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It is July 2013 and David Villa has just signed the papers to finalize his move from Barcelona to Manchester City. When he lifts his pen off the paper, he sags down against the plush, fancy office chair - it’s over, actually over and he is no longer a Barca player. David’s no cule, but moving on from the club who’d lifted him all the way up is almost as difficult as the day he realised with a painful jolt that he was on his way down.
He gets the rounds of last day hugs - from Xavi who is still miffed, from a tearful Cesc, from Victor who squeezes him with understanding and from Leo, who is brief and impersonal. He’s already signed away his legs, signed away his goals, so it feels almost like some sort of treachery as he trains for the last time, the crest on his training top weighing heavy against his chest.
David clears out his locker, empties out the cans of hairspray, and carefully pulls the pictures of his kids off the door. He fetches his spare boots off the kit man and stands for a few minutes on the pitch. Camp Nou stares silently back at him, empty and quiet - as though she’s already preparing for the day he comes back as opposition. David is sadder than he thought he'd be.
-
At home, he stares at the empty walls and the brown cardboard boxes waiting to be shipped off to Manchester. Olaya and Zaida chase each other down the hallway, tiny feet pattering across the bare carpet. From the side, Luca shrieks in Patricia's lap just to join in the fun. She rests her cheek against his little hands and her smile should be enough to make him stay. Maybe, two, three years ago, it would have been. He picks up his girls, holds them tight enough that they giggle and squeal until he lets them go.
Of all the things that he’s leaving behind, David will miss this the most. When Patricia kisses him goodbye, he wonders if the divorce was really a good idea after all - if maybe the best way to live is the easiest way as well. She smiles, laughs at his face the way she’s always done and tells him to grow a pair - they’ll visit as soon as he’s settled in. ‘We’ve made our choices, and you will not miss your chances again,’ she says firmly, ‘you were not built for simple things.’
David watches them get into a cab, matching suitcases with their life as a family packed neatly away inside them. He squares his shoulders and looks to the future.
-
A week later, David is slouched in the first class cabin on a snazzy Etihad Airways plane. He fingers the soft sky blue jersey they'd given him, wonders if it will ever come to feel like a part of him. He doesn’t really like blue. Everyone on the plane – photographer and coordinators alike – is taller than he is, and that always makes him grumpy.
His phone beeps - it’s a picture of a cat dressed in a City shirt. Blue looks good on you, the text says.
David lets out the breath he didn't even know he'd been holding in his chest. He's going to Silva and all the sadness and the half-formed regret melts into insignificance. The empty corner of his heart aches in anticipation - aches for the half that travelled from Valencia all the way to England, and never came back. It is, really, only when he thinks about it that he realizes how much he misses Silva.
When did you get a cat he texts back.
Three months ago is the reply, along with another picture – this time of Silva, obviously taken by someone else, cuddling a little fuzzy ball of fur close to his face. Juan took this reads the follow up text, he cat-sits for me sometimes.
David lets himself snort fondly; because of course Juan would be the one cat sitting. He shuts his eyes, sees deep brown eyes that twinkle against a small smile, one that Silva rarely ever breaks out. When he dreams, it is of warm arms, and gentle fingers wrapped tightly round his. He wakes up to a stewardess announcing that they've landed. David picks up his carry on, nods to the people in suits who herd him past a maze of thick, fast English and flashing cameras in the direction of a shiny black car. He texts Silva. Dinner?
Silva sends back a smiley face and I'll be waiting.
Even as the Man City camera is shoved in his face - as he is told a whole bunch of things by a guy who speaks horrible Spanish, as the slight panic of change sinks in, David smiles.
(and because the universe hates him, that’s the picture all the papers use the next day - “Villa all Smiles”)
-
It's the first day of training for the 2013/2014 pre-season. Players start trickling in with hugs for each other, one for Sharon and then inside for breakfast.
David Silva emerges from a white car that doesn’t belong to him, hair falling into his eyes. Carrington winks at him in the sun and he grins back fondly. He leans against the car door, watching as David Villa climbs extra slowly out of the passenger seat.
'Fuck,' says Villa, 'Fucking fuck I want to throw up.'
Silva throws his head back and laughs - from the entrance, Sharon snaps away furiously. 'Just smile and say hello,' he says and then, softer, 'love you cariño,' which has the intended effect of reducing Villa to blissful mush. They allow themselves a quiet, controlled moment that is quickly and loudly interrupted by a voice right in Villa’s ear.
'David!'
They both jump a mile into the air as Joe Hart saunters over to grab Silva into a hug. 'And David,' Joe adds, reaching out a hand to Villa.
'Hello,' Villa says stiffly and with an accent so thick it puts Tevez to shame. Silva snickers - no one said he couldn’t enjoy Villa squirming.
-
No one has seen David Silva quite so happy before.
Sure, he’s always been a fairly cheerful guy - he laughs at the banter he understands (and it’s more than he lets on), and even contributes cheeky little jibes once in a while. He smiles at everyone politely and no one grins brighter than he does after an assist. But he keeps to himself, shares precious few bits about his personal life and, as a rule, doesn’t like talking to strangers.
Since Villa though - and it has to be Villa because no one has actually seen them apart for more than a few minutes - he’s been positively vibrating with joy. Even Manuel pauses during training to stare when Silva actually giggles at an alarmed Boyata. It is slightly disconcerting, but no one is complaining - a happy playmaker can never hurt one’s title chances after all.
-
‘They must be married,’ Edin mock whispers over his pasta during lunch as though he is any better when it comes to Aleks, ‘I cannot think of any other conclusion.’ True to form, he gets an indulgent nod from Aleks, who grunts out something about frisky Spanish men. Joe chews on his salad thoughtfully, ‘I never knew they were that close. David certainly hasn’t mentioned it.’
Zaba snorts at him, ‘Please, have you not seen them play together. To play against Silva and Villa at Valencia is not funny thing. Also yes, I think they are in cute gay love.’
‘Imagine,’ Joe says, ‘if Adam were here. He’d have a fit and die a jealous, unhappy man.’ He takes a few surreptitious pictures (that Silva will make sure to make him delete after training) to send to everyone he knows.
At the drink counter, Silva is pressed close enough to Villa that they’re almost molded together. Villa snipes something – Silva rolls his eyes – Villa huffs – Silva smiles wide and steers him over to the tables. ‘This is David Villa,’ Silva says to the table as thought no one recognizes Spain’s actual top scorer in actual real life, ‘is there space for us here?’ and then to Joe, ‘I want the paper, please.’
Even when they sit, their chairs sit far closer together than strictly necessary. Silva is smiling again, wide enough that they can see most of his teeth.
‘Mmm,’ says James into his smoothie, ‘I think you may be right.’
And that’s that.
-
The first match of the season goes like this: David Villa is subbed in at 80 minutes when City are 4-0 up against Newcastle. David Silva skips past three midfielders as though he’s being pulled to Villa by magnetic force. He crosses, Villa scores with his first touch.
David Silva sprints to Villa and launches himself on the man, presses their faces together as they roll about the pitch and the other players pile above them.
In that moment, nothing is more perfect.
-
They lose away to Chelsea. David Villa wastes a golden chance to equalize in the last minute. The bus ride back to the hotel is silent. Joe slumps down in his seat at the back, pressed up between Vinny and Costel. Matija, who looks far too young – who is far too young - is curled up against Edin. Everyone pretends that they can’t hear him crying. Silva and Villa sit quietly next to each other, still close but not touching at all. Tomorrow they will train again, tomorrow they will become better, but tonight, they think about missed chances and high expectations.
When the door to their room shuts, Villa throws his boots against the wall and slams the door when he goes to take a shower. His leg tingles – tingles the way it never would when he was el guaje and didn’t fucking miss in front of an open goal. It hurts and everything aches. He wants to score, he wants to win, he wants -
Silva pulls him tight, wraps their fingers together. When Villa kisses him – too hard, too desperate – he grabs Villa’s shoulders and pushes them against the bed until Villa lies slack, exhausted and much calmer. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be so hard,’ he whispers.
‘Not easy,’ Silva says into his ear as they fall asleep, ‘but it’s okay. You were not made for simple things.’
-
They win the Capitol One Cup. Villa scores the second goal to put them ahead of Sunderland and, five minutes later, crumples to the ground after an overenthusiastic challenge from James McMillan. Villa swears up a storm in his head – his leg throbs like a bitch and his vision goes blurry from the pain. He tries to say something – to ask for Silva, or maybe say that he can get up and walk off himself (he can’t).
He is stretchered off the pitch with a brace strapped firmly to his knee. He can almost hear Gary fucking Neville saying that his World Cup chances are all but gone now.
What he misses is David Silva getting carded – and he’s lucky to get away with a yellow – for brawling with any Sunderland player he could get his hands on. Adam Johnson ends up on his hindquarters when he tries to pulls Silva off McMillan. All of Wembley pauses and stares as Silva has to be forcibly dragged away by Vincent and shaken out of his panic.
They don’t hear what Vincent says or what Silva says in return. They don’t see the hot, angry tears of relief when a physio appears from the tunnel and gives Silva tentative thumbs up.
They don’t need to.
-
Villa’s leg is still in recovery when they crash out of the Champions League to Barca. Instead of travelling to Barcelona, he sits on Silva’s couch with Juan and Bobby (the cat that Silva fucking named after Mancini) and watches Leo show everyone why he’s still best in the world. He does not let himself think of what it would be like if he could play. Juan leaves when Silva’s keys clang against the door, squeezing Villa’s arm sympathetically and hugging Silva on the way out.
‘So we have to win the league now’ says Silva, and that’s all he says the rest of night. Villa does the talking instead – and he’s never had to do that for someone before – as they sit together on the couch and watch English soap operas with the volume turned down low. He whispers strength into Silva’s skin, presses his lips tight against tense shoulders and speaks of trophies and of love.
When even the soap reruns have stopped airing, and Bobby starts scratching at Villa’s sock, Silva lies boneless on his side of the couch and grins up at Villa. All of sudden, he looks twenty again – twenty and happier than Villa has seen in a while.
‘I guess we’ve gotten there after all, huh,’ he says on the way to bed. And it’s true.
-
The last match of the season goes like this: West Ham parks the bus; they are nearing half time and its goalless. They just need a draw to win the league. This is what Villa is here for – for the ball at his feet, for the trophy just in sight, for Silva’s cross aimed directly in the path of goal.
This time, Villa does not miss.
Villa pulls the crest on his jersey against his lips, turns his face to the roaring stadium. He raises his arms in victory and 30,000 voices shout his name. All Villa hears though, is one voice - one that rings loud and clear above the Etihad. It says, ‘David, David, David,’ and it belongs to Silva. Silva doesn’t leave his arms throughout the whole goal celebration and when he does, his cheeks are wet and Villa feels his own eyes grow hot – which, really, they should be beyond crying on the pitch but apparently they aren’t.
He gets subbed off at half-time for Sergio who is already celebrating despite Vinny’s stern warning to focus, but it doesn’t matter. His leg still throbs, but hell if he cares. He watches from the bench, tucked snugly up under a blanket (because bloody fuck it’s cold in Manchester) as Sergio scores one and then Vinny does as well. Silva, pulling the strings and sliding passes left and right gets subbed off at ninety minutes to the standing ovation he deserves. He applauds the audience, hugs the manager and then he’s so close – settling down next to Villa and tugging at the blanket till Villa shares – and Villa reaches out blindly because all he wants to do is touch.
They sit through the last three minutes of extra time, fingers threaded loosely together under the blanket and when Samir slams a late one in, they jump up together and run on the pitch with the rest of the Etihad.
As they run, Silva does not let go of his hand, and really, Villa thinks, it’s a perfect fucking metaphor for the fact that they’re never letting go of each other forever.