees that were peeking over the neighbour's roof pink, slowly, melting minutes into each other; the alarm clock on the bed flicked from one number to the next.
"Hey," he said in his mind to a David that would be busy; he didn't even need to call. "Want to come over? Want to get me out of here?"
For a moment he jumped from tiny birthmark to tiny birthmark across David's skin, recalling them as if they were there, under his fingertips; barely a consolation since he couldn't touch them, hadn't touched them in ages. Weeks.
His mother knocked on the door, "It is time for dinner; shall I help you downstairs? We're playing board games after dinner, okay? Don't sit here alone. Did you take your medicine?" He nodded, and wrapped his arm around her; mumbling his thanks.
2. 2010
It took a comment from Gerard, an off-handed, "Ey Poni, I can teach you Manchester English," to set off an unease that was worse than not playing, and worse than not knowing where to go - those were bad, but they were the way things were, to be fought, accepted, worked with, anything.
"So you're going there, then," Guaje had said, and ruffled his hair, and he hadn't needed to look at him to know he was hurt, just a bit, not a lot, but enough.
"I'm going to Manchester," he had repeated, but it hadn't sunk in back then, it only sank in when Gerard said "Okay, let's start teaching you English", and he couldn't even pronounce the most simple things, and Guaje's eyes bored into his sleeve from across the room.
He carried it around with himself for a day, pushing at it, It's fine, I'll manage there, and -- we'll manage. It didn’t work. He avoided Guaje, in training, and Guaje let him be, chatting with his friends instead, as if nothing was going on. It was good, it was how he wanted it; he'd be on the bench and Guaje had to concentrate on scoring them to the title, or something. Or maybe that was how it should have been. Or maybe not. Maybe he needed to think, and then to prove himself, so he could play; stay in the moment. Stay in the moment.
He went down to the training pitches, alone, to juggle a ball, to think, to find a solution, something logical, step by step, methodical.
All that sank in was that he missed him already.
3. 2010
It was Spain he missed first.
Not immediately; first it was all new, and grey and blue, but differently blue than back home, and different scents in the air, different sounds, different voices - what a difference it made, not understanding what anyone was saying - a flickering reel of new, exciting, exhausting scenes to be pushed in one quickly after another, without a constant to hold on to. It was an adventure, nothing permanent; he'd go home soon and it would all be peaceful and familiar; except he wouldn't, it wouldn't.
He called Guaje every now and then - twice, three times, in the first ten days, caught him once: "I miss you." It slipped in, but he didn't feel it, not really, not as much as he thought, as he thought he should; "I miss you too," Guaje said. "I'll call you soon. Don't forget me."
It was strange; it was the heat he missed first, the blazing sun that had them dripping with sweat after ten minutes of training, the endless ballooning deep-blue sky. The adverts on TV, not the familiar blaring of Los Simpson at lunchtime, though the groans of his pubescent brother were still there. The silence of people when you walked by in the city centre was strange. The care you had to take when you went out seemed to be a different one, even a lesser one, less obvious - the care you had to take with the club, a different one, too. It wasn't a bad thing, taking care; it had become a habit - but the sudden absence of even just some of it was strange.
They played Valencia in a pre-season game, and Guaje wasn't there, and he wasn't wearing the right colours, the right crest - "Don't pass to the wrong shirt, mate. Or I’ll kick you." Nigel had said and clapped him on the back, and he had laughed, and nodded, and not understood; or maybe he had; instinctively.
It was after the game, dialling Guaje's number, alone in a hotel room that subtly smelled of air freshener, that it hit him. The permanence. The distance. The permanence of the distance.
"I miss you," he repeated, lump in his throat, before Guaje could say more than “Hello”.
4. 2011
It did get easier. First the culture shock lessened, then the fear of not making it, or maybe both of them went simultaneously. It was strange though, how easy it was to forget details, and then notice them even more strongly when he came back to Spain, or to La Roja. They called each other more often, "She's asking," Guaje said, "But not in a suspicious way, I think." They talked about settling, shared anecdotes of teammates; somehow, he noticed, it made them grow closer. Maybe because they talked more. Fucked less. Feared less. But they had talked in Valencia too; secret shared conversations that were worth as much as the sex, which was now, just like then, rushed and rough and secret, and always too rare.
It was easy to settle, now, much easier to pretend; lighter, in a way, freer, in garbled English; there was no shedding of caution with a new language, but an "I can't say, no sé, in... English" went a long way. After national call ups, missing Spain, Valencia, David, was bad, even if maybe, somehow, he was missing a presence that had never been there in the first place. Just, could have been, maybe. Somehow. Not worth wasting time on it, though. "Can you come to England?" he asked, once, foolishly, slipping words into the air that he had planned not to say. "Maybe," Guaje said, "Maybe."
5. 2012
The passes reach Iniesta, Torres, Cesc, back, forth; the net - but it isn't Guaje, it never is. But then, there is nothing between him and the game, no presence but his own, and those of any of them, Andrés, Xavi, Alvaro… and there is no absence. Only when he misses, or someone else does, the question nests in his mind; Guaje would have---; blinks and vanishes. Only when he scores, and Guaje isn't there, isn't there first and at all, it lingers; he lifts his hands--- now.
Pairing: guess.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is FICTION and I am not making a cent from it.
A/N: for nahco3; beta'd by ladytelemachus, who is a treasure.
5 Times David Silva missed David Villa
1. 2008
It had been a long time since he had last noticed how long days could be, and that there was a different type of heaviness to a leg that could not move at all, as opposed to one that was just tired from running.
He flicked the tiny empty bit of plastic - a single container of a high-dose painkiller, messily cut away from the others - across the desk, back and forth. His mother administered them to him; he'd take too many. Not for the pain, the pain was normal. It was just stronger than the usual constant, which that was so there he often forgot to notice it - it was just--- He didn't even know why.
He watched the sunset paint the palm trees that were peeking over the neighbour's roof pink, slowly, melting minutes into each other; the alarm clock on the bed flicked from one number to the next.
"Hey," he said in his mind to a David that would be busy; he didn't even need to call. "Want to come over? Want to get me out of here?"
For a moment he jumped from tiny birthmark to tiny birthmark across David's skin, recalling them as if they were there, under his fingertips; barely a consolation since he couldn't touch them, hadn't touched them in ages. Weeks.
His mother knocked on the door, "It is time for dinner; shall I help you downstairs? We're playing board games after dinner, okay? Don't sit here alone. Did you take your medicine?" He nodded, and wrapped his arm around her; mumbling his thanks.
2. 2010
It took a comment from Gerard, an off-handed, "Ey Poni, I can teach you Manchester English," to set off an unease that was worse than not playing, and worse than not knowing where to go - those were bad, but they were the way things were, to be fought, accepted, worked with, anything.
"So you're going there, then," Guaje had said, and ruffled his hair, and he hadn't needed to look at him to know he was hurt, just a bit, not a lot, but enough.
"I'm going to Manchester," he had repeated, but it hadn't sunk in back then, it only sank in when Gerard said "Okay, let's start teaching you English", and he couldn't even pronounce the most simple things, and Guaje's eyes bored into his sleeve from across the room.
He carried it around with himself for a day, pushing at it, It's fine, I'll manage there, and -- we'll manage. It didn’t work. He avoided Guaje, in training, and Guaje let him be, chatting with his friends instead, as if nothing was going on. It was good, it was how he wanted it; he'd be on the bench and Guaje had to concentrate on scoring them to the title, or something. Or maybe that was how it should have been. Or maybe not. Maybe he needed to think, and then to prove himself, so he could play; stay in the moment. Stay in the moment.
He went down to the training pitches, alone, to juggle a ball, to think, to find a solution, something logical, step by step, methodical.
All that sank in was that he missed him already.
3. 2010
It was Spain he missed first.
Not immediately; first it was all new, and grey and blue, but differently blue than back home, and different scents in the air, different sounds, different voices - what a difference it made, not understanding what anyone was saying - a flickering reel of new, exciting, exhausting scenes to be pushed in one quickly after another, without a constant to hold on to. It was an adventure, nothing permanent; he'd go home soon and it would all be peaceful and familiar; except he wouldn't, it wouldn't.
He called Guaje every now and then - twice, three times, in the first ten days, caught him once: "I miss you." It slipped in, but he didn't feel it, not really, not as much as he thought, as he thought he should; "I miss you too," Guaje said. "I'll call you soon. Don't forget me."
It was strange; it was the heat he missed first, the blazing sun that had them dripping with sweat after ten minutes of training, the endless ballooning deep-blue sky. The adverts on TV, not the familiar blaring of Los Simpson at lunchtime, though the groans of his pubescent brother were still there. The silence of people when you walked by in the city centre was strange. The care you had to take when you went out seemed to be a different one, even a lesser one, less obvious - the care you had to take with the club, a different one, too. It wasn't a bad thing, taking care; it had become a habit - but the sudden absence of even just some of it was strange.
They played Valencia in a pre-season game, and Guaje wasn't there, and he wasn't wearing the right colours, the right crest - "Don't pass to the wrong shirt, mate. Or I’ll kick you." Nigel had said and clapped him on the back, and he had laughed, and nodded, and not understood; or maybe he had; instinctively.
It was after the game, dialling Guaje's number, alone in a hotel room that subtly smelled of air freshener, that it hit him. The permanence. The distance. The permanence of the distance.
"I miss you," he repeated, lump in his throat, before Guaje could say more than “Hello”.
4. 2011
It did get easier. First the culture shock lessened, then the fear of not making it, or maybe both of them went simultaneously. It was strange though, how easy it was to forget details, and then notice them even more strongly when he came back to Spain, or to La Roja. They called each other more often, "She's asking," Guaje said, "But not in a suspicious way, I think." They talked about settling, shared anecdotes of teammates; somehow, he noticed, it made them grow closer. Maybe because they talked more. Fucked less. Feared less. But they had talked in Valencia too; secret shared conversations that were worth as much as the sex, which was now, just like then, rushed and rough and secret, and always too rare.
It was easy to settle, now, much easier to pretend; lighter, in a way, freer, in garbled English; there was no shedding of caution with a new language, but an "I can't say, no sé, in... English" went a long way. After national call ups, missing Spain, Valencia, David, was bad, even if maybe, somehow, he was missing a presence that had never been there in the first place. Just, could have been, maybe. Somehow. Not worth wasting time on it, though. "Can you come to England?" he asked, once, foolishly, slipping words into the air that he had planned not to say. "Maybe," Guaje said, "Maybe."
5. 2012
The passes reach Iniesta, Torres, Cesc, back, forth; the net - but it isn't Guaje, it never is. But then, there is nothing between him and the game, no presence but his own, and those of any of them, Andrés, Xavi, Alvaro… and there is no absence. Only when he misses, or someone else does, the question nests in his mind; Guaje would have---; blinks and vanishes. Only when he scores, and Guaje isn't there, isn't there first and at all, it lingers; he lifts his hands--- now.