Fic: Self-Contained Lovers
Title: Self-Contained Lovers
Pairing: Rafa/Roger
Wordcount: ~2300 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: How a public display of affection affects Roger and Rafa's relationship.
Notes: Written for the TMC Games at fedal_slash for the prompt 'Public Display of Affection'. Go Team Roger! Title and cut tag from the song Public Display of Affection by Morcheeba.
The really awful thing about it, Roger always thought, almost the worst thing, was that the picture made it look so seedy. The quality of the photograph was terrible - though not terrible enough to make it impossible to tell that it was definitely them, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal pressed against each other up against a wall, with Roger's hands shoved up Rafa's shirt and Rafa's cupping Roger's ass, their mouths pressed blindly together, entirely ignorant of the fan with the cameraphone lurking somewhere close by. Strange, after so many months of secrecy that one brief goodbye kiss in the shadows of a hotel service entrance in Paris could bring the whole thing to its dramatic climax.
There hadn't been much time that night, but the next day Rafa would fly back to Mallorca for tests and treatment on his knees, and if he didn't play Shanghai then they might not see each other until Melbourne. Two months seemed like an achingly long time. So Roger had gone to Rafa's hotel, on the pretext of discussing ATP business while they were both in town and available, and Mirka had smiled and waved him off with an airy, "Tell Rafa to take care of those knees!" that made Roger's stomach twist horribly with guilt.
Ironic, given what would come of that encounter, that they hadn't even had sex that night. Rafa was tired and drawn with pain from his knees, and Roger's back protested sharply at anything more adventurous than 'sitting' or 'standing'. They spent most of the time simply lying on the bed together, enjoying each other's nearness while they could, Roger combing gentle fingers through Rafa's hair, sometimes pressing a soft kiss to Rafa's temple.
"We are like old men, no?" Rafa said, his smile curving against Roger's neck.
"Tennis is making us old," Roger agreed.
"We are growing old together, then," Rafa said, and there didn't seem to be anything to say to that, so Roger kissed him instead, hoping that it went some way to conveying the strange rush of feeling that the idea stirred in him.
Later, Rafa had insisted on walking with Roger down to the service entrance, where Roger would call a car to come pick him up, in spite of Roger's protestations about how Rafa really ought to be resting his knees. Outside, the quiet side-street was deserted. It was late.
Then there was the old familiar problem of saying goodbye. It was impossible to shake hands and bid each other polite farewells like acquaintances - Roger always felt somehow certain that the secret knowledge of their intimate relationship showed through the pretence of simple friendship, even that it highlighted the lie. They hugged instead, tighter this time than usual because of the deserted street, the seeming impossibility of being discovered.
"Roger -" Rafa's voice was low and rough, his breath hot against Roger's ear. "Roger -"
Roger turned his head then and caught Rafa's mouth with his own, shoving Rafa back against the wall, swallowing Rafa's cry of surprise and ignoring the sharp protesting twinge in his back. Rafa wasn't wearing a jacket, only a thin t-shirt, and Roger slipped his hands up underneath it, suddenly desperate for contact. Rafa shuddered against him at the feel of Roger's cool hands, chilled by the autumnal Paris night, against his hot skin, and slipped his own hands down greedily from where they rested against Roger's back, down lower and lower over the curve of Roger's spine until they cupped his ass possessively. Roger groaned, kissing Rafa even more deeply. It was impossible to pull away. He felt drunk with the heat of Rafa's body, with the feel of Rafa's skin burning under his hands and the wet warmth of Rafa's mouth, that tasted indefinably of Rafa - a taste like summer, that he would never be able to get enough of. Rafa was making soft, ragged noises as they kissed, pressing into Roger's touch as much as he could, and underneath the sharp pangs of lust Roger felt a bright, fierce affection.
The pictures that were everywhere the next morning conveyed nothing of that. The darkness and grainy quality of the pictures gave the whole thing a sick, seedy air that almost seemed to put a retrospective taint on the embrace, so that later Roger could never think of it without an uneasy feeling of guilt and shame. The image became inextricably linked with the fallout - Mirka's expression when she saw the picture for the first time, and the way she looked at him afterwards, as though he was a stranger.
-
Strictly speaking, the public display of affection that outed them so spectacularly to the world wasn't the first one; it was just the one that changed everything. Before that there were others, just more subtle - little gestures that were both private and thrillingly public. Things like mentioning Rafa's name in pressers without being asked - smiling openly at a room full of press and saying, "For me, it's still me and Rafa, you know?" and all the time meaning I'm thinking of you. And the twist in his stomach later, when he'd check his phone and find a message from Rafa, which was sometimes just a smiley face or a row or x's.
The strangest of all were the moments at the net, when sometimes he was so exhausted he could barely think, and then suddenly there was Rafa, solid and shockingly vibrant, practically buzzing with energy, and separated from him only by the fine mesh of the netcord and the invisible but far more impenetrable barrier of secrecy. Still, sometimes Roger hadn't been able to stop himself from pulling Rafa's hand close against his chest at the hand clasp, or letting his hand drift just a fraction too low down Rafa's back when they hugged. When he saw the pictures later, they would always make his heart speed up a little. How couldn't people see? It seemed impossible that no-one could tell there was more between them than friendship. The bare, open happiness of Rafa's smiles in the photographs of them together seemed incredibly telling, and later, people would use the pictures to illustrate articles - hindsight being, at last, 20-20 - but at the time, they didn't seem to have roused even the faintest hint of suspicion in most people.
In a way, it was more difficult after the outing than it had been before, because now people were watching, scrutinising their every move together. The first weeks and months after the initial revelation were the worst. Roger had been used to the paparazzi for a long time, but he'd never experienced anything that even came close to the chaos that surrounded him and Rafa. People kept tossing around the phrase 'media frenzy', but really those were just words: the reality was the throng of photographers camped out outside the hotel, or lining the practice court so thickly that the other players started to complain, and the tournament organisers were forced to ban the media from practices. Reality was opening the paper or checking news websites to find nearly every day pictures of himself and Rafa, sometimes doing the most ridiculously mundane things - getting into or out of cars, or eating in a restaurant, or even just walking down a street.
And Rafa was incredibly tactile person, easier with physical affection than Roger had ever been. He loved to touch and be touched, arching into the barest pressure of Roger's fingertips tracing his spine when they lay together in bed, always managing to brush his shoulder against Roger's even in the most spacious of hotel rooms. Roger had never been tactile like that, but with Rafa he was learning to love the small proofs of love - a warm palm against the small of his back when they walked together, the constant nearness of Rafa's body. So it was hard, in public, to draw away from each other - to keep a safe distance between their bodies so that people wouldn't stare, so that the pictures wouldn't turn up in the newspapers the next day. It was a little like constantly being on a date with the world's strictest chaperone, and it made them cautious with each other, tentative.
Besides which, the start of any relationship is hard enough without having the whole world peering over your shoulder. Their relationship had started out strangely lopsided - Roger knew, for instance, where to touch Rafa to make him shiver and cry out; he'd mapped the secret sensitive places with fingers and mouth, and knew them intimately. What he didn't know was, did Rafa drink coffee or tea? what toothpaste did he use? did he hog the bedclothes at night? All those little things that make up a life, that they had to discover now under the glaring spotlight of the world's attention. There seemed to be so many things that Roger would have preferred kept between them that they had to share with the world. Such small things, like being in a coffee shop somewhere and Rafa wrinkling his nose and ordering some kind of fruit smoothie because it turns out he doesn't drink either tea or coffee, and they leave laughing because Roger's so incredulous that Rafa can be twenty-two years old and actually, genuinely drink neither, and there'd be a moment where they'd look at each other and grin, because it's one more thing they know about each other, one more piece of the puzzle. And then Roger would open the newspaper or go to a news website the next day and there would be that moment - him and Rafa, smiling at each other with such bare, unguarded affection - and it would be almost as if it didn't even belong to them any more. The moment belongs to him about as much as it does to the millions of other people who are opening the paper at the same moment, and looking at the picture in fascination or disgust.
After enough time passed, of course, the media storm died down, like it always does; after a year there were hotter properties than Roger and Rafa on the market, and the paparazzi attention was more like the level that Roger had got used to over the years of being world number one. Still, habits learned early die hardest, and even when the sense of being constantly watched had died down, it was still hard sometimes to remember that there was no more need to hide.
-
"They're taking our picture," Rafa said. They were sat in a small cafe in London, taking advantage of the free middle Sunday of Wimbledon fortnight to spend a little relaxed time in each other's company.
Roger looked up from his newspaper. "What?"
With a quirk of his head, Rafa indicated outside the window. "Across the street. Paparazzi. They are taking our picture."
Roger glanced in the direction of Rafa's nod, and of course, sure enough, there they were. Just a couple of men, non-descript in jeans and everyday jackets, indistinguishable from the rest of the London crowds except for the telescopic cameras dangling around their necks, the lenses glinting a little in the clear English sunshine. Somehow, London always seemed worse for that sort of thing.
Roger shrugged. "If people want to buy pictures of us having coffee, let them."
"They don't want pictures of us drinking coffee," Rafa said. "They're never waiting around for that." He swirled the orange dregs of a smoothie around his glass; Roger never had been able to cultivate in him a taste for really good coffee, despite his best efforts. But Rafa was right. The photographers would take these pictures, and if it was a slow enough news day tomorrow, perhaps they'd even sell them. But it wasn't cosy domestic pictures like these that they were watching for. They wanted something sensational, for people to gasp or stare at in the papers the next day.
And, well, Roger thought suddenly, why not?
"Think they're waiting for this?" And Roger leaned forward across the little table, getting right in Rafa's space, seeing the recognition of what he was about to do in Rafa's eyes right before he did it: he kissed Rafa, framing Rafa's face with his hands to hold him there. A real kiss, lingering and sweet, and Rafa didn't pull away. A heady rush of excitement sparked through Roger's body, partly what he usually felt whenever he kissed Rafa with intent like this anyway, even after two years together - but partly rebellious thrill, too, because all of a sudden Roger was so sick of having his relationship peered at through telescopic lenses. Sick of pretending that the artificial distance they kept between each other in public was any reflection of their real relationship. If people wanted to see him and Rafa, let them see: this was him and Rafa, this was their relationship. This was their love. They drank coffee together in coffee shops like normal people, and they kissed like normal people. Rafa's smile curved against his mouth, and Roger matched it with his own. He would never, ever get enough of this. When he pulled back at last, Rafa's eyes were warm with affection.
"I think now they are happy, no?" Rafa said.
"Well, if they're not, at least I am," said Roger, and Rafa laughed, a clear bright sound. Most of the people in the cafe hadn't even looked up from their drinks.
And sure enough, the pictures showed up in the papers the next day. Roger bought a couple of copies, just to make sure.
Pairing: Rafa/Roger
Wordcount: ~2300 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: How a public display of affection affects Roger and Rafa's relationship.
Notes: Written for the TMC Games at fedal_slash for the prompt 'Public Display of Affection'. Go Team Roger! Title and cut tag from the song Public Display of Affection by Morcheeba.
The really awful thing about it, Roger always thought, almost the worst thing, was that the picture made it look so seedy. The quality of the photograph was terrible - though not terrible enough to make it impossible to tell that it was definitely them, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal pressed against each other up against a wall, with Roger's hands shoved up Rafa's shirt and Rafa's cupping Roger's ass, their mouths pressed blindly together, entirely ignorant of the fan with the cameraphone lurking somewhere close by. Strange, after so many months of secrecy that one brief goodbye kiss in the shadows of a hotel service entrance in Paris could bring the whole thing to its dramatic climax.
There hadn't been much time that night, but the next day Rafa would fly back to Mallorca for tests and treatment on his knees, and if he didn't play Shanghai then they might not see each other until Melbourne. Two months seemed like an achingly long time. So Roger had gone to Rafa's hotel, on the pretext of discussing ATP business while they were both in town and available, and Mirka had smiled and waved him off with an airy, "Tell Rafa to take care of those knees!" that made Roger's stomach twist horribly with guilt.
Ironic, given what would come of that encounter, that they hadn't even had sex that night. Rafa was tired and drawn with pain from his knees, and Roger's back protested sharply at anything more adventurous than 'sitting' or 'standing'. They spent most of the time simply lying on the bed together, enjoying each other's nearness while they could, Roger combing gentle fingers through Rafa's hair, sometimes pressing a soft kiss to Rafa's temple.
"We are like old men, no?" Rafa said, his smile curving against Roger's neck.
"Tennis is making us old," Roger agreed.
"We are growing old together, then," Rafa said, and there didn't seem to be anything to say to that, so Roger kissed him instead, hoping that it went some way to conveying the strange rush of feeling that the idea stirred in him.
Later, Rafa had insisted on walking with Roger down to the service entrance, where Roger would call a car to come pick him up, in spite of Roger's protestations about how Rafa really ought to be resting his knees. Outside, the quiet side-street was deserted. It was late.
Then there was the old familiar problem of saying goodbye. It was impossible to shake hands and bid each other polite farewells like acquaintances - Roger always felt somehow certain that the secret knowledge of their intimate relationship showed through the pretence of simple friendship, even that it highlighted the lie. They hugged instead, tighter this time than usual because of the deserted street, the seeming impossibility of being discovered.
"Roger -" Rafa's voice was low and rough, his breath hot against Roger's ear. "Roger -"
Roger turned his head then and caught Rafa's mouth with his own, shoving Rafa back against the wall, swallowing Rafa's cry of surprise and ignoring the sharp protesting twinge in his back. Rafa wasn't wearing a jacket, only a thin t-shirt, and Roger slipped his hands up underneath it, suddenly desperate for contact. Rafa shuddered against him at the feel of Roger's cool hands, chilled by the autumnal Paris night, against his hot skin, and slipped his own hands down greedily from where they rested against Roger's back, down lower and lower over the curve of Roger's spine until they cupped his ass possessively. Roger groaned, kissing Rafa even more deeply. It was impossible to pull away. He felt drunk with the heat of Rafa's body, with the feel of Rafa's skin burning under his hands and the wet warmth of Rafa's mouth, that tasted indefinably of Rafa - a taste like summer, that he would never be able to get enough of. Rafa was making soft, ragged noises as they kissed, pressing into Roger's touch as much as he could, and underneath the sharp pangs of lust Roger felt a bright, fierce affection.
The pictures that were everywhere the next morning conveyed nothing of that. The darkness and grainy quality of the pictures gave the whole thing a sick, seedy air that almost seemed to put a retrospective taint on the embrace, so that later Roger could never think of it without an uneasy feeling of guilt and shame. The image became inextricably linked with the fallout - Mirka's expression when she saw the picture for the first time, and the way she looked at him afterwards, as though he was a stranger.
-
Strictly speaking, the public display of affection that outed them so spectacularly to the world wasn't the first one; it was just the one that changed everything. Before that there were others, just more subtle - little gestures that were both private and thrillingly public. Things like mentioning Rafa's name in pressers without being asked - smiling openly at a room full of press and saying, "For me, it's still me and Rafa, you know?" and all the time meaning I'm thinking of you. And the twist in his stomach later, when he'd check his phone and find a message from Rafa, which was sometimes just a smiley face or a row or x's.
The strangest of all were the moments at the net, when sometimes he was so exhausted he could barely think, and then suddenly there was Rafa, solid and shockingly vibrant, practically buzzing with energy, and separated from him only by the fine mesh of the netcord and the invisible but far more impenetrable barrier of secrecy. Still, sometimes Roger hadn't been able to stop himself from pulling Rafa's hand close against his chest at the hand clasp, or letting his hand drift just a fraction too low down Rafa's back when they hugged. When he saw the pictures later, they would always make his heart speed up a little. How couldn't people see? It seemed impossible that no-one could tell there was more between them than friendship. The bare, open happiness of Rafa's smiles in the photographs of them together seemed incredibly telling, and later, people would use the pictures to illustrate articles - hindsight being, at last, 20-20 - but at the time, they didn't seem to have roused even the faintest hint of suspicion in most people.
In a way, it was more difficult after the outing than it had been before, because now people were watching, scrutinising their every move together. The first weeks and months after the initial revelation were the worst. Roger had been used to the paparazzi for a long time, but he'd never experienced anything that even came close to the chaos that surrounded him and Rafa. People kept tossing around the phrase 'media frenzy', but really those were just words: the reality was the throng of photographers camped out outside the hotel, or lining the practice court so thickly that the other players started to complain, and the tournament organisers were forced to ban the media from practices. Reality was opening the paper or checking news websites to find nearly every day pictures of himself and Rafa, sometimes doing the most ridiculously mundane things - getting into or out of cars, or eating in a restaurant, or even just walking down a street.
And Rafa was incredibly tactile person, easier with physical affection than Roger had ever been. He loved to touch and be touched, arching into the barest pressure of Roger's fingertips tracing his spine when they lay together in bed, always managing to brush his shoulder against Roger's even in the most spacious of hotel rooms. Roger had never been tactile like that, but with Rafa he was learning to love the small proofs of love - a warm palm against the small of his back when they walked together, the constant nearness of Rafa's body. So it was hard, in public, to draw away from each other - to keep a safe distance between their bodies so that people wouldn't stare, so that the pictures wouldn't turn up in the newspapers the next day. It was a little like constantly being on a date with the world's strictest chaperone, and it made them cautious with each other, tentative.
Besides which, the start of any relationship is hard enough without having the whole world peering over your shoulder. Their relationship had started out strangely lopsided - Roger knew, for instance, where to touch Rafa to make him shiver and cry out; he'd mapped the secret sensitive places with fingers and mouth, and knew them intimately. What he didn't know was, did Rafa drink coffee or tea? what toothpaste did he use? did he hog the bedclothes at night? All those little things that make up a life, that they had to discover now under the glaring spotlight of the world's attention. There seemed to be so many things that Roger would have preferred kept between them that they had to share with the world. Such small things, like being in a coffee shop somewhere and Rafa wrinkling his nose and ordering some kind of fruit smoothie because it turns out he doesn't drink either tea or coffee, and they leave laughing because Roger's so incredulous that Rafa can be twenty-two years old and actually, genuinely drink neither, and there'd be a moment where they'd look at each other and grin, because it's one more thing they know about each other, one more piece of the puzzle. And then Roger would open the newspaper or go to a news website the next day and there would be that moment - him and Rafa, smiling at each other with such bare, unguarded affection - and it would be almost as if it didn't even belong to them any more. The moment belongs to him about as much as it does to the millions of other people who are opening the paper at the same moment, and looking at the picture in fascination or disgust.
After enough time passed, of course, the media storm died down, like it always does; after a year there were hotter properties than Roger and Rafa on the market, and the paparazzi attention was more like the level that Roger had got used to over the years of being world number one. Still, habits learned early die hardest, and even when the sense of being constantly watched had died down, it was still hard sometimes to remember that there was no more need to hide.
-
"They're taking our picture," Rafa said. They were sat in a small cafe in London, taking advantage of the free middle Sunday of Wimbledon fortnight to spend a little relaxed time in each other's company.
Roger looked up from his newspaper. "What?"
With a quirk of his head, Rafa indicated outside the window. "Across the street. Paparazzi. They are taking our picture."
Roger glanced in the direction of Rafa's nod, and of course, sure enough, there they were. Just a couple of men, non-descript in jeans and everyday jackets, indistinguishable from the rest of the London crowds except for the telescopic cameras dangling around their necks, the lenses glinting a little in the clear English sunshine. Somehow, London always seemed worse for that sort of thing.
Roger shrugged. "If people want to buy pictures of us having coffee, let them."
"They don't want pictures of us drinking coffee," Rafa said. "They're never waiting around for that." He swirled the orange dregs of a smoothie around his glass; Roger never had been able to cultivate in him a taste for really good coffee, despite his best efforts. But Rafa was right. The photographers would take these pictures, and if it was a slow enough news day tomorrow, perhaps they'd even sell them. But it wasn't cosy domestic pictures like these that they were watching for. They wanted something sensational, for people to gasp or stare at in the papers the next day.
And, well, Roger thought suddenly, why not?
"Think they're waiting for this?" And Roger leaned forward across the little table, getting right in Rafa's space, seeing the recognition of what he was about to do in Rafa's eyes right before he did it: he kissed Rafa, framing Rafa's face with his hands to hold him there. A real kiss, lingering and sweet, and Rafa didn't pull away. A heady rush of excitement sparked through Roger's body, partly what he usually felt whenever he kissed Rafa with intent like this anyway, even after two years together - but partly rebellious thrill, too, because all of a sudden Roger was so sick of having his relationship peered at through telescopic lenses. Sick of pretending that the artificial distance they kept between each other in public was any reflection of their real relationship. If people wanted to see him and Rafa, let them see: this was him and Rafa, this was their relationship. This was their love. They drank coffee together in coffee shops like normal people, and they kissed like normal people. Rafa's smile curved against his mouth, and Roger matched it with his own. He would never, ever get enough of this. When he pulled back at last, Rafa's eyes were warm with affection.
"I think now they are happy, no?" Rafa said.
"Well, if they're not, at least I am," said Roger, and Rafa laughed, a clear bright sound. Most of the people in the cafe hadn't even looked up from their drinks.
And sure enough, the pictures showed up in the papers the next day. Roger bought a couple of copies, just to make sure.