My take on the dynamic between Davi and Enrico (and consequently Mikel) PT. 1 2 3
He can't sleep. No matter how many times he tosses and turns on the couch.
Enrico sighs out loud, dragging both hands down his face. This was the last thing he needed right now, to be honest.
The fate of having friends in every circle, but no one to call when you need someone at 2 a.m. That is, if he can truly consider them "friends" to begin with.
He hates to see it in their eyes. The way they perceive him changes irrevocably, even when they try to pretend nothing has changed. He is not the Enrico they thought they knew just a few seconds before. The weight of stereotypes, the weight of expectations, the weight of what goes unsaid.
He can't stand to bear witness to it all.
Enrico would do anything to avoid having to open up. As much as he would love to leave it all in the past where it belongs, the memories of what he went through as a child still haunt him, permeating every interaction with the same dread he felt on that first day of school.
Blood pounds in his ears, and his vision blurs at the very thought.
No, forcing the words out of his dry throat feels nearly impossible.
Not committing is easier. It’s safer. You don’t have to feel as bad when things get too intimate and you want to run away. He already feels bad enough.
The morning after, when Davi wakes up in an empty bed that's not his, his head pounds with a terrible hangover. The sun is too bright, the soft chatter coming from the TV in the next room too loud, and his mouth feels too dry.
As he drags himself to the kitchen, hoping to get his hands on some water and painkillers, the wave of familiarity that hits him right at the sight of the Italian brewing coffee with his much-adored moka pot is enough to convince him that perhaps everything can be alright again.
Except maybe for the hangover.
"I'm never drinking again." Enrico startles at the rasp of his voice, likely not expecting to find him awake and roaming around at 6 am. He keeps his back to the Spaniard, busying himself with cleaning up the coffee residue from the counter. When the silence between them stretches past what's comfortable, Davi feels compelled to fill it.
A rhetorical question that gets no answer. Davi is too hungover to be embarrassed by the other's lack of interest.
At that, Enrico slowly turns around and shakes his head no. Then he silently points to the wall clock.
"Not a morning talker, right, I forgot."
Enrico doesn't sound disappointed, just curious. Davi shrugs in response. He takes a seat at the table, the very same chair where last night he… oh no. No, no, no.
Panic floods his system in an instant, and as the room spins around him, he doesn't even notice the espresso that Enrico has set down in front of him, along with a glass of water and ibuprofen.
It's a weird sensation that of being chilled to the bone while simultaneously burning with embarrassment.
"Are you about to throw up? If yes, please, for the love of God, not here on the floor."
Davi shakes his head no, not trusting his own voice enough for the time being. He's sure his face is melting off by now.
Enrico gives him a weird, conflicted look before saying, "I'll drive you back home, so you can sleep it off." Then he lifts the coffee cup for Davi to see it clearly. "Let me just finish this first."
The drive back to Davi's apartment is tense and awkward. Davi doesn't feel like talking, and it seems that Enrico is too lost in thought to make up for the lack of talking.
Once in the private parking lot of the familiar tall building, Enrico parks the car, but doesn't turn off the engine. He stays still, hands gripping the steering wheel, looking ahead.
Davi stares at him for a moment too long before realizing that the other is likely waiting for him to get out of the car so that he can leave for work. He scrambles to do exactly so, cursing under his breath as he accidentally bumps his head on the door frame. Behind him, he hears Enrico snort at his ungraceful display of hurry, and it almost makes him smile. Almost, because the hit makes his hungover headache worse.
As he's holding his forehead with both hands, he hears the low hum of the Italian's black BMW come to a halt before Enrico appears by his side, wrapping an arm around his waist and allowing the other to lean against him. The ride in the elevator is thankfully hassle-free, and when they finally reach the top floor where Davi's high-end apartment is located, Enrico lets go of the Spaniard to keep the heavy security door open for him.
"Can't believe you managed not to send yourself to the hospital, getting all the way down to the ground floor with a barely healed sprained ankle, wasted as you were."
"At least I didn't take the car."
"Thank God you didn't take the car. You would've ended up on the news."
Silence follows, carrying that very same awkward tension from earlier in the car.
"Sorry, I really gotta go, I'm already half an hour behind schedule. Maybe we can talk later this evening, yeah?"
Without waiting for an actual answer, Enrico pivots on his heels and, in a completely out-of-character display of haste, throws himself down the flight of stairs, disappearing in an instant. Davi is left standing there in the hallway of his apartment, disoriented, staring at the spot where the Italian man had been just a moment ago.
Then, suddenly, he remembers his phone and how many times it had vibrated in his pants pocket that morning alone to notify him of a call or a message, and he hurries to check it.
He has, give or take, 32 missed calls between his sister, Querardo, Samuel, Mikel, and his parents.
With a heavy sigh, Davi dials his little sister’s number first, mentally preparing himself for the earful he knows she’s going to give him the moment she picks up.
Just as he’d imagined, his sister had been worried sick all night long because he’d disappeared without a word and couldn’t be reached.
One by one, he calls them or sends them a message, reassuring them that no, he hasn’t been kidnapped, robbed, or killed—and he most certainly hasn’t jumped off the Viaducto de Segovia, a fascinating theory that Querardo shared in the WhatsApp group that Davi and Samuel are both part of.
Davi’s far too afraid of everything to even consider doing such a thing. And as if that weren’t enough, the Catholic Church is clear about those who choose suicide as a way out: it is a rejection of God’s sovereignty over life, a murder of oneself, and Davi already feels the hot breath of the flames of hell on the back of his neck anyway, following his every thought and movement. He doesn’t need another sin to add to the list.
If his paternal grandmother knew about the way his heart flutters in his chest when around other men, she would tell him to pray and ask God for forgiveness, yet no prayer in the world could get him out of this situation.
Perhaps, Davi thinks, taking his own life would be the least of his many sins. Then he thinks back to how he had felt when, after eighteen years spent together, his Pepe had peacefully passed away in the comfort of his kennel. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he pushes the thought aside.
On the not-so-bright side, at least the last thing Enrico said to him before heading down the stairs with the same serenity of someone on fire running from a burning building could very well have been an implicit offer to talk about it. Not that Davi is exactly dying to talk about it.
In any case, all he has to do is wait. And maybe allow himself to hope for the best.
His stomach is in turmoil, and if this keeps up, Davi is now certain he’s actually going to throw up. It’s almost eleven o’clock, and there’s still no sign of Enrico. He’s not coming, after all.
It’s currently five to eleven, the bar stool is digging into his back, and Raffaele is still talking his ear off. Enrico doesn’t want to leave. The temptation to just disappear is strong in the back of his mind. Block him everywhere, or better yet, just change his phone number and pretend the Spaniard never even existed. But that would just be cowardly. And Davi doesn't deserve something like that. He, at the very least, deserves to hear it in person.
It's already been going on for too long.
So, later that night, Enrico keeps his promise and shows up at Davi's front door.
Davi prays that the ground would just open up and swallow him already. Why did he have to greet him with such a pathetic, high-pitched tone?
Enrico flashes him a half-smile before returning to his stone-faced expression. "Hey."
The Italian stands there, in the doorway, as if torn between turning around and leaving or stepping into the apartment and getting it all over with.
"Aren't you… coming in?" Davi isn’t quite sure what to make of that hesitation, but he tries not to think about it as he steps aside to let Enrico pass by him. He closes the door, and as he turns to look at him, he notices that the Italian hasn’t moved a single centimeter away from the door and is standing with his back to him.
But then the man turns around, cutting straight to the chase as usual, and Davi swears he hates the way Enrico's hazel eyes soften with pity.
"What you said last night…" Davi averts his eyes, his jaw tight with the need to fight the surge of emotion off his face. Here it comes. Rejection. He should have known. "Davi, I'm so sorry, but…" Enrico gestures quickly between them, drawing his eyebrows together. "Regular relationships are just… not my thing, y'know?"
He doesn't understand, really, and he finds odious the way his voice wavers.
Davi wishes he could understand why, all of a sudden, Enrico doesn't want anything to do with him. It's just been a few years since the last time they saw each other, and Davi wants to believe that he hasn't gotten that repulsive in the meantime. Right?
He itches to ask, but the words die in his throat.
"It doesn't have anything to do with you, just so you know."
"Right." Davi doesn't sound too convinced, which prompts the other man to explain himself further, although that is the last thing he would want to do.
"Look, it's complicated." Enrico sighs. "If things were any different, believe me when I say that I wouldn't think twice about getting into a relationship with you."
Davi's posture stiffens as he averts his eyes, but Enrico can still see the way they narrow into a tight, cold stare. The same bitter expression Davi makes when he feels that he's being made fun of.
"Go sit on the couch." Enrico’s tone leaves no room for objections as he heads into the Spaniard’s kitchen.
Davi doesn't even know why he's so eager to obey what sounded like such a blunt command. How dare he? After all, this is his apartment, not Enrico's. It doesn't matter that at one point it had pretty much become the Italian's second home.
He wonders if, instead of feeling his heart in his throat and like he’s dying inside, he should just punch that handsome face that’s close to ruining his life. But then the owner of that same face reappears before him and hands him a glass of water that Davi hadn’t even realized he needed.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Davi." Enrico sounds so convincing that Davi might just believe it as well. If only it weren't for the fact that, then, for some unknown reason, the Italian is still choosing to break his heart.
"Your personality is not too much to deal with, even though other people may have had you believe otherwise." Enrico ignores his cynical reply, and Davi's cheeks burn red. Why does he feel compelled to act so lamely all the damn time? "You're handsome, and you have a lot of positive qualities that compensate for the few insignificant flaws you have." The Italian reaches out and places a hand that's meant to be reassuring on the Spaniard's knee, but just gives Davi a bad case of butterflies in his stomach, instead.
"The only problem is that if we were to be officially together, I would want to make things right. Take you to meet my parents, introduce you to the people in my life, and all. But right now I can't do that."
"Why?" Much to Enrico's relief, Davi's abashed frown melts into a confused expression.
"Because I simply can't. Some things are hard to explain, and I don't feel like explaining right now," Enrico confesses. "We could always go back to being friends for now—"
"I don't want to be your friend, Enrico."
Enrico freezes in the middle of a hand gesture, tilting his head to the side. He takes in the resolution on Davi's face and opens his mouth to retort, but Davi doesn't let him.
"I don't want to be your friend, and I don't care if you can't introduce me to your family or if you can't change your Facebook status from 'single' to 'in a relationship'." Davi, perhaps for the first time in his life, doesn't feel willing to compromise and put others' expectations before his own desires. And it feels so liberating, so addictive. "I just want to be with you, to have what we had before all of this mess and nothing else."
Enrico appears too stunned by the uncharacteristic outburst of assertiveness to find the words immediately.
"Okay," he mumbles when he finds his voice again.
"Really?" The short-lived moment of glorious self-assuredness comes to an abrupt end as Davi's craving for security and validation creeps back to betray him.
Enrico nods, still in shock. He opens his arms as Davi tentatively comes near to hug him. They stay like that for a few seconds before Enrico makes a move to get up from the couch.
"Stay?" Davi pleads in his ear, arms still tight around his neck, and Enrico falls back against the backrest without a word.
That night, as he falls asleep in the Italian's arms, forehead pressed snugly against the other's neck, Davi feels light and infinitely secure.
Enrico might be particular about the way he relates to others, but Davi doesn't mind that too much. He doesn't believe in trying to change people to better fit one's views. If that's all that the Italian can and is willing to give him, that's all Davi needs for now.
After all, even if Enrico were to reciprocate the wish to be in a standard relationship, Davi would still have his own issues to deal with. In fact, his parents are still in the dark about his dating preferences, along with Querardo, the rest of his team, and his friends.
He'd genuinely love to tell his sister, but after a while of mulling over the various outcomes, he opts for waiting. Waiting for what exactly he doesn't know, but eventually, if God is truly merciful as they say, he will perhaps give him a sign.
He spends the last of his recovery weeks with a starkly different attitude. He keeps himself busy with physiotherapy and takes up some of the hobbies he usually doesn't have time for.
With much disappointment, he witnesses the end of the tournament for Spain, as his country's national team gets knocked out on penalties at the round of sixteen by Morocco. At least, that means that Querardo is coming back.
Oh, and Enrico hasn't called once since that night, but Davi figures the Italian must have been so busy these past few weeks that it must have slipped his mind. Besides, he’d left early that same morning, probably to catch a flight, and Davi had woken up to an empty bed. It's no big deal. He'll call.
It’s been almost a month, and Enrico still hasn’t called him. Davi is desperately trying to come up with a rational explanation. It must be because of his work commitments. He remembers catching a glimpse of the man’s insane schedule once. Flights at all hours, from one country to another, interviews, talk show appearances, always on the go. Although it’s true that at the beginning of their situationship, Enrico was just starting out and not nearly as famous, Davi knows deep down that if the man truly wanted to, he could find at least five measly minutes to call him. After all, he’d always done it before.
Maybe Enrico is waiting for him to call. And so Davi calls him. To his immense relief, Enrico answers after a few endless rings with no answer.
"Hey, hi, gorgeous, I can't talk right now. Maybe I'll call you back tonight." Davi can hear an insane commotion in the background and someone who sounds like Raffaele yelling something in Italian.
"Okay… wait, wait! Will you be in Spain any time soon?"
Silence on the other end of the line.
For someone who doesn't seem to have time to talk on the phone, Enrico sure takes his time answering. And when he finally does, Davi can't help but notice how despondent and subdued his voice sounds.
"Tonight, actually." Then, Davi muses, Enrico must be likely grinning when he adds, "That is, if Raffaele doesn’t make us miss our flight because of his idiocy."
Davi has to stifle a laugh when he hears a deafening ‘Ohhhh!’ coming from the other Italian.
"Oh, well… would you like to come over to my place then? If you have time, of course."
He hears Enrico sigh on the other end of the phone.
“I’ll let you know later tonight. Bye-bye.”
Well... he’s tired. That must be why he sounded so flat and fatigued. On second thought, Davi would rather not make him feel pressured to come over that night, even though he’s honestly looking forward to seeing him.
It would be best for Enrico to rest after the flight, but Davi needs reassurance that the other man hasn't suddenly started to hate him out of nowhere, and promises over the phone wouldn't be enough to put his mind at ease anyway. God, he just hates feeling so insecure about everything. He never knows what to say or what to do, perpetually stuck in a limbo of self-doubt that has him completely petrified.
In the end, Davi figures that he’ll leave the decision up to him. If Enrico does come, great; if not, no hard feelings. There’s always tomorrow.
He does look exhausted and a little haunted, most likely by something going on at work, but he's standing there in the Spaniard's doorway.
Beaming, Davi rises on tiptoes to greet him with a kiss, but the man steps aside, his expression unreadable. Davi's stomach drops, and he starts to break out in a cold sweat. What on earth is getting into him now?
"I can't stay, I'm seeing someone else later tonight."
Enrico says it as if it were no big deal, with his hands in his pockets, without even looking him in the eye.
Davi doesn't know what to say to that.
It's true that, technically, the arrangement they'd reached that evening, all those years ago, never included the exclusivity typical of a conventional relationship. But Enrico had never made it so clear to him before, in such a direct and matter-of-fact way, that he had been sleeping with other people all along.
"Why are you looking at me like that? We're not an actual couple, remember?" Enrico reminds him coldly.
Davi can't believe what's happening. Enrico isn't acting like himself at all.
"Do you actually plan to do something right now, or should I just leave so neither of us wastes any time?"
Hurt by Enrico's abrupt and inconsiderate manner, Davi feels his throat tighten as anger rises within him. The mere thought of being treated this way by the Italian brings tears to his eyes.
"Leave." He doesn't really mean it. It is clear from the tone of his voice, shaky and heavy with barely restrained outrage, but Enrico doesn't seem to care. He lifts his shoulders nonchalantly and actually turns to leave.
Davi stares at him, his eyes glistening, as Enrico slips out the door without so much as a wave. He stands there in silence for what feels like an eternity, hoping that maybe Enrico will come back, apologize, and tell him that he’d momentarily lost his mind, that he actually cares, and that it was all just a misunderstanding. But when it becomes increasingly clear that the dark-haired man won't be coming back, a stifled sob escapes his throat. He tries to hold it back, to act like a man, but almost immediately another follows the first, and then another and yet another, and before he can do anything about it, he’s bawling his eyes out.
Unbeknownst to him, Enrico is still standing outside the door, motionless and silent like a marble statue.
He never actually left, and besides… where would he have gone? There’s no one else to spend the night with. He just made it all up.
Over the past few weeks, he’s half-heartedly tried to go back to his old ways. But he can’t do it, no matter how attracted he is to the other person.
They don't do it for him the way Davi does.
Enrico tries hard to resist the overwhelming urge to turn around, rush to him, and cradle him in his arms until he stops crying. He wishes he could apologize a hundred million times just for even coming up with the idea of putting him through this, but he knows he can’t.
One way or another, this mess has to end, and if making himself unlovable enough for Davi to get fed up with him and move on is the only way, he’ll just have to deal with it. Although it’s killing him to act like such a piece of shit.
His mother would knock him out if she had any idea he was acting this way.
A week goes by, and Davi still can’t come to terms with what went down between him and Enrico. Every time the Italian crosses his mind, which, unfortunately, happens very often, it makes his stomach turn.
He’s consumed by rage and confusion all the time, so much so that it's becoming frustratingly hard to concentrate on his football career again. At times, he wishes Enrico would just vanish off the face of the earth, and at others, he wishes he’d stop acting like such an asshole and just take him back.
But the worst of the worst is when that horrible feeling returns. That very same one, Enrico’s words had unleashed in him just before the man had left. That feeling of being used as nothing more than a sex object. It makes his skin crawl with revulsion.
And yet his stupid, stupid brain makes him ache for him like crazy. That's why, even though it makes absolutely no sense, even though the thought of putting himself in the same situation again makes him want to hurl, he sends him a message later that night.
Enrico just views the message, not even bothering to send back a reply of any sort.
Maybe Davi should just block him. But deep down, he thinks, it's not like he didn't ask for any of this. After all, what the hell could he have expected when this is literally what being friends with benefits is all about? He should have known. If anything, he was to blame for practically obliging Enrico to be in a normal relationship with him, simply because the Spaniard didn't even know where to begin with that sort of thing. Enrico had probably only tolerated it out of pity because Davi was so pathetic and clumsy, head over heels for his former teammate, that there was really nothing else to do. But now that Enrico is aware of how Davi really feels about him, it has surely become too much for the Italian, and that’s why—
The doorbell interrupts his spiralling thoughts. Davi answers the door to find himself looking up at the very object of his ruminations. He’s about to greet him out of habit, but stops himself and says nothing instead, stepping aside to let Enrico in.
Davi isn’t thinking about anything anymore. He doesn’t want to think about anything anymore. Not even when Enrico instructs him to turn around. Because he doesn’t care to look him in the eyes, Davi is sure of it, but banishes the thought from his mind as soon as Enrico reaches for his hips.
There's nothing healthy about it. Not at all.
Davi stares at the ceiling. Enrico has just left, right after getting dressed in silence and disappearing without another word. He never looked him in the eye once, never spoke to him. Not before, not during, not after.
It's not healthy at all, and he knows it perfectly well.
Still, it doesn't matter.
It’s not healthy, yet Davi can’t seem to put an end to it once and for all. He doesn’t know how to stop, caught in a vicious cycle that will drive him to ruin. He texts him, Enrico shows up, they hook up, and Enrico leaves right after, without exchanging a single word that would give him a sense of intimacy or warmth.
Davi can't stand it. Yet rather than risk losing him, he turns a blind eye, putting up with the other man's increasingly heartless and cold behavior on the sole condition that Enrico doesn't leave him, that he doesn't walk out on him forever.
Querardo keeps asking him what’s wrong. Whether it’s still because of the injury, which has now fully healed, but Davi can’t tell him that every time his former captain casually mentions the Italian, with whom the latter is still friends, Davi feels like jumping off a building, so he just shrugs and stays silent.
Querardo doesn't press the issue too much, even though he seems very concerned. Instead, he tries to distract him, taking him out to parties and the club, even though Davi doesn't want to go, to dinner at his parents' house, and talking to him on the phone every day until late at night. Davi really appreciates his efforts. Especially since he and the Navarre player hadn't exactly hit it off at first. And look at them now. Querardo is pretty much Davi's best friend.
It’s been over a month since Enrico last left Davi’s apartment in the middle of the night. Davi makes a couple of attempts to get him to come over again that week, but lately it seems like Enrico always has an excuse, so the Spaniard stops trying after the fourth turn-down. Which is good, because it's exactly the push he needs to throw himself headlong into soccer again, trying to forget everything and everyone.
Almost because Davi, worn out from a gruelling training session and eager only to collapse into bed, has barely taken the last step of the staircase leading from the elevator to his apartment when he comes face to face with Enrico, sitting in all his glory right in front of his apartment door.
The Italian is holding his head in his hands, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. It’s only nine p.m., which, aside from his posture, is quite strange, considering Enrico usually had never shown up before eleven, even when everything felt right between them.
"Why are you here?" Davi gets a rush of satisfaction when he realizes just how detached his voice sounds. He expects some asshole answer. Something like 'to fuck you' or some crude confession of the kind. He nearly has a heart attack when Enrico instead looks up at him with bloodshot eyes and blurts out, "Because I can't fucking take it anymore."
