Miserable At Best Chapter Two
Thank you to everyone who commented last time. It really made my day. This chapter isn't beta'd, so sorry if there are any mistakes I didn't catch.
Just a warning, this is an ANGST filled chapter. Well, I thought it was anyway. I managed to make myself quite miserable writing parts of it. But now I'm off to have an ice cream to make myself feel better ^_^
Miserable at Best
Chapter Two- Everything You Couldn’t Take (Silva's POV)
Your hands shake as you insert the key into the lock of your apartment, err flat, they call them flats here in England. The weather is always cold here in the large inland city, so grey and cold. Manchester is nothing like Las Canarias and most definitely not like Valencia. You don’t know if that makes you sad or happy. Both you suppose- you are sad you are no longer surrounded by familiar faces in your native country. You are happy because if Manchester was anything like Valencia, you would think of him even more than you do now. Happy isn’t the right word, relieved is.
Setting down your bag in the front hall closet, you remove your dirty laundry and throw it in the clothes bin. You line your shoes up with the others in the closet, making sure everything is straight. Everything must be in order because you are done with chaos. Now, you do everything by the books, from disinfecting the kitchen and bathroom daily to making sure your socks are matching and folded correctly. Deviation from perfection is not acceptable.
Even though you are cold, you open the door to your balcony to let in fresher air. You won’t call it fresh, but it is fresher than the bleach aroma of your flat. Shivering slightly, your eyes close and you thank God that you feel cold because feeling hot makes you think of Villa and you can’t think of him. Huffing, you realize you are thinking of him and you ghost over to your kitchen to grab something to eat. The only reason you have the will to eat is because you don’t like hearing your stomach rumble. Stomach rumbles make you remember waking up in his arms and his laugh and gentle teasing in the early morning.
No one in England has confronted you about this self imposed penance of misery and for that you are grateful. Scoffing in your head, you realize it’s because none of them really knew you before you arrived and most of them don’t speak your language. You can barely speak theirs. Your teammates think you are quiet and shy, not that you are broken hearted and homesick. There isn’t a reason for them to be concerned- you play well as your time on the pitch is the only time you are so busy that you cannot spare a moment to think of him.
Grabbing a protein bar, you sit on your couch and chew the chalky brick. Inevitably, your thoughts wander back to him and you feel cursed. All night in your dreams and during the day, your mind replays the last time the two of you were together. Despite your defeat on the pitch that day, nothing changed in bed. Sex was full of passion and you reveled in those moments when the two of you were so intimately joined. Sex was the only thing you could offer him that he could take.
You chuck the half eaten protein bar angrily into the garbage can- even a thousand miles apart you are still in love with him.
You are in love. Despite the physical distance and breaking up with him, you are still in love with him even though you try your hardest not to be. It is very difficult to not be in love with David Villa. Even more difficult is trying to avoid hearing his name. He is the great hero of Spain and you’re pretty damn sure he’s going to join Iker in gaining Sainthood. San David Villa, patron saint of strikers and love struck fools- everything you ever wanted but knew you couldn’t have.
***
The Argentines are as full of passion as the Spaniards, and perhaps even more so. You make a mental note of this as you pass a dance studio where the tango is being performed. The tango is passion and pain, the thrill and ache of love, and you find yourself intrigued by a dance that so cruelly mirrors your own life. You have a passion in your heart and body but with this passion come the aches and pains of knowing you will never have his heart, as well as the guilt of knowing he is married.
Carrying on a relationship with a man you know is married makes you one of two things. The first is his mistress, but as he does not love you, pretend or real, nor are you a woman, the term mistress does not apply. You are the second, you are his whore. He pays you with his attentions and sex, both of which you desperately crave as if you are a drug addict only able to function in the high he induces in you. In exchange, you give him your body because it’s the only thing you can give him. Because you’re a whore and that’s what whores do.
When your passion turns into love, you know this illicit affair must end. You cannot continue to love a man who cannot return your feelings. You lay awake at night in Manchester crying over your tortured heart and the guilt. A sick freak is what you call yourself over and over again, a perverted deviant who is keeping a married man away from his loving and devoted wife and daughters.
All of the love you feel is poured into the last time he lays you down and fucks you into the mattress. You want to call it ‘making love’ but you can’t romanticize the cheap reality of what you are. You remember how your vision went blurry when you came violently, calling his name. You shake for a few minutes afterwards; the orgasm that rips through you reduces you to a pile of nerves. When you finally regain the ability to think, he is holding you against his chest, a sated grin on his face. You wish that grin could belong to you, but the ring is not on your finger. You know what you must do.
Waiting for him to fall asleep, you release yourself from his grip. He doesn’t flinch as a game and sex have turned him into a sleeping zombie. Grabbing a notebook and a pen off of the desk, you retreat into the bathroom. If you weren’t a coward, you would break off the relationship in person, but you don’t trust yourself to not cry or back out. The truth comes out much easier if you are hiding behind something and a letter and out of the country move are excellent items to hide behind.
Once you start writing, you are surprised at how readily the truth of your feelings scrawl across the paper. There are so many qualities he has that you admire and adore, but your happiness cannot come in-between his happiness and relationship with his family. You won’t come between them anymore then you already have. You’ll miss him, you’ll be miserable without him, but you can’t continue doing this because the guilt is eating you alive.
At one point, the pen falters in your hand and you are not sure if you should tell him that you love him. Perhaps it is better that he doesn’t know how far you have fallen. Closing your eyes and gritting your teeth, you resolve to tell him. This letter is your last confession before you start a new life without him. This is your absolution. Words fly across the page.
“I’m sorry for what I have done to you. My own weakness led me to take you anyway I could. I’m being unfair to you and a whore isn’t supposed to fall in love.”
You don’t sign your name because knowing your luck; it would fall into the wrong hands. Reading the letter over, you wished it sounded more organized, but your mind is a lone boat on the raging ocean in the storms you saw as a child on the islands. With any luck, he’ll read it and understand and you’ll be able leave this whole mess behind you. You’ll act like friends at all the National Team call ups, but you won’t acknowledge each other more than necessary. Well, perhaps you’ll sneak a few glances, but that life will be gone and a new one will be in place.
* * *
A knocking at the door makes you jump and then frown. Looking at the calendar on your desk, you realize it’s Thursday and Fernando promised to come and see you. Fernando is a good friend, but you find him puzzling. The striker is a devoted family man and you can tell he cares more for Olalla and Nora than almost anything in the world. Almost. Fernando has a dirty little secret, except it’s not really a secret nor is it dirty. Despite your skepticism, Nando has explained multiple times how his relationship with Sergio works and how Olalla doesn’t mind. According to him, Olalla even has a girlfriend who is ‘more than just a friend’.
“She won’t tell me who,” Nando always says with a freckled smile, “she says Sergio and I would want to watch- she’s probably right.” And he always laughs.
You don’t believe him. You don’t think it is possible for a married couple who clearly love one another to be carrying on other relationships at the same time. Nando insists it is and tells you to call Olalla or Sergio if you don’t believe him. You don’t call them, the conversation would be awkward.
“You look like shit,” he says cheerfully as you open the door.
“Thanks,” you retort, rolling your eyes.
“I brought food.”
He lifts up a grease stained bag and you can smell the fish and chips. Knowing your friend, he probably picked it up from a street vendor on a whim without the slightest thought of what his team nutritionist would say. You let a small grin slide onto your face. Fuck the nutritionist; you’ll eat what you want tonight. You point out where the dishes are but he shakes his head.
“Oh no, we’re eating this the English way.”
You wrinkle your nose at the thought of your hands getting all greasy, but once Nando gets a thought in his head, it’s better to let him run with it.
* * *
Moaning, you flop onto your back on your couch. It has been too long since you’ve eaten this much and you know you’ll be sorry in the morning. Top Gear reruns are on TV, and Nando insists you’ll understand England better if you watch it. Cars have never interested you, but you do admit it’s a funny show. Soon, you find yourself laughing harder than you have in weeks as you watch the short one and old one play prank after prank on the one with long hair. They remind you of Cesc and Pique plotting a prank and the memories those two bring always puts a smile on your face.
“It’s good to see you laugh again,” Nando says during a commercial break, loose smile on his lips. “I was beginning to think you forgot how.”
“It’s been… a while,” you admit, shivering slightly in the cold room.
Fernando grabs the blanket you keep on the back of the couch and scoots over to sit next to you. Unfurling the fleecy square, he covers the both of you, complaining about the ungodly temperature you live in. The show returns from commercial and by the end of it, the two of you are laughing so hard that you think you might throw up.
“So how’s training going?” He asks you after the TV is off and you are still sitting side by side.
“The playing is good. My teammates are nice, but the language barrier is difficult.”
“Tevez helps you though?”
“Yes, he is a good Captain,” you say of the Argentine that the media is often cruel to, but is one of the most down to earth and genuinely nice players you know.
As much help as Carlos is, you still feel sick every time you talk to him and hear his accent. Argentina. The country where you took your carefully hidden heart, laid it bare, and then smashed it to pieces, taking the shards with you as you retreated to England. You are pathetic because you can barely do anything without thinking of Villa. Yes, playing and practicing helps, but the minute Tevez speaks to you, your mind returns to a hotel room in Buenos Aires.
You’re slightly jolted when Nando puts an arm around you and plants a kiss on your temple. You realize he’s said your name twice and you’ve blocked it out while deep in your thoughts. Sighing, you apologize.
“I think you should call him” He tells you after a few more minutes of silence. “I heard Olalla talking to Patricia and he’s just as miserable as you.”
“Anyone would miss Valencia,” you play dumb, unsure if Nando is talking about Villa being miserable in Barcelona or for some other reason. “Don’t you ever miss Madrid?”
“I’m not stupid David,” he pulls far enough away so he can look you straight in the eyes, “I know what was going on between you and Villa. Fuck, we all knew what was going on.”
“Then you all have some creative imaginations,” you say evasively, pulling away from him as the first inklings of panic set it.
“Don’t lie to me,” there is anger in his voice. “I know what a broken heart looks like. When Xabi left Liverpool, you should have seen-” He stops and takes a deep breath. “You don’t have to lie to me, Villa told me about the two of you over a year ago.”
“W-what?” You are surprised, no, you’re shocked. Secrecy was vital to your relationship and his safety, why would he jeopardize everything by telling someone? “You know? Does anyone else?”
“Sergio, but he’s the only one that knows for sure. David, the two of you could not have been more obvious.”
“But… we barely spoke in front of the team, we never did anything…” your mind is reeling; what the rest of the team must think of you for acting that way.
“You didn’t have to do anything,” He takes your hands so you’ll stop fidgeting. “David, did you honestly never notice how protective he was or how he looked at you?”
“He’s territorial, not protective,” you mutter, unable to process what your friend is telling you. “He doesn’t like to share.”
Fernando raises an eyebrow at you, as if he cannot believe what you are saying. You think he is either saying things to make you feel better, or he’s completely insane. Either way, he is being cruel in making you think that David Villa could ever possibly have been looking out for you or have a vested interest in you. Knowing that the National Team suspects something makes your face redden in shame. Now they all know what a whore you are. Your eyes burn and tears threaten to spill over.
“Please don’t cry,” one of Nando’s hands gently wipes the tears away before he pulls you tightly against his chest. “I don’t like seeing you miserable.”
“I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed that someone besides the mirror is seeing you cry. “I’m such a fuck up.”
“No, you’re not,” he insists and suddenly, his lips are on yours.
Your body goes from cold to burning hot as if you feel the spark of passion exploding within you. One of his hands is on the back of your neck, and the other settles on your hip. A soft nip at your lower lip makes you gasp and allows him access to your mouth. Your mind is blissfully blank, living in the moment where someone wants you and you are not alone.
All is good until his hand dips under your belt and your brain becomes a jumbled mess of thoughts. Villa. Chaos. Whore. Cold. Fernando. Whore. Sergio. Olalla. Patricia. Cheating. Whore. Organization. Whore. Whore. Whore.
“Stop,” your voice is icier than you’ve ever heard it and Fernando blinks down at you in surprise. “We can’t do this.”
“Its fine,” he plants a hand on your chest and those lovely cinnamon eyes gaze lustfully at you.
“No, you’re married and Sergio…” you trail off before pushing him off you and getting to your feet. “I just finished being Villa’s whore, I won’t be yours too.”
“Did he call you a whore?” Fernando demands angrily, grabbing your shoulder, but you brush him off.
“You should leave,” you mutter and try to walk away, but he’s not done with you yet.
“Did Villa call you a whore?” Fernando grabs your arm and whips you around; you stare at the floor. “Tell me. I swear I’ll kill him if he did.”
There’s a rage in Fernando’s eyes like you’ve never seen and for a minute, you are afraid. Quickly shaking your head no, you cringe until he drops your arm. And then you’re back in his arms as he tells you that you aren’t a whore. It’s a lie of course, and you feel dirty as the married man holds you.
“I want to be alone now.” You whisper and he lets you go.
“Okay.” He nods and gathers his things. Giving you a soft kiss before he leaves, he says, “You’re not a whore David. I hope you can see that.”
The minute he is gone, you pull the bucket and jug of bleach from under the sink. The apartment is dirty now. You have deviated from order and organization and your home must be cleaned to restore it.
When you are finished, you retreat to the bathroom and turn the water on as hot as it will go. It is going to take three or four rounds of scrubbing and scouring your skin before you feel clean. You need to wash it all away. Because you don’t want anyone to see how dirty you are. How pathetic and addicted you are. Deep down, you know it doesn’t matter how many times you clean yourself- you’ll still be a whore.
You let out a strangled sob and fall to your knees. The hard tile of the shower hurts your knees, but you don’t get back up. You are too miserable and you find it ironic you’re on your knees. You’re not on your knees because you’re praying, you’re on your knees because you’re a whore and it’s where you belong.