Archive of Our Own ^beta

David toys absent-mindedly with an orange sipping straw in an isolated part of the bar, where only half of the customers can be seen due to the dim blue light coming from the neon lamp vertically attached to the wall.

He’s not upset, he’s not mad, he’s not feeling anything. He’s not hurt and he’s definitely not thinking of Silva. He's not thinking of the barrage of texts on his phone. And he’s not caring about whether he’s happy or not in his stupid beloved Manchester fucking City, he really is not, he’s—

Well, he is very drunk.

David drinks to forget two things: the first is why he's sitting at a bar on a Tuesday night, and the other is Silva.

He’d tried to call Pepe and Fernando and even Leo, but only Pepe had answered and well, he wasn’t exactly in the best position to console him, being in Liverpool and all, thousands of fucking miles away. Pepe had tried to calm him down, had told him to go and prove Silva wrong, that yes, he's still in it, yes, they can still make it work even with thousands of miles between them, that the distance doesn't matter and neither do the different crests on their jerseys. There had been some fleeting sadness in Pepe's voice when he said that Silva maybe didn't mean it, but it sounded like it was hard to believe even for him.

But David wasn’t in his five senses when he told him to shut up and fuck off, that he didn’t know rat's shit about them, about anything. That it wasn't worth it trying to put the pieces of what they’d once been back together.

Pepe had sighed and started telling him about some other English bastard that had the same thing happening to him and that he and his, well, lover didn’t even have national team call-ups, and still they managed somehow, but at that point David just didn’t want to listen anymore and had hung up on him.

Now Pepe was mad at him, and within reason. 

If he could get himself a jug of water and a cold bath in the next ten minutes, he would answer all his texts at once and apologize.

"Hi" he hears a familiar voice calling him from across the dimly lit bar, suddenly making him forget everything he’d been thinking about.

David looks up, dark bags under shiny eyes. He doesn’t even know where the fuck the man came from, to be honest. Iker Casillas, his captain, is standing casually in front of the bar, across from David, all dressed up like he's going to a fancy club later, in a casual pair of dark wash jeans and a white shirt, leather jacket on his arm. 

The Captain of La Roja moves through a row of drunks at the counter and makes it to the seat next to David, but he doesn’t dare sitting down. Probably waiting for an invitation, the bastard , David thinks, but instead he chooses to stop him.

"What are you doing here?" David asks moodily, taking a big gulp from his drink. It burns in his throat and he hisses in pain.

"What, am I not allowed to enjoy myself?" he asks with a smile. Iker notices the dark bags under his eyes and the dishevelled hair — he’s not wearing any hair gel — and the hoarseness of his voice and his smile falters. "What’s wrong, guaje ?"

The name comes rolling off Iker's tongue in a very pleasant way to David’s ears, but the name, he can’t, he can’t say it , he wishes he’d just call him Villa and not anything else, not fucking Daveed , but obviously Iker doesn’t understand there’s another David beside Villa in his life or perhaps he doesn’t want to see it, and when he says it it’s just too much, it’s so —

He feels the familiar headache he was trying to drink himself out of coming back with a vengeance. He sighs, head frustratingly clasped between hands.

"Sit down and have a drink, Iker."

Iker understands something is off but he doesn’t quite know what because he and David aren’t teammates and only see each other when there’s a Clásico or a call-up. Sometimes he forgets how to act around him and talks about a million things David would rather not hear about, but David never complains.

Iker orders a glass of vodka with ice and lemon. David puts a hand on his shoulder and looks up, like he’s either expecting Iker to say something or himself to do something crazy, like—like forgetting what he’s been through. And he’s drunk. And he should have forgotten already, he thinks, but fuck—what is there to do? All he can think of is Silva, David fucking Silva, and even if Iker’s right there, Iker and frolicking around on the pitch and Euro 2008 and World cup 2010 and Iker, captain of La Roja and Real fucking Madrid, all he sees is Silva, Silva and his almond shaped eyes and shy smile and terrible orange kits and his hand on David’s shoulder, his mouth over David’s in one too many passionate kisses, and he’s about to lay his head on Silva’s shoulder, waiting for him to pull David closer when he realizes there is no Silva in Barcelona and that he’s in a smelly bar and that there’s Iker Casillas, Iker fucking Casillas (what the hell is he doing in Barcelona anyway?), and he’s not Silva in any way, but still David ends up leaning his body against the empty space in the seat next to his, where Iker is about to sit down, eyes closed and a silly prelude of a smile on his face.

Iker starts smoothly.

"If you want to talk, or—"

But David doesn't give him time to finish: he desperately throws himself at Iker's neck, hands holding both sides of his head. He’s kissing him with alcohol and uneasiness and passion and fury and Iker tastes a bit of salt in David’s mouth when he kisses him back. Iker missed him and hugs David tightly, deepening the kiss— tongues swirling and teeth clashing and something burning at the back of his throat which feels like 80 proof alcohol, and the feel of someone waltzing over his heart and stomach. How long had he waited for this moment?

But it’s not how he imagined. David separates abruptly and turns his head, slumping on his seat, while Iker is still panting for air, surprise and amazement on his face.

He would like to get more of this feeling, but he's conflicted. He puts a reassuring hand on David’s back to let him know he’s there — he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, but he’s there if David needs, if David wants.

David gives him an apologetic, sad look and Iker feels something inside him shattering into a million little shards of glass. He thinks it might be better to get David out of the bar, somewhere where the bright lights and swarms of sweaty crowds and yelling can't get to him. Especially somewhere they might not be seen. 

This was too risky.

"How many drinks have you had?"

"Too many. Can't count."

His eyes are shining like a lighthouse, but Iker holds back the biting judgement in his tongue. Instead he sighs and nods in understanding.

(I should go home.)

But Iker doesn’t let him go home when he finally makes it stumbling out of the bar, feeling light-headed and dizzy, vision blurred by too much alcohol, too much sadness.

Iker is a good friend. He notices something wet in his hand, and looks over to see David crying, sobs racking through his throat like daggers. 

Usually David Villa cries out of joy at beating another team, not out of desperation. Of sadness.

"Alright, I’m taking you with me," Iker says firmly, getting a hold of David’s hand and putting his arm around his neck to steady this bumbling mess of a man. He can’t bear to see him like this. Not when—not when he knows—damn it, for all his eyes (want to) make him see, this is not the David he knows (no, he’s not, he’s just—who is this person?).

Iker tries to reconcile what’s happening with what’s happened, desperately grasping at straws to make sense of the scene, now that it's obvious to him that David isn't in a position to say anything of substance.

Why would he kiss him now ?

He thinks fondly of David running into his arms in 2008, of tumbling across the pitch in euphoria, of feeling parts of his body Iker hadn't felt before. He remembers how all those moments were now lost in time, how it had been, according to their history, just a one-off affair. 

(Not that he wouldn't have desired for more. He did. But life had moved too fast and it had been impossible to keep up with whatever their thing was.)

Time seems to drag forever before they make it to Iker’s, and when Iker opens the car door for him, all David knows is that he’ll probably be feeling like shit the next morning, but right now he doesn’t care. He flings himself onto Iker’s neck one more time. Iker nuzzles his hair gently and takes him inside. He lies David down on the couch and sits on the other end, placing David’s head on his lap.

"I should. I need," David splutters. "I can’t, I can’t think of it, Iker, it hurts. It’s over, it’s fucking over."

Iker blinks trying to catch onto the context, but it's late and they're both tired.

Maybe David will tell him tomorrow morning.

"It’s not over", he says, but the words feel empty. He doesn't know what they're for. He just wants to see David alright tonight. Iker tentatively puts a hand on his thigh, not sure of what's commanding him right now. "If it’s not all right, then it’s not over."

David wonders how the fuck Iker knows just the right thing to say every time. He finds it amusing, grinning widely in his drunken stupor.

"Ah... It’s just..." David starts again, thoughts clouded and vision still blurred, face wet, "I don’t know, Iker, I don’t know. It was working. It’s not working anymore. It works for me. I just— I wish it would stop," he says, placing a sweaty hand over his own chest. He's not making sense anymore. "Not David. Why?" and he realizes he said the name, but it doesn't matter.

He's with Iker. He's safe.

Iker doesn’t say anything, just keeps tracing circles on the top of his head. As if struck by courage or lust, he leans down and places a soft, soothing kiss on David’s mouth, who kisses back more eagerly than he should (he's drunk and heartbroken, what the hell is wrong with him? He should know better than this - and he knows, but right now Iker's mouth tastes too fucking good, and he won't stop).

"I want to help however I can," Iker says, smiling softly at David. "However you prefer."

David's eyes are clouded by lust when he sits up to kiss him, grabbing at the collar of his shirt in desperation. Iker understands. 

He remembers where his hands used to like to touch David, where he used to like to be touched by his hands, where they’re touching him now, getting dangerously close to his hips. laces he can’t bring himself to name right now, in places he wishes to be touched forever. He wishes he could be feel David's touch forever, but perhaps David—

Well, David doesn’t mind waking up in Iker’s bed the next morning — he's sore, still a bit drunk and is suffering from a terrible headache — but he’s somehow forgotten for the time being. He allows himself to enjoy the morning sex, the breakfast and the drive to his house, and he can never thank Iker enough for everything he’s done for him.

They won't see each other again for six months, when the next Clásico comes up.