(no subject)
Title: Every December 25th.
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer
Rating: PG
Summary: Andy’s never surprised on Christmas morning.
Notes: I’ve got a longer piece in the works and I thought I’d post this one first as a practice run. It’s silly, probably full of factual errors about Andy’s family, and unbetaed (so probably full of mechanical errors, as well). I’m new to both the fandom and the sport (soccer lover, first and foremost), can’t come up creative titles to save my life, and also a tiny bit late in posting this, considering the content. Hope you all enjoy it anyway and that it holds us over until some of the really good stuff can be written.
Everyone, Andy assumes, has a crazy relative. He’d heard horror stories from school friends about an aunt with seventeen cats and an uncle who insisted on early morning military drills for his friend, Jake, (“in case of another ‘Nam, boy.”) He’d even met Mardy’s grandmother, the one who would knit a pair of pink socks for every person she’d ever met - be they male or female.
One night, while in bed with Roger, he’d been curious as to what kind of crazy relative the world number one might have. The Swiss, who’s breathing had just begun to deepen and even out, had been confused.
“Was?” and he'd thought Roger was adorable when he was bleary-eyed and disoriented, but because he'd really wanted an answer to the question he'd asked again.
“Crazy relatives, Rog! You’ve got one, right?” there was a sigh and a moment of silence so long, he had begun to think that the other man had fallen back to sleep.
“I have a cousin…” Roger’s sentence was interrupted by a yawn, “a cousin who hates tennis.” And that, he had thought, was certainly worse than Mardy’s sock-knitting grandmother, but couldn’t even begin to compare to his great-aunt Catherine.
Great-aunt Catherine, a relative on his mother’s side, was eighty-seven, played bridge every week, and professed to identify with Carrie from Sex and the City. She was also obsessed with giving him underwear for Christmas. While his brothers were getting the cool gifts, shiny red fire engines, train sets, video games, he was unfortunate to remain a perpetual four-year-old in the eyes of Catherine and was never surprised to get the most dreaded of all gifts every December 25th.
Brothers, he had decided long ago, were the worst things on the planet; even worse than a long running losing record to the best tennis player in the world, who just happens to also be your lover. When he’d brought his first serious girlfriend home at the age of thirteen, he’d made the deadly mistake of leaving her alone in the sitting room while he’d went to fetch them drinks from the fridge. When he’d returned, he’d found John and Lawrence flanking her on the sofa with the family photo album spread across her lap. Peals of laughter completed the scene and he hadn’t needed to see the pictures to know what they were laughing at.
“And this one, right here,” John giggled, “is from when Andy was six. He just loved to run around in his underwear, swinging that tennis raquet around.”
“Those underwear were a gift from our great-aunt Catherine. She always did know Andy’s personal style so well,” Lawrence continued.
He’d screwed his eyes shut, grit his teeth, and had begun praying to every diety that might be listening, ‘please. Not the multi-colored -‘
“Polka dots! How adorable! ” she’d squealed. He’d broken up with the girl the next day and didn’t speak to his brothers for over a week.
Christmas the year he was seventeen marked Catherine’s further descent into madness. He’d just gotten a new raquet, the same make and model as the one Agassi was currently tearing up the courts with, and had been eager to get outside to test it. He’d been halfway out the door, grinning like a fool at his cunning escape, before John had called, “hey, Andy! Where’re you going? You haven’t opened aunt Catherine’s gift yet!”
Grudgingly he’d turned and made his way back into the house, thinking all the while that maybe John’s head was better than a tennis ball to test out the raquet on. All eyes had been on him as he’d reluctantly tore away wrapping paper covered with winking reindeer. The small piece of pink stationary bearing distinctly feminine writing that was taped to the box had caused a cold knot of dread in his stomach. Lawrence had grabbed it before he could and, after theatrically clearing his throat, read it out to the room.
“Dear Andy,
I know how disappointed you’ll be this year at my sudden change in tradition, but I believe you’ll thank me one day after I explain my reasoning. You see, I’ve recently read that briefs can be harmful for a young man’s fertility and I think that a strong, handsome boy like yourself should have children one day. I know that when you have a little girl, you’ll name her after me in honor of my looking out for your well-being.
Love,
Aunt Catherine"
Silence had settled heavily over the room before a choked sound had broken it. His head had snapped to the side to see his father, red-faced and eyes watering, getting up from the sofa, muttering a, “have to check on the turkey” before practically sprinting to the kitchen where his loud guffaws could be heard.
“Open the box, Andy,” his mother commanded gently, and he had sat there looking at it for a long time before finally lifting the lid.
What hit him first was the bright (so very, very bright) red of the boxers sitting nestled in the tissue paper. They had been strategically placed backside up so the yellow burst and black block letters proclaiming, “world’s largest source of natural gas” could be seen plainly by anyone who cared to look inside. Everyone, including his usually collected and supportive mother, had burst into gales of laughter then, which he had still been able to hear echoing in his ears even as he’d slammed out the door, raquet in hand.
The next to see his underwear had been Mardy…along with the rest of the high school tennis team.
Teenage boys are creatures of habit. They love food, sleep, and have nothing against allowing their bedrooms to become virtual wastelands. When combined, the latter two had the potential to become a highly dangerous combination if one wasn’t careful, something he’d found out the day he’d first really met Mardy.
The snooze button, after brothers and long running losing streaks against lovers, was also on his list of bad things. It was far too easy for flailing appendages to come in contact with and, on that fateful morning, contact was made a few too many times. Finding himself hopelessly late for school, he’d grabbed the first articles of clothing he’d touched from off of his floor (“it’s a walk-in hamper, mom. I’m revolutionizing the industry” ) and had managed to make it to school in time to slide into his seat just as the final bell rang. When he’d managed the time to give himself a proper once over, he’d been pleasantly surprised to find himself matching relatively well and had walked with a spring in his step for the rest of the day, overjoyed with his luck. When he’d gotten to practice later in the day, however, he’d learned that snooze buttons may be bad, but being humble was not, and to never overestimate the extent of your luck.
He’d never been shy in locker rooms; he’d never had reason to be. A bit on the skinny side but with enough size in other areas to save him the teasing, he hadn’t hesitated to open his locker and unceremoniously drop his cargo shorts to the floor. It had only taken a few seconds for the jeers and laughter to begin, one voice clear above the rest.
“Hey, Mister Softee! Haven’t you heard about the miracles of modern medicine? The little blue pill?” and sure enough, when he’d looked down, he had been met with the smiling face of Mister Softee, the ice cream cone.
He’d looked for the source of the comment and had found it in Mardy Fish. New to Boca Prep, a transfer student, and what the hell type of last name was Fish, anyway? He’d ignored him, went out to beat his opponent in straight sets, and later, on the way home, had given Mardy a black eye and had gotten a split lip in return. They’d been best friends since.
He thinks that the next time it happened had a decisive and lasting effect on the man he eventually became. The Christmas after he’d turned Pro and the sponsorships and titles started coming, aunt Catherine had sent him underwear depicting a grinning Pillsbury Dough Boy with a bolded proclaimation of, “Bringin’ Home The Dough!”
By this time, he’d begun living on his own and wasn’t too proud to assimilate Catherine’s additions to his underwear collection into his everyday wardrobe, almost glad for them when the desperations of bachelorhood and not doing laundry finally caught up with him.
By then he'd thought he was safe from brothers and photo albums and had begun dating again. This one was blonde and didn’t care for or know much about tennis, but she was sweet and seemed to care for him. He’d been doing errands all day and swore he’d do laundry later that night, but when he’d gotten home, she had been waiting for him on his bed wearing something pink and lacy. It had seemed as though he couldn’t get his jeans off fast enough but when he finally did, he had desperately wished the zip had gotten stuck. Amidst her breathless laughter, she’d managed to poke him in the stomach and giggle, “woo hoo!”
After that, he’d decided that girls were completely the wrong option and that men were the better route for him.
When he’d fallen in love with Roger Federer, he, more than anyone else, had realized how opposite they were. Graceful, sophisticated Roger, who’s idea of classy probably wasn’t the tuxedo boxers that were in his drawer (“for your prom, dear!”) and who’s own underwear, as far as he’d seen, was all in solid, muted colors. Then again, a wise person once said you couldn’t help who you fell in love with and there had been a kind of inevitability between them for as long as they’d know each other, anyway. So when Roger had eventually found the secret collection, and had laughed at them all but particularly the pair stating “Love Machine,” then his only option had been to take the teasing like a man and then pin Roger down and prove the validity of the statement.
On their first Christmas Eve together, they’d gone to his parent’s house for dinner. His brothers, the bastards, had hauled out the photo albums and they, along with Roger and Mardy, had spent the night laughing over his baby photos and making comments about how cute his ass looked against a bear skin rug. When it was time to go home, after hugs and kisses on cheeks, his mother had handed him a bag and told him that it was from aunt Catherine. Roger had chuckled at his horrified expression, said a final “thank you,” and had pushed him out the door. The bag was quickly deposited and forgotten under the tree as soon as they’d made it back to his place in favor of other activities that didn’t include the thought of underwear.
Christmas morning found Roger stretched out on the sofa, watching with a tender smile on his face while he’d torn through the gifts under the tree. When he had been satisfied that the boxes had been properly demolished, he’d leaned back against the sofa and tilted his head, offering his neck to Roger who’d rained wet little kisses down the length of it. Drawing away, causing him to whimper, Roger had glanced under the tree and stated, “I think you’ve missed one, liebe.” Sure enough, there was the bag from aunt Catherine.
“Please don’t make me, Rogi. Wouldn’t you rather try out my new camera? I’m sure we could find something…interesting…to do with the video feature,” he’d waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Go on, Roddick. Be a big boy.”
So it had been with a heavy heart that he’d grabbed the bag and settled back against the couch. Reaching into it, he’d been surprised to find two carefully wrapped packages: one addressed to him and the other to Roger. “That was sweet of her,” Roger had said before taking the package from his hands.
“Yeah, sweet,” he’d answered unenthusiastically. “Just like it’ll be sweet when you get a cool gift and I get underwear. Again.” He had ignored Roger’s laugh and removed the paper from the box, only to find another piece of that pink stationary. He’d shuddered; bad things had come as a result of that stationary.
Andy,
For my favorite nephew, all grown up. Have fun during your trips to Switzerland.
Love,
Aunt Catherine
His curiosity piqued, he’d hurriedly ripped off the cover of the box. Inside was a tasteful pair of leather gloves along with a thick black scarf. He’d stared open mouthed for a moment before he’d turned to Roger, note in hand.
“Hey, Rogi! Look at - Rogi?” The look on Roger’s face would have been hilarious if he hadn’t been so pale. “Roger? What’s wrong?”
Unable to answer, the Swiss had instead handed him his own piece of pink stationary as a way of explanation.
Roger,
Welcome to the family.
Love,
Aunt Catherine
Confused, he’d pried the box from the limp fingers of a still speechless Roger. When he’d looked inside, he’d been barely able to contain himself. There, lying innocently amongst the tissue paper, had been a pair of black boxers, bearing white and red lettering, and stating, almost proudly, “I’ve Got A Heart On For Andy.”
Maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all.
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer
Rating: PG
Summary: Andy’s never surprised on Christmas morning.
Notes: I’ve got a longer piece in the works and I thought I’d post this one first as a practice run. It’s silly, probably full of factual errors about Andy’s family, and unbetaed (so probably full of mechanical errors, as well). I’m new to both the fandom and the sport (soccer lover, first and foremost), can’t come up creative titles to save my life, and also a tiny bit late in posting this, considering the content. Hope you all enjoy it anyway and that it holds us over until some of the really good stuff can be written.
Everyone, Andy assumes, has a crazy relative. He’d heard horror stories from school friends about an aunt with seventeen cats and an uncle who insisted on early morning military drills for his friend, Jake, (“in case of another ‘Nam, boy.”) He’d even met Mardy’s grandmother, the one who would knit a pair of pink socks for every person she’d ever met - be they male or female.
One night, while in bed with Roger, he’d been curious as to what kind of crazy relative the world number one might have. The Swiss, who’s breathing had just begun to deepen and even out, had been confused.
“Was?” and he'd thought Roger was adorable when he was bleary-eyed and disoriented, but because he'd really wanted an answer to the question he'd asked again.
“Crazy relatives, Rog! You’ve got one, right?” there was a sigh and a moment of silence so long, he had begun to think that the other man had fallen back to sleep.
“I have a cousin…” Roger’s sentence was interrupted by a yawn, “a cousin who hates tennis.” And that, he had thought, was certainly worse than Mardy’s sock-knitting grandmother, but couldn’t even begin to compare to his great-aunt Catherine.
Great-aunt Catherine, a relative on his mother’s side, was eighty-seven, played bridge every week, and professed to identify with Carrie from Sex and the City. She was also obsessed with giving him underwear for Christmas. While his brothers were getting the cool gifts, shiny red fire engines, train sets, video games, he was unfortunate to remain a perpetual four-year-old in the eyes of Catherine and was never surprised to get the most dreaded of all gifts every December 25th.
Brothers, he had decided long ago, were the worst things on the planet; even worse than a long running losing record to the best tennis player in the world, who just happens to also be your lover. When he’d brought his first serious girlfriend home at the age of thirteen, he’d made the deadly mistake of leaving her alone in the sitting room while he’d went to fetch them drinks from the fridge. When he’d returned, he’d found John and Lawrence flanking her on the sofa with the family photo album spread across her lap. Peals of laughter completed the scene and he hadn’t needed to see the pictures to know what they were laughing at.
“And this one, right here,” John giggled, “is from when Andy was six. He just loved to run around in his underwear, swinging that tennis raquet around.”
“Those underwear were a gift from our great-aunt Catherine. She always did know Andy’s personal style so well,” Lawrence continued.
He’d screwed his eyes shut, grit his teeth, and had begun praying to every diety that might be listening, ‘please. Not the multi-colored -‘
“Polka dots! How adorable! ” she’d squealed. He’d broken up with the girl the next day and didn’t speak to his brothers for over a week.
Christmas the year he was seventeen marked Catherine’s further descent into madness. He’d just gotten a new raquet, the same make and model as the one Agassi was currently tearing up the courts with, and had been eager to get outside to test it. He’d been halfway out the door, grinning like a fool at his cunning escape, before John had called, “hey, Andy! Where’re you going? You haven’t opened aunt Catherine’s gift yet!”
Grudgingly he’d turned and made his way back into the house, thinking all the while that maybe John’s head was better than a tennis ball to test out the raquet on. All eyes had been on him as he’d reluctantly tore away wrapping paper covered with winking reindeer. The small piece of pink stationary bearing distinctly feminine writing that was taped to the box had caused a cold knot of dread in his stomach. Lawrence had grabbed it before he could and, after theatrically clearing his throat, read it out to the room.
“Dear Andy,
I know how disappointed you’ll be this year at my sudden change in tradition, but I believe you’ll thank me one day after I explain my reasoning. You see, I’ve recently read that briefs can be harmful for a young man’s fertility and I think that a strong, handsome boy like yourself should have children one day. I know that when you have a little girl, you’ll name her after me in honor of my looking out for your well-being.
Love,
Aunt Catherine"
Silence had settled heavily over the room before a choked sound had broken it. His head had snapped to the side to see his father, red-faced and eyes watering, getting up from the sofa, muttering a, “have to check on the turkey” before practically sprinting to the kitchen where his loud guffaws could be heard.
“Open the box, Andy,” his mother commanded gently, and he had sat there looking at it for a long time before finally lifting the lid.
What hit him first was the bright (so very, very bright) red of the boxers sitting nestled in the tissue paper. They had been strategically placed backside up so the yellow burst and black block letters proclaiming, “world’s largest source of natural gas” could be seen plainly by anyone who cared to look inside. Everyone, including his usually collected and supportive mother, had burst into gales of laughter then, which he had still been able to hear echoing in his ears even as he’d slammed out the door, raquet in hand.
The next to see his underwear had been Mardy…along with the rest of the high school tennis team.
Teenage boys are creatures of habit. They love food, sleep, and have nothing against allowing their bedrooms to become virtual wastelands. When combined, the latter two had the potential to become a highly dangerous combination if one wasn’t careful, something he’d found out the day he’d first really met Mardy.
The snooze button, after brothers and long running losing streaks against lovers, was also on his list of bad things. It was far too easy for flailing appendages to come in contact with and, on that fateful morning, contact was made a few too many times. Finding himself hopelessly late for school, he’d grabbed the first articles of clothing he’d touched from off of his floor (“it’s a walk-in hamper, mom. I’m revolutionizing the industry” ) and had managed to make it to school in time to slide into his seat just as the final bell rang. When he’d managed the time to give himself a proper once over, he’d been pleasantly surprised to find himself matching relatively well and had walked with a spring in his step for the rest of the day, overjoyed with his luck. When he’d gotten to practice later in the day, however, he’d learned that snooze buttons may be bad, but being humble was not, and to never overestimate the extent of your luck.
He’d never been shy in locker rooms; he’d never had reason to be. A bit on the skinny side but with enough size in other areas to save him the teasing, he hadn’t hesitated to open his locker and unceremoniously drop his cargo shorts to the floor. It had only taken a few seconds for the jeers and laughter to begin, one voice clear above the rest.
“Hey, Mister Softee! Haven’t you heard about the miracles of modern medicine? The little blue pill?” and sure enough, when he’d looked down, he had been met with the smiling face of Mister Softee, the ice cream cone.
He’d looked for the source of the comment and had found it in Mardy Fish. New to Boca Prep, a transfer student, and what the hell type of last name was Fish, anyway? He’d ignored him, went out to beat his opponent in straight sets, and later, on the way home, had given Mardy a black eye and had gotten a split lip in return. They’d been best friends since.
He thinks that the next time it happened had a decisive and lasting effect on the man he eventually became. The Christmas after he’d turned Pro and the sponsorships and titles started coming, aunt Catherine had sent him underwear depicting a grinning Pillsbury Dough Boy with a bolded proclaimation of, “Bringin’ Home The Dough!”
By this time, he’d begun living on his own and wasn’t too proud to assimilate Catherine’s additions to his underwear collection into his everyday wardrobe, almost glad for them when the desperations of bachelorhood and not doing laundry finally caught up with him.
By then he'd thought he was safe from brothers and photo albums and had begun dating again. This one was blonde and didn’t care for or know much about tennis, but she was sweet and seemed to care for him. He’d been doing errands all day and swore he’d do laundry later that night, but when he’d gotten home, she had been waiting for him on his bed wearing something pink and lacy. It had seemed as though he couldn’t get his jeans off fast enough but when he finally did, he had desperately wished the zip had gotten stuck. Amidst her breathless laughter, she’d managed to poke him in the stomach and giggle, “woo hoo!”
After that, he’d decided that girls were completely the wrong option and that men were the better route for him.
When he’d fallen in love with Roger Federer, he, more than anyone else, had realized how opposite they were. Graceful, sophisticated Roger, who’s idea of classy probably wasn’t the tuxedo boxers that were in his drawer (“for your prom, dear!”) and who’s own underwear, as far as he’d seen, was all in solid, muted colors. Then again, a wise person once said you couldn’t help who you fell in love with and there had been a kind of inevitability between them for as long as they’d know each other, anyway. So when Roger had eventually found the secret collection, and had laughed at them all but particularly the pair stating “Love Machine,” then his only option had been to take the teasing like a man and then pin Roger down and prove the validity of the statement.
On their first Christmas Eve together, they’d gone to his parent’s house for dinner. His brothers, the bastards, had hauled out the photo albums and they, along with Roger and Mardy, had spent the night laughing over his baby photos and making comments about how cute his ass looked against a bear skin rug. When it was time to go home, after hugs and kisses on cheeks, his mother had handed him a bag and told him that it was from aunt Catherine. Roger had chuckled at his horrified expression, said a final “thank you,” and had pushed him out the door. The bag was quickly deposited and forgotten under the tree as soon as they’d made it back to his place in favor of other activities that didn’t include the thought of underwear.
Christmas morning found Roger stretched out on the sofa, watching with a tender smile on his face while he’d torn through the gifts under the tree. When he had been satisfied that the boxes had been properly demolished, he’d leaned back against the sofa and tilted his head, offering his neck to Roger who’d rained wet little kisses down the length of it. Drawing away, causing him to whimper, Roger had glanced under the tree and stated, “I think you’ve missed one, liebe.” Sure enough, there was the bag from aunt Catherine.
“Please don’t make me, Rogi. Wouldn’t you rather try out my new camera? I’m sure we could find something…interesting…to do with the video feature,” he’d waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Go on, Roddick. Be a big boy.”
So it had been with a heavy heart that he’d grabbed the bag and settled back against the couch. Reaching into it, he’d been surprised to find two carefully wrapped packages: one addressed to him and the other to Roger. “That was sweet of her,” Roger had said before taking the package from his hands.
“Yeah, sweet,” he’d answered unenthusiastically. “Just like it’ll be sweet when you get a cool gift and I get underwear. Again.” He had ignored Roger’s laugh and removed the paper from the box, only to find another piece of that pink stationary. He’d shuddered; bad things had come as a result of that stationary.
Andy,
For my favorite nephew, all grown up. Have fun during your trips to Switzerland.
Love,
Aunt Catherine
His curiosity piqued, he’d hurriedly ripped off the cover of the box. Inside was a tasteful pair of leather gloves along with a thick black scarf. He’d stared open mouthed for a moment before he’d turned to Roger, note in hand.
“Hey, Rogi! Look at - Rogi?” The look on Roger’s face would have been hilarious if he hadn’t been so pale. “Roger? What’s wrong?”
Unable to answer, the Swiss had instead handed him his own piece of pink stationary as a way of explanation.
Roger,
Welcome to the family.
Love,
Aunt Catherine
Confused, he’d pried the box from the limp fingers of a still speechless Roger. When he’d looked inside, he’d been barely able to contain himself. There, lying innocently amongst the tissue paper, had been a pair of black boxers, bearing white and red lettering, and stating, almost proudly, “I’ve Got A Heart On For Andy.”
Maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all.