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FOOTBALL RPF FIC: wish i had your poker face
Title: wish i had your poker face
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 978
Pairing: David Villa/David Silva
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: After the record-breaking Copa Confederaciones match against Tahiti, the two Davids realize that a move to England might not actually bring them closer together.
"Great game, Guaje!" Cesc Fabregas gave the two of them a cheery wave as they ducked into David Villa's room.
"Great game, Guaje," Villa mimicked, and flopped onto his bed, frowning. "As if that performance proved anything. I'm surprised that Pepe didn't score against them."
Silva joined him on the bed, trailing a hand suggestively along his inner thigh. "Still, ten goals? That's got to be a record. Xavi would know," he mused.
"Four of them from Nando," Villa said in an aggrieved tone. "A fucking poker, even without the penalty shot. He should have let me take it, selfish bastard."
"Selfish?" Silva laughed. "He tried to give you at least two more goals that I could see, what more do you want?"
But now, "I don't need his fucking charity," Villa muttered, and nipped at Silva's neck.
"Well, sure, if you're determined to be pissed off at him..." Silva teased, and Villa sighed, but with more fondness than annoyance. They both knew that Villa appreciated it when Silva was bold enough to call him on his bullshit, belying the sweet, shy demeanor with which he was credited by most of their teammates and the press.
"Whose side are you on, anyway?" he complained, flicking Silva's ear.
"Ours," Silva said immediately, twining his fingers in Villa's, who gave them a rough squeeze. "Anyway, you still got a hat trick, that doesn't suck."
"Well, you weren't so shabby yourself," Villa said gruffly. "Two goals, and how many assists was that? I lost track."
Silva smiled up at him. "No, you didn't."
"No, I didn't," Villa agreed, his mouth twitching into a grin despite his best efforts, and he bent down to kiss Silva soundly on the mouth.
***
It wasn't until much later, when they lay together, sweaty limbs entangled, that Villa began grumbling again.
"At least Nando understands that it's a partnership. He shares his chances, most of the time."
"Oh yeah? I saw you yelling at him for not passing you the ball in the first half," Silva said, grinning.
"What? That's something that Leo would do, not me," Villa protested, but he looked faintly troubled.
"I saw the papers. The tax thing. Do you think he's guilty?" Silva asked, in as idle a tone as he could summon.
"Nah," David said dismissively. "No way."
His certainty prompted Silva to raise himself on his elbow. "Really? You don't think that he owes the Spanish government millions of dollars?"
"I didn't say that," Villa shrugged. "But I'm sure it wasn't intentional. What do the Messis know about money? The lawyer says, here, sign this piece of paper, you sign it, that's it. Leo wouldn't have a fucking clue."
"You seem to know a lot about it," Silva ventured.
"I know Leo," Villa said shortly.
And Silva wanted to ask, Oh really, just how well do you know Leo? but he didn't, because that was never part of the deal. Just like he never asked after Villa's kids, or how he was getting on with Patricia. When they were alone together, well, they were alone together. That was the only way it could work.
So he changed the subject. "Well, I hear you won't have to put up with him for much longer. Eh, Guaje, are the rumors true? Have you been brushing up on your English lessons?"
Villa rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you and Pepe have made me feel like I've been missing out on so much all these years. The bad weather, worse food..."
"Only London clubs?" Silva tried to keep his tone light, but Villa gave him a sharp look.
"So far. Anyway, living in London would be more interesting, no?"
It was on the tip of Silva's tongue to tell him that Manchester had one enormous advantage over London, but he didn't, and he knew that he never would. Except...
"If you came to Man City," he said, "every game could be like this one, Guaje."
Villa snorted. "I doubt that the other clubs in the Premier League would appreciate the comparison to Tahiti."
"You know what I mean," Silva said softly, looking away.
"Playing for the same club," Villa rolled the words around on his tongue as if tasting them, "would be pretty fucking spectacular, all right. But," he sighed, "we could never keep this a secret if we did."
"You mean you couldn't," Silva replied bluntly.
"Not everyone has your poker face, cariño," Villa pointed out, stroking Silva's shoulder as if attempting to take some of the sting out of the exchange.
Silva shrugged him off, feeling suddenly sad, and very tired. "No," he agreed, sitting up and reaching for his shirt. "No, they don't."
"Where are you going?" Villa demanded, although he made no move to stop him. "Does Navas need someone to hold his hand again?"
He tugged his shirt down over his hips, grabbed his shorts. "That jealousy of yours," he told Villa, "is such an attractive quality."
"Jealousy, my ass," Villa growled, folding his arms and staring at the ceiling. "I just think it's a little ridiculous that a grown man can't even attend an international tournament without his therapist."
"There are souls more sensitive than yours," Silva said, a little more sharply than he'd intended.
"Oh, it's his soul that interests you, is it?" Villa needled, ignoring the dig. "Not those big blue eyes or that shapely little-"
Silva cut him off. "I'll see you later, Guaje," he said firmly, and left, still barefoot, his trainers dangling from his fingertips, and the blood pounding in his ears.
Pepe caught up with him in the corridor. "Porra in our room tonight. Are you and el Guaje done in there?"
"Yeah," Silva said, "we're done," and when Pepe made a sympathetic face and bent down to embrace him, he knew that he had given away much more than he'd meant to.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 978
Pairing: David Villa/David Silva
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: After the record-breaking Copa Confederaciones match against Tahiti, the two Davids realize that a move to England might not actually bring them closer together.
"Great game, Guaje!" Cesc Fabregas gave the two of them a cheery wave as they ducked into David Villa's room.
"Great game, Guaje," Villa mimicked, and flopped onto his bed, frowning. "As if that performance proved anything. I'm surprised that Pepe didn't score against them."
Silva joined him on the bed, trailing a hand suggestively along his inner thigh. "Still, ten goals? That's got to be a record. Xavi would know," he mused.
"Four of them from Nando," Villa said in an aggrieved tone. "A fucking poker, even without the penalty shot. He should have let me take it, selfish bastard."
"Selfish?" Silva laughed. "He tried to give you at least two more goals that I could see, what more do you want?"
But now, "I don't need his fucking charity," Villa muttered, and nipped at Silva's neck.
"Well, sure, if you're determined to be pissed off at him..." Silva teased, and Villa sighed, but with more fondness than annoyance. They both knew that Villa appreciated it when Silva was bold enough to call him on his bullshit, belying the sweet, shy demeanor with which he was credited by most of their teammates and the press.
"Whose side are you on, anyway?" he complained, flicking Silva's ear.
"Ours," Silva said immediately, twining his fingers in Villa's, who gave them a rough squeeze. "Anyway, you still got a hat trick, that doesn't suck."
"Well, you weren't so shabby yourself," Villa said gruffly. "Two goals, and how many assists was that? I lost track."
Silva smiled up at him. "No, you didn't."
"No, I didn't," Villa agreed, his mouth twitching into a grin despite his best efforts, and he bent down to kiss Silva soundly on the mouth.
***
It wasn't until much later, when they lay together, sweaty limbs entangled, that Villa began grumbling again.
"At least Nando understands that it's a partnership. He shares his chances, most of the time."
"Oh yeah? I saw you yelling at him for not passing you the ball in the first half," Silva said, grinning.
"What? That's something that Leo would do, not me," Villa protested, but he looked faintly troubled.
"I saw the papers. The tax thing. Do you think he's guilty?" Silva asked, in as idle a tone as he could summon.
"Nah," David said dismissively. "No way."
His certainty prompted Silva to raise himself on his elbow. "Really? You don't think that he owes the Spanish government millions of dollars?"
"I didn't say that," Villa shrugged. "But I'm sure it wasn't intentional. What do the Messis know about money? The lawyer says, here, sign this piece of paper, you sign it, that's it. Leo wouldn't have a fucking clue."
"You seem to know a lot about it," Silva ventured.
"I know Leo," Villa said shortly.
And Silva wanted to ask, Oh really, just how well do you know Leo? but he didn't, because that was never part of the deal. Just like he never asked after Villa's kids, or how he was getting on with Patricia. When they were alone together, well, they were alone together. That was the only way it could work.
So he changed the subject. "Well, I hear you won't have to put up with him for much longer. Eh, Guaje, are the rumors true? Have you been brushing up on your English lessons?"
Villa rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you and Pepe have made me feel like I've been missing out on so much all these years. The bad weather, worse food..."
"Only London clubs?" Silva tried to keep his tone light, but Villa gave him a sharp look.
"So far. Anyway, living in London would be more interesting, no?"
It was on the tip of Silva's tongue to tell him that Manchester had one enormous advantage over London, but he didn't, and he knew that he never would. Except...
"If you came to Man City," he said, "every game could be like this one, Guaje."
Villa snorted. "I doubt that the other clubs in the Premier League would appreciate the comparison to Tahiti."
"You know what I mean," Silva said softly, looking away.
"Playing for the same club," Villa rolled the words around on his tongue as if tasting them, "would be pretty fucking spectacular, all right. But," he sighed, "we could never keep this a secret if we did."
"You mean you couldn't," Silva replied bluntly.
"Not everyone has your poker face, cariño," Villa pointed out, stroking Silva's shoulder as if attempting to take some of the sting out of the exchange.
Silva shrugged him off, feeling suddenly sad, and very tired. "No," he agreed, sitting up and reaching for his shirt. "No, they don't."
"Where are you going?" Villa demanded, although he made no move to stop him. "Does Navas need someone to hold his hand again?"
He tugged his shirt down over his hips, grabbed his shorts. "That jealousy of yours," he told Villa, "is such an attractive quality."
"Jealousy, my ass," Villa growled, folding his arms and staring at the ceiling. "I just think it's a little ridiculous that a grown man can't even attend an international tournament without his therapist."
"There are souls more sensitive than yours," Silva said, a little more sharply than he'd intended.
"Oh, it's his soul that interests you, is it?" Villa needled, ignoring the dig. "Not those big blue eyes or that shapely little-"
Silva cut him off. "I'll see you later, Guaje," he said firmly, and left, still barefoot, his trainers dangling from his fingertips, and the blood pounding in his ears.
Pepe caught up with him in the corridor. "Porra in our room tonight. Are you and el Guaje done in there?"
"Yeah," Silva said, "we're done," and when Pepe made a sympathetic face and bent down to embrace him, he knew that he had given away much more than he'd meant to.