Ficlet - Domado
Title: Domado
Pairing: Marat and someone unexpected.
Rating: PG-13 (though probably only PG)
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. Although the characters in this story were inspired by real people, it is purely a work of fiction, and not meant to imply anything about their real lives.
Notes: Okay, though I haven’t completely shaken off my cold (I still have almost no voice.), my Marat muse came to me tonight and insisted I write a sappy little ficlet to cheer him up after his loss to Robredo. Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about granting such a request, but Marat’s choice of pairing was a little...interesting. I know what inspired him, but I’m not sure why he was so insistent. Finally, I gave in, because, well, we all know better than to deny a muse something they really want.
Domado
As Marat stepped through the door, the urge to hurl his bags across his hotel suite was strong, but instead, he just dumped them on the floor. He thought he’d gotten all his anger out back in the locker room, breaking all but a couple of his racquets, tossing over chairs, spitting expletives in every language he knew. Even Peter had eventually withdrawn, shaking his head. Usually the Swede just stood there and waited for him to get it all out before stepping in to offer his own cool and calm assessment of the situation. This time, apparently even he had nothing helpful to say.
Somehow, the realization that even Peter thought he was beyond help had brought his temper tantrum to a thudding halt. He’d simply packed up his things and headed back to the hotel without speaking to another person.
For once, he wanted to be alone. Well, not alone exactly.
Although they hadn’t talked about it, Marat knew he’d be here. In fact, he knew exactly where he’d find him.
Going to the door to the bedroom, Marat pushed it open to look inside. He was there, sprawled on the bed with his back against the headboard. A profusion of curls hid the headphones that Marat knew he must be wearing, based on the slow and steady bob of his head. He had his glasses on, the little square ones that Marat liked so much, and he was reading a book. One of Marat’s old shirts hung off his lanky frame, and his workout pants were rolled up above the knee. He didn’t seem to notice Marat’s entrance, licking a finger to turn the page of his book.
Marat sighed and went to sit on the end of the bed, with his back to his visitor. Propping his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in both hands.
It took a few moments, but eventually, he felt the bed shift and shortly after a surprisingly strong arm went around his chest. Long legs stretched out on either side of his, squeezing him a little at the hip. A warm weight settled on his back. Long fingers massaged the nape of his neck, slipping up to comb through his still damp curls.
Closing his eyes, Marat gave in.
That’s what this was for him. Giving up. Letting someone else be in control, and letting it be all right. He trusted the other man not to ask questions, not to offer advice or sympathy. He wouldn’t be required to analyze his actions or his feelings. Nothing more would be expected of him right then but to sit there and be held.
That, he thought he could accomplish.
A head rested on his shoulder, warm breath fluttering against the side of his neck. He felt the faintest flutter of desire, but that was not what this was about, so he pushed it aside. Later, maybe, when he’d remembered how to feel good.
"Your hair is getting so long."
Marat nodded, allowing his hands to drop from his face.
"Soon, you will have to put it back in a little ponytail to keep it out of your face when you play," the voice continued, hushed and soothing even as a note of amusement slipped in. "You will be like Lleyton, always pushing little curls behind your ears."
"Then I’ll just cut it off again."
A chuckle vibrated through his back, loosening something within him. "Yes, but maybe by then, you will be used to the curls, like him, and you will push them back even though they are gone."
The smile felt almost strange, as though he had not done it in a long, long time.
"Maybe," he said. "Any maybe I will start twitching, and plucking at my strings, and adjusting my necklace, and tugging at my hat..."
"And picking at your underwear?"
"Oh yes, of course," Marat agreed, as seriously as he could. "I must pick my underwear."
There was another chuckle, and the arm around his chest tightened. Marat shifted so he could run his hand down that arm, capturing the slim wrist in his long fingers.
"And would you leave me, if I start picking at my underwear?"
The fingers in his hair tightened slightly, tugging his head back, and lips brushed his jaw. "I would never leave you, even if I found you stripped naked and shoved into Ivan’s locker."
Marat laughed, finally.
"And me?" he was asked, those lips moving to stroke his ear. "Would you leave me?"
"Hmmm..." Marat enjoyed the sensation of the light stubble against the side of his neck. "You...you wouldn’t fit in Ivan’s locker. Your shoulders are much too broad."
Teeth closed down on the tender flesh of Marat’s earlobe, not hard, but enough to make him yelp. The mouth quickly moved to place a much kinder kiss at the back of his neck, making Marat’s grimace of pain turn into a shiver.
They were quiet for a while. Marat sat and allowed the other man to hold him, strong hands moving over his flesh, calming him, gentling him. After a short time, he began to hum, and Marat smiled when he recognized the sappy Disney song.
"You are a strange man," he said, happily.
The lips pressed against his shoulder curved into a smile, but there was no other response.
"And I am a lucky one."
"We are both lucky," his companion whispered. "I love you, Marat."
"I love you too, Guga."
THE END
Note: Yep, Guga. I can’t explain it.