Tennis RPS: Number the Stars
So, a couple of months ago I wrote a tennis fic, and was immediately so embarrassed at having written about real people that I didn't post it here. XD The embarrassed part still stands, but, what with the recent sh** that's been on at tennisslash, I figure that I'd much rather have it here than anywhere else. Have no idea whatsoever as to what to do as far as posting my other WIPs, but I guess that can be dealt with once they are no longer, well, WIP.
Once again, this is RPS/Real Person Slash. Turn away now if it isn't quite your thing. I swear, until 6 months ago, I didn't think it was my thing, either. :)
Title: Number the Stars
Characters: Marat Safin/Roger Federer
Rating: PG
Summary: ~700 words. A hypothetical moment from USO 2009, written kind of/sort of from Marat's POV. Slightly angsty, given that around 'Marat' and 'angst' were pretty much synonyms at that time last year.
Notes: ...what else to say? I'm still incredibly embarrassed over this. XDD
They had asked you, once, what it felt like to be a star.
You had always thought it was one of those funny things about the English language, the ones you would never understand -- how could a person be, in even the slightest way, anything like a star? And so you had simply gone and added the question to the alarmingly long list of absurdities about life on tour; never paid it any more heed, until...
...until, well, now.
The arms winding firmly around your back are much, much too familiar. So is the sweat-damp cotton beneath your fingertips, the face pressed into the crook of your shoulder in a way that had always -- with a pang of some unidentifiable emotion -- reminded you of a child. The two of you have somehow ended up in the narrow gap between the last two rows of lockers, where people rarely ever pass by; that, too, is familiar, with all the inevitability of habit built up over years and years.
If anyone did happen to glance over from the adjacent row, you suppose that all they would see is the two of you in a seemingly innocuous hug. Not that you would care, at the moment, if they did deduce anything else. You have spent the past few hours thinking about losing in your first match in your last US Open and feeling absolutely nothing over it, but it is this of all things that finally drives it home, that
this
was
it.
In the back of your mind, the words fall like anvils, and he shifts a bit in your grasp, as if he could somehow sense them. Still silent, he pulls you in tighter. In too many places at once, you are suddenly aware of the heat emanating from him, have to fight the impulse to flinch as if from physical pain. Outside, in the adjacent stadium, the crowd erupts into a cheer, and you both follow it as it seems to begin near the edges of the court but oscillate, higher and higher, into the stands above. You remember, rather belatedly, that he is scheduled for one of the next matches -- were they expecting him out there already?
And this, finally -- this is when you are reminded of that figure of speech you have never understood, imagine suddenly stars that burn themselves out under clear night skies and glaring lights and the relentless gaze of twenty thousand pairs of eyes. And, well, you have never been the best at the whole protective thing (you owe Dina so much more, you know this), but you allow yourself to think, just for an instant, about taking Roger Federer with you, away from all the things he pushes too hard toward. You are aware that this either makes you the most possessive person to have ever lived, or simply someone that will never fail to be tempted by the impossible.
(Even if they say what they have all been saying, about your leaving the game.)
You run a hand roughly through his hair -- the golden-brown curls are soft, but shorter than you remember seeing them last. Your fingers follow them to their tips, hover briefly in the air, as if you are expecting them to continue toward his shoulders. If you tried hard enough, you could, you suppose, still call up the face of a boy who -- during those early years on tour -- had always seemed to turn up wherever you went, instantly memorable because of his ready smile and mischievous, deep-set eyes. It had confused you to no end (and still confuses you a lot, even now) as to what exactly he saw in you that he had found worthy of admiration.
The stars, you had told the reporters, that one time, are only in the sky.
But even then, as you laughed along with them, you must have entertained the possibility that maybe -- just maybe -- there could be one exception. It being, at the same time, the one reason why you will never regret having played tennis.
He draws you back to your surroundings, to the still-silent locker room, by letting out a ragged breath against your shoulder. It is followed by a soothing murmur, in a language you do not know. With that same unidentifiable pang, too sudden and too sharp to be just sadness, you realize -- he thinks he is the one worried about you.
* * *
Once again, this is RPS/Real Person Slash. Turn away now if it isn't quite your thing. I swear, until 6 months ago, I didn't think it was my thing, either. :)
Title: Number the Stars
Characters: Marat Safin/Roger Federer
Rating: PG
Summary: ~700 words. A hypothetical moment from USO 2009, written kind of/sort of from Marat's POV. Slightly angsty, given that around 'Marat' and 'angst' were pretty much synonyms at that time last year.
Notes: ...what else to say? I'm still incredibly embarrassed over this. XDD
They had asked you, once, what it felt like to be a star.
You had always thought it was one of those funny things about the English language, the ones you would never understand -- how could a person be, in even the slightest way, anything like a star? And so you had simply gone and added the question to the alarmingly long list of absurdities about life on tour; never paid it any more heed, until...
...until, well, now.
The arms winding firmly around your back are much, much too familiar. So is the sweat-damp cotton beneath your fingertips, the face pressed into the crook of your shoulder in a way that had always -- with a pang of some unidentifiable emotion -- reminded you of a child. The two of you have somehow ended up in the narrow gap between the last two rows of lockers, where people rarely ever pass by; that, too, is familiar, with all the inevitability of habit built up over years and years.
If anyone did happen to glance over from the adjacent row, you suppose that all they would see is the two of you in a seemingly innocuous hug. Not that you would care, at the moment, if they did deduce anything else. You have spent the past few hours thinking about losing in your first match in your last US Open and feeling absolutely nothing over it, but it is this of all things that finally drives it home, that
this
was
it.
In the back of your mind, the words fall like anvils, and he shifts a bit in your grasp, as if he could somehow sense them. Still silent, he pulls you in tighter. In too many places at once, you are suddenly aware of the heat emanating from him, have to fight the impulse to flinch as if from physical pain. Outside, in the adjacent stadium, the crowd erupts into a cheer, and you both follow it as it seems to begin near the edges of the court but oscillate, higher and higher, into the stands above. You remember, rather belatedly, that he is scheduled for one of the next matches -- were they expecting him out there already?
And this, finally -- this is when you are reminded of that figure of speech you have never understood, imagine suddenly stars that burn themselves out under clear night skies and glaring lights and the relentless gaze of twenty thousand pairs of eyes. And, well, you have never been the best at the whole protective thing (you owe Dina so much more, you know this), but you allow yourself to think, just for an instant, about taking Roger Federer with you, away from all the things he pushes too hard toward. You are aware that this either makes you the most possessive person to have ever lived, or simply someone that will never fail to be tempted by the impossible.
(Even if they say what they have all been saying, about your leaving the game.)
You run a hand roughly through his hair -- the golden-brown curls are soft, but shorter than you remember seeing them last. Your fingers follow them to their tips, hover briefly in the air, as if you are expecting them to continue toward his shoulders. If you tried hard enough, you could, you suppose, still call up the face of a boy who -- during those early years on tour -- had always seemed to turn up wherever you went, instantly memorable because of his ready smile and mischievous, deep-set eyes. It had confused you to no end (and still confuses you a lot, even now) as to what exactly he saw in you that he had found worthy of admiration.
The stars, you had told the reporters, that one time, are only in the sky.
But even then, as you laughed along with them, you must have entertained the possibility that maybe -- just maybe -- there could be one exception. It being, at the same time, the one reason why you will never regret having played tennis.
He draws you back to your surroundings, to the still-silent locker room, by letting out a ragged breath against your shoulder. It is followed by a soothing murmur, in a language you do not know. With that same unidentifiable pang, too sudden and too sharp to be just sadness, you realize -- he thinks he is the one worried about you.
* * *