pairing: david silva/david villa
this is cheesier and slightly more depressing than intended, but it is my celebration for turning in my thesis so whatever. i do what i want.
Silva’s packing when there’s a knock on the door.
He opens it and Villa walks in without being invited; it’s been a long time since Villa’s waited for an invite when it comes to most things having to do with David Silva. Silva watches after him as he stops in the entryway and removes his sunglasses.
“It’s hot,” Villa says. Silva glances out the door, as if he could tell from looking.
“Wouldn’t know. Been packing all day,” he says.
Villa nods, looks down at his hands. He’s holding two small objects, and Silva asks what they are as he closes the door.
Villa smiles proudly as he holds one of them up, a black rectangle that sort of looks like a calculator. “This,” he says, “is the latest in translation technology.” When Silva simply stares at him, he deflates a little. “It’s, like, a digital translator, Silva. So you can learn English.”
Silva looks at it for a moment and then up at Villa’s face blankly. Villa throws his hands up, like he can’t believe how dense Silva is. “It’s really cool, I swear,” he says. “You can type in anything, a word or a phrase, and it will tell you how to say it in English. Or it will even say it for you.” He’s looking down at the screen, but after he says that he looks up at Silva. “You shouldn’t do that though, you’ll learn faster if you say it yourself.”
Silva rolls his eyes and they turn to go in the kitchen. “Thanks for the advice. What else do you have?” Villa holds up the other object he’s holding. Silva raises his eyebrows, like, well?
“They’re post-it notes, idiot.”
“Wow, really?” Silva asks. “Tell me more.” Villa looks over at him with a half smirk, and for a moment Silva thinks he sees a flash of something- fondness, maybe- slide over the other man’s face, but-
Villa strides into the kitchen and makes his way to the counter. He finds a pen, types something into the translator, and then writes on the top post-it. He sticks it on the cabinet closest to him.
Silva comes up beside him to see. “Cabinet,” he reads slowly. He looks over at Villa, who’s staring at the post-it thoughtfully.
“Cabinet,” Villa echoes.
“You know they’re going to get me an English tutor, right?” Silva asks.
“Um, duh,” Villa says. “But you can get a head start this way.” He tosses the small machine at Silva. “See if the word ingrate is in there.”
Silva pretends to poke at the buttons, then says, “No, but I see asshole.”
Villa elbows him gently. “Oh, stop,” he says. “You adore me.” He doesn’t look at Silva.
Silva types into the translator and hits speak. “No,” a mechanical voice bleats.
“Hey, no translation needed,” Silva says. Villa laughs and laughs.
What Silva needs is to pack, but what he wants is to do this with Villa, and for once- maybe the last time- he’ll let wants overcome needs. And so they spend hours sticking post-its all over Silva’s kitchen, his utensils, the contents of his cupboards, the food in his refrigerator, pretending they don’t realize he’ll have to box it all up in a few hours.
“How do you even say that?” Silva asks, pointing to the post-it they’ve stuck on his knives. They’re sitting on the floor, going through one of the bottom shelves.
Villa looks at him blankly. “I don’t know. Hit the button.”
Silva does but looks unconvinced at the pronunciation. “Are you sure this thing is right?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Well how does it help me if we don’t even know if it works?”
Villa rolls his eyes, snatches the machine from Silva and types furiously. He grabs a post-it, writes, and sticks it on Silva’s forehead.
Silva removes it and turns it around to see. “Shut up,” he reads. He looks up at Villa blankly. He’s not sure what it means, but he can guess from Villa’s laughter.
Silva watches him laugh for a beat too long, and then takes the translator back, types slowly. He looks up at Villa, reaches out with one hand to just brush the corner of his mouth, where it’s turned up. “Smile,” he says softly. Villa freezes. They’d said they wouldn’t do this anymore, because what Silva needs-- but, what Silva wants--
Silva looks back down at the translator. He types again, looks up, touches Villa’s brow. “Eyebrow,” he says.
Villa swallows. He reaches out for the machine, types. He lifts Silva’s hand, moves it around his head. “Ear,” Villa says.
“Ear,” Silva repeats, rubbing the lobe between his fingers. He moves his hand down and waits for Villa to tell him the next word.
“Neck,” he says, and Silva repeats. Silva trails his hand to Villa’s bicep, pretends he doesn’t feel the other man shudder, just slightly. “Arm,” Villa says after a moment.
Then Silva pushes one finger into Villa’s breastbone, and even though what Villa says is, “Chest,” what Silva is thinking is, love, and, sex, and, heart.
He takes the translator back from Villa and types, says slowly, without pointing at anything, “Goodbye.” Villa doesn’t look at the screen, but he must know what it means because he flinches.
“Don’t,” he says.
Silva thinks about changing the setting of the translator to Catalan, telling Villa how to say goodbye in that language, but he doesn’t.
He’s still looking down at the machine when he feels Villa poke at the corner of his mouth with one finger, and he looks up. “Smile?” Villa offers, repeating his word from earlier. Silva does.
He types one more word before he closes the translator, sliding it into his pocket. Villa watches him curiously, and Silva leans in, until he’s just a breath away. He whispers, “Kiss,” so close that his mouth brushes Villa’s when he says it, and then he leans in all the way, shifting up onto his knees to angle his mouth better over Villa’s, who tilts his head up to meet Silva, his eyes sealed tightly.
Their lips slide together, hot but comfortable, natural, until Silva lurches to his feet and hauls Villa up with him. They stumble out of the kitchen, a sea of post-its left fluttering in their wake, and into Silva’s half-packed room. Silva watches Villa undress slowly, and he thinks, arm, chest, smile, ear, love, neck, eyebrow. Love. Goodbye.
Villa’s hands are familiar on his skin and his breath is warm on his face and Silva wants to reach for the translator, see if there are even words for this in English, because he can’t think of any in Spanish. His hips stutter as Villa’s mouth finds his cock, and when Villa slides into him, his dark eyes meeting Silva’s from above, his mind goes blank of any language at all. He comes with a strangled cry. No words.
Later, when they’re resting, Silva reaches for his jeans on the floor and pulls the translator out, opening it as he settles next to Villa again.
“I can only imagine what you are trying to translate right now,” Villa laughs.
Silva smiles briefly, turns over to rest his chin on Villa’s shoulder as he looks at the translation of what he’s typed. He reads, “Every day I will miss you,” and looks from the screen to Villa’s face.
He knows Villa doesn’t know what it means, but Villa’s face grows serious anyway. He moves to grab the translator, see what it says, but Silva snaps it shut and tosses it back on the floor. He presses his face into Villa’s shoulder. He thinks, neck, eyebrow, sex, love, ear, kiss, smile, every day, miss, goodbye.