Fic ~ Smoke (12/12)
Title ~ Smoke
Rating ~ PG-13 (for language and general intensity)
Characters ~ Rafael Nadal, Carlos Moya, Mario Ancic, Roger Federer, Mirka Vavrinev, Andy Roddick, with appearances by many others.
Warnings ~ Implied slash and het, scary situations.
Disclaimer ~ Disclaimers are boring. I claim everything, everywhere.
Author’s Notes ~ Inspired by, but not a re-telling of, the Rome hotel fire. (With nudges from the Bordeaux hotel fire to hurry me along.)
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven
On the next balcony, Mario checked the door, but it was locked.
“It might not have been safe anyway,” Carlos told him. “We should go down further, closer to the ground.”
All of them were keenly aware that there was only one more row of balconies below them, but no one said anything. If they found the next door locked, they would be stuck. The first story was tall, more than twenty-five feet, and the balconies on the same level were spaced too far apart to safely cross from one to another.
Carlos went first again, without giving either Rafael or Mario a chance to object. Mario came next, and then Rafael. Only when all three of them had gotten down safely did they turn to the door. Mario tested it, and hope flashed across his face before disappearing again.
“It moved,” he said. “But it won’t open.”
Carlos stepped up to the door, trying to see through the glass. Whoever had been inside had left a light on, but the curtains were closed. He could only just make out the lock. Like theirs, it was a bar in the door handle that swung up to latch on the door frame. This one was not all the way up, but not all the way down either.
“It’s not completely latched. We might be able to force it, if we can lift the door up a little.”
Only two of them could grip the handle at the same time, and despite his burnt hand, Rafael insisted on helping. He didn’t need to point out that he was stronger than either of them. Mario settled for stationing himself at the opposite then of the door, a foot against the bottom and pulling as best he could from the top.
“One, two, three…”
When the door slid open suddenly, the inside curtains billowed out into their faces, a smooth brush of white chiffon rather than acrid black smoke. Rafael laughed.
Carlos had never heard a better sound.
~
“Roger.”
Turning, Roger found Gael approaching. Richard wasn’t with him, but a quick glance told Roger that he was with the rest of the Frenchmen, close by. Roger held out a hand and Gael shook it before nervously stuffing both hands into his pockets.
“Paul-Henri told me, that Richard tried to go back inside, and you stopped him.”
Roger waved him off. “It’s was nothing.”
“No, it was…” Gael looked back at Richard before meeting Roger’s eyes again. “If he had gone back upstairs, I don’t…I don’t know what would have happened.”
Even in the dark, Roger could see Gael’s eyes shining. He wanted to say something to comfort him, but nothing seemed like comfort enough, so he hugged him instead. Gael hung on, tightly, long enough for Roger to note how strange it felt to hug someone so much taller than him.
“Thank you, really,” Gael said as they parted. “Thank you.”
“I’m just glad you’re all right.”
Gael nodded at Mirka, who was beaming, and headed back to where Richard stood. Richard promptly took up the space Roger had just vacated. The top of his head barely came to Gael’s chin, but when Gael turned his face down toward him, Roger didn’t think he’d ever seen a better fit.
Tommy was grinning at him when he turned back, looking more like himself than he had since emerging from the hotel.
“Hero.” Somehow he made it sound both mocking and accusing at the same time.
Roger shook his head. “I’m not the one who carried someone out of a burning building.”
“Aren’t you?” Tommy asked, tilting his chin toward where Richard and Gael were still a single outline.
“It’s okay, Roger,” Mirka said. “You can be my hero.”
He let her kiss his cheek but said, “We were lucky.”
“I know. I’m just very proud of you tonight.”
Roger wanted to feel proud. He wanted to feel relieved when a firefighter approached the group of Spaniards, radio in hand, and relayed some message that made them cry out in as one in relief. He wanted to feel comforted by the fire engines and police cars and ambulances. He wanted to feel grateful that, even under such terrible circumstances, good things were happening.
Instead, he just felt lucky.
~
At some point, Andy became aware that the smoke was lessening, but when he opened his eyes, his vision was swarmed with black spots, so he mostly kept them closed. His head was swimming, and the steps beneath his feet swayed alarmingly. He had been coughing non-stop for the past few minutes. He wasn’t getting enough air, he knew, or maybe the smoke he’d already breathed had some sort of toxic residue. Marat’s weight across his back seemed enormous. But he had to be close to the bottom, he reasoned, so he kept moving.
Or thought he did. He was surprised to find himself standing still in the middle of the staircase and started down again. Then he found himself on a landing, leaning back so that some of Marat’s weight was supported by the wall behind him. Then he found himself sitting, with Marat sprawled on the stairs beside him. Then he found that when he tried to open his eyes, he couldn’t. Then he found himself drifting, wondering if this was how people died of smoke inhalation, and thinking it wasn’t such a bad way to go.
Then there voices, loud over the alarm, and bright lights that seemed to cut into Andy’s head. He tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes but it was too heavy. He felt a hand at his neck and thought back to feeling for Marat’s pulse. Someone was taking his arm, pulling him upright and away from Marat, and Andy almost fought them, afraid to leave him behind.
Something smooth and warm touched his face and suddenly the smoke was gone, replaced by the coolest, freshest, and possibly the most antiseptic air he had ever breathed. Andy managed to lift a hand and felt the plastic breath mask being held over his mouth.
He forced his eyes open finally, and smiled to find firefighters there. Two of them, fully decked out in firesuits, helmets and oxygen tanks. They were the coolest guys Andy had ever seen. One was leaning over Marat, and Andy was relieved when he gave his partner a quick, positive, nod.
“Can you hear me?” the partner asked as he pulled an elastic band that was attached to the breath mask over Andy’s head.
Andy started to answer, but a cough choked him, and he nodded instead.
“Okay, we’re going to get you out of here. Just take nice even breaths for me.” He exchanged words with the other that Andy couldn’t quite make out, and then turned back to him. “Think you can walk?”
Andy nodded again. Getting to his feet turned out to be harder than he’d thought, and while they were waiting for the steps to stop trying to buck him off, the first firefighter hoisted Marat up over his shoulders, just as Andy had. He gave the one by Andy’s side a thumbs-up, and then started down the stairs.
A fireman’s carry, Andy thought giddily, that’s why they call it that.
“Ready to go? We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Yes, Andy was ready to go, and one step at a time sounded perfect to him.
The End
Author's Notes II ~ I really feel like I didn't have time to tidy up this part, because I'm so rushed getting ready to leave for Cincinnati. Still I hope it doesn't disappoint. There may be a short epiloge in the future, but it will have to wait until I return.