Unfaithful
Title: Unfaithful
Pairing: Marat Safin/Juan Carlos Ferrero
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Sadness
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters and this is a fiction.
Summary: Juan Carlos' lover is unfaithful. Marat has his own reasons.
Author's note: Inspired by Rihanna's 'Unfaithful' but the story line is quite different. It's a POV fic.
I had woken up one morning and realized.
He was cheating on me.
In films or soap operas, women seem to find out about their husbands’ affairs when they smell a feminine perfume on him or come across a lipstick stain on their shirts. But I guess, in real life, it doesn’t really have anything to do with perfume or lipsticks when your lover is gay.
“You’re not staying for breakfast?” I asked, meeting his eyes through the mirror. My voice was rough because I had sobbed in silence before falling asleep last night.
My handsome man was busy checking himself in the mirror. Probably he doesn’t realize that he looks just drop dead gorgeous even when he doesn’t put so much effort into his looks. Or perhaps he’s that busy because he wants to look nice to whoever he’s going to hook up with.
I’m sitting on the bed, on the sheet which is soaked with him and me. He’s already dressed up, all clean and sharp, no trace of me left on him. The distance between the bed and the mirror seems like an ocean away, an ocean where I’ve cried my soul out.
“Sorry. I’ve got an early meeting with adidas.”
That meant that he was going to have a quick one with somebody before he hits the practice court. I have to wonder who gets the honor of making Marat stay in front of the mirror for so long. I swallow the disgusting jealousy, and I am terrified to know that the pain doesn’t get any better from day to day. Isn’t time supposed to be a cure just by itself and don’t human beings get used to something that happens every single day? Perhaps there’s an exception.
“Hey, I’ll come back home early tonight. I’m just going to grab a bite with the guys. No drinks.”
“Okay...”
No drinks obviously, because he’s probably going to have sex with someone. I miss the old Marat who wouldn’t even tell me if he was going to be late or not. I had the luxury of assuming that he was on his way home, coming straight home into my arms, but it was the god damn traffic that dared to stand between us. I even thought of him playing Good Samaritan to someone on the street. My Marat has always had a big heart, not only for his countless lovers. I liked waiting up for him at night or even until the dawn, imagining that he was somewhere acting all heroic. Of course, when he finally got home, I pretended to sleep because I couldn’t see him glowing with satisfied sex with someone else.
He is still in front of the mirror when he doesn’t have time to have breakfast with me. And why is he wearing perfume for an adidas meeting? Look, he’s even changing his watch. He probably can’t stand wearing the one I gave him when he’s with someone else. Or who knows, maybe that other guy gave him that watch he’s wearing right now.
He finally decides to move away from the mirror and heads to the doorway. For once, he looks back.
“You want me to come home early?”
“You’re asking me?” That’s a first.
“Yeah, I’m asking you.”
I can’t make up my mind if I should be hopeful or bitter.
“You’ll come back early if I ask you to?”
He must have had no idea that I would react like this. His silence doesn’t even hurt me any more. I’m too used to this amount of pain. My damned heart still feels like there’s hope left and can’t resist the urge to beat faster.
‘Please say yes. Please. Just this once.’
What’s that voice? Is it my mind speaking? I dismiss the ugly voice that must have been born in an endless spring of hope.
I can see a frown appearing between his eyebrows so I assume it’s going to be one of his famous lies or hopeless excuses that he’s trying to come up with.
“Forget about it. Go now. You’re going to be late.”
Honestly, who cares if he’s late or not. Better if he’s late, actually. Even better, if he breaks his leg and never make it. Maybe I should help him break his leg. That way, he won’t be able to go out for a while. Or who knows, maybe he’ll just call a cab and limp all the way to his other love or lovers.
I wonder who he’s sleeping with these days. Rafa? Haas? I overheard that Roddick’s sleeping with a hottie. Perhaps it’s Marat. Or maybe he picked up Djokovic. He always likes to try out the new kid in town. Wait a minute. Why is still standing there? Why can’t he just get lost already?
“You’re still here.”
“I’ll go if you want me to.”
I can’t believe he is doing this again. I’m so tired of his word games. He must be having fun torturing me. Maybe he should just end the torture and finish me. I would like to do it myself, tell him that I don’t want to have him in my house any more, that we’ll only greet each other as fellow players, and that we’ll only battle on court when fate plays tricks on us. But I know I can’t end this sweet torment and even if I ever get the courage to do it, I know he won’t believe an inch of my words.
I can see him opening his mouth to say something but he decides not to. Marat never talks too much. He doesn’t make any unrealistic promises and never gives any false hope to his lovers. Or course, it’s never his fault that we all fell in love with him. It’s our own.
I imprint his beautiful face and body in my eyes for one last time and lie down, facing the wall.
“Marat. Just go.”
One day, I’m going to fall in love with this wall. It’s definitely warmer than him.
I hear the door close. Then his footsteps. He seems to be moving farther away much quickly than usual. Maybe he’s in a hurry. He must be anxious to go meet the guy and hold him tight in his arms. I can’t go on listening to him flying away from me. I quickly grab his pillow and put it above my ear. A tear rolls down my cheek and I can’t believe I still have enough life inside me to cry.
I’m already late. But I still linger around just to see his eyes once more before I leave. He always has a hard time, receiving my love. I know I should be gentler but I can’t control myself when he’s around and it’s getting worse and worse every single day.
Finally, he’s up. I pretend to check myself in the mirror because I’ll be embarrassed if he catches me watching him.
“You’re not staying for breakfast?”
His voice is a little rough. Maybe it’s because he just woke up or maybe it’s because I loved him too much last night. I like to think that it was me who made his voice even sexier. Our eyes meet in the mirror and I feel so much urge to go back to bed and kiss those eyes all day. But I know he’s just letting me stay with him for sex.
“Sorry. I’ve got an early meeting with adidas.”
No, I don’t have a meeting with adidas. I’m going to hook up with a Russian tennis rookie who couldn’t stop drooling over me at practice. Did I check his age? Yes, I forgot how old he was but I remember that he was legally an adult. What was his name by the way? Who cares? The only reason I picked him is because he seemed to sweat a lot. That’s good because then I won’t have to be tortured, having the sweet scent of my love on me all day.
It has been almost two weeks now since I have started sleeping with others again. I can’t stay in this house during the day where his scent has been permeated. And I have to at least try to erase his presence off me so I can stay longer at his place, not getting caught loving him. My Juanqui is a decent angel. He won’t ever love somebody like me and he shouldn’t.
Does he even know that I’m sleeping with other guys? Even if he does, will he care? I might be asking too much if I hope he cared.
“Hey, I’ll come back home early tonight. I’m just going to grab a bite with the guys. No drinks.” I couldn’t stop myself from saying stupid things.
I should avoid staying with him as much as possible. That’s the only way I can extend my stay here. He’ll kick me out if he finds out how I feel about him. He had made it clear at the beginning that he and I were just sex partners.
“Okay...” He just said one simple word and my impossibly twisted heart still manages to fall for him all over again.
I remember the first day I started coming home late. I had drunk like a fish and had sex with someone only to wake up at his place a little before dawn. It was a mistake. Whatever happens during the day, I always felt peaceful coming back home at night to my Juanqui, but that day, I had accidentally crossed the line. When I finally rushed back home, the first thing I got was a sharp punch on my face. He hadn’t said a word, just punched me and went to bed. After that day, he never waited up for me. He was always asleep with his back turned against me, facing the wall.
I suddenly realize that I’m still standing in front of the mirror when I said that I didn’t have time for breakfast with him. I quickly put some perfume on so it could help me throughout the day, to forget about his addictive scent as much as I can. I change my watch now since the one he gave me is too precious to wear all the time.
I finally decide to head for the door, feeling sorry for my love who should probably want to go back to sleep. I walk a few steps and grab the door knob, but I had to look back.
“You want me to come home early?” My stupid mouth speaks by itself.
“You’re asking me?”
“Yeah, I’m asking you.”
“You’ll come back early if I ask you to?”
I’m shocked. Disgusting hope crawls inside me like an incurable virus. I should say something as a reply but I had never expected a question like that. Did I hear it right? It sounded like he wanted me to come back early. Or maybe it’s my imagination playing tricks on me again. I should be used to this amount of pain by now, but it still hurts, knowing that there’s so much hope left inside me. That lethal hope even makes me sick enough to frown.
“Forget about it. Go now. You’re going to be late.”
Damn. I knew he didn’t mean it. I should have known that he wasn’t implying anything. Maybe I should break a leg and pretend that I had an accident. That way, I would be forced to stay home with him all day. Maybe my soul will get used to his presence so I might not need to run away every single morning.
I want to laugh at myself for being so hopeless. Who knew I would fall in love with him? No, that’s not the right question. How could I not know that I was going to go head over heels for him? How could I not see how beautiful he is? Wait a minute. Why am I still standing here? He doesn’t look happy at all. He wants me out of the house so he can go back to bed.
“You’re still here.”
“I’ll go if you want me to.”
I can’t believe my mouth never listens to me. This is beyond torture. Maybe I should just end this distorted relationship and get myself out of this house. I would love to say goodbye to him, tell him that I can’t live with him any more, that we’ll just stay as fellow players from now on, and that we’ll see each other on court when we’re destined to.
Yes, I can say it. Better sooner than later. It’s not like he’s ever going to love me back. Say it, Marat! Just say it!
I open my mouth to give it a try. I succeeded in separating my lips but no word comes out of me. I can’t say it. No, not today. I’ll try it tomorrow. Maybe.
I watch his beautiful face and body that mesmerize me every single time.
He suddenly lies down, facing that damn lucky wall. I knew I had stayed too long when he was obviously sleepy.
“Marat. Just go.”
He said it. He wants me out of here.
I quickly step out of the room and close the door. I rush to get out of this space that is engulfing me alive.
I’m almost at the door when the wall seems to tease me. What the hell. I punch it as hard as I can. Once isn’t enough. I punch it again and again. My knuckles are bleeding but it doesn’t hurt. I just hope the wall gets hurt but I know that isn’t possible. I suddenly have to wonder who Juanqui will come to help first. Will he get the first-aid kit for me or will he grab a cloth and rub blood off the wall? A drop of blood falls on the floor and I can’t believe I still have enough life inside me to bleed.