Fic: Can't Touch [PG]
Title: Can't Touch
Author: Jae Kayelle
Pairing: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction.
Summary: What might have been.
Word count: 2032
Or read it on AO3
Mirka opened the door wide when she saw it was Rafa standing on the front step, looking hopeful and a little like he wasn't sure of his welcome. He was always like that after he defeated Roger in a match.
“Hello, Rafa. Please come in.” She smiled warmly to let him know she still liked him.
He sidled into the foyer. “Hola, Mirka. How are you?”
“I'm well. Are you here to see Roger?”
“Yes. If he wants to see me.”
“Of course he wants to see you. He always enjoys your company. He's lying down right now, though. I'll go see if he's awake.”
She went upstairs to the bedroom. Roger was sprawled on the bed in shorts and t shirt, one arm flung across his eyes. He moved the arm just enough to look at her when she approached.
“Rafa's here. Do you feel like talking to him?”
“Sure, but could you ask him to come here?”
She leaned over him, one hand resting lightly on his chest. “Is there anything I can get you?”
He shook his head. She left and a moment later Rafa entered the room.
“Hola, Raf.”
“Hi.” Rafa hovered by the side of the bed. “How you feel?”
Roger dropped his arm to his side. “Pretty good, actually. Steph got me some really good painkillers from one of the tournament doctors. Making me a little floaty. Thought I better lie down before I did something unwise like trying to play another two or three sets with you.”
Studying his friend's face Rafa decided Roger's smile did look a little extra...happy. He relaxed and settled beside Roger on the far side of the bed, putting his feet up and lying back against the headboard.
“I knew your back was not good. Your move a little off during the second set.” He mock-scowled. “You say you're okay.”
“Yeah, the adrenaline wore off from the first set,” Roger confessed. “I was having too much fun getting to play you again. A year is a long time.”
“Si. Too long. We both kind of wounded this time.”
“Wounded warriors.” Roger seemed to find that funny.
“Why you play tonight, Rogi?”
“I just told you. I had fun. I missed us.”
Rafa made a face. “Is nice but you could hurt yourself worse.”
“If I had pulled out there wouldn't have been any of the top four in the matches yesterday, with Vika and Sam both retiring. My fans were there to see me, well, me play you. I couldn't let them down.”
“You a nice man.”
Roger laughed. “Thank you but, for me, it is all about the fans. Without them where would we be? I'll bet your fans are delirious that you are playing this week. I know I'm ridiculously happy that you're back on tour. I missed you.”
Sliding down a little so that his head rested on the pillows Rafa said, “I'm ridiculous happy too. For same reasons and my own.”
“That's...” Roger yawned hugely. “That's good. Sorry. I'm getting sleepy.”
“I go now,” but Rafa made no move to get up, as he was very comfortable right where he was. He shifted again and rolled onto his side, so that he faced Roger. He watched as Roger fought the pull of sleep, brought on by the day's exertions and the effect of the painkillers. His brown eyes sought Rafa's just before his lids closed and stayed that way. His breathing evened out and he was asleep.
Rafa simply watched.
He had promised himself never to do more than watch.
#
The trill of someone's cell phone woke Roger. He lifted his head and looked blearily around him. Blinking to clear his vision Roger noted that Rafa lay beside him on the bed, sound asleep and curled on his right side. Roger took in the wavy hair that was thinning a little on top, and the peaceful expression on his face. It pleased Roger to see him looking so at ease.
Then he realized the phone was still ringing. It was Rafa's, lying between them on the bed, with Larry Ellison's name on the screen. After a brief hesitation Roger answered the call with a deft swipe of his finger and brought the cell to his ear.
“Hello, Larry?”
“Hello?” The owner of the tournament sounded puzzled by the unexpected voice.
“Yeah, it's Roger. If you're looking for Rafa he's here with me.”
“Roger! Good morning. How are you doing?”
Roger made a face. This was why he normally kept his injuries his private concern. So many well-meaning people asked too many questions. Then he realized he was over-reacting. It wasn't a secret that he'd hurt himself in the match against Dodig, and Larry, if anyone, had something of a right to know what was going on with him.
“I'm feeling a lot better after a good night's rest,” he answered truthfully.
“That's good. Really glad to hear it. You take care of yourself, take it easy for a while. Say, Roger, could I speak with Rafa?”
“Well, he's, um, he's asleep right now. We were up late talking and I guess we both fell asleep. I think my wife may have had something to do with us being covered up by a blanket.” He plucked at the lightweight covering that he didn't remember being there last night. His face burned a little in embarrassment at telling this to Larry.
“Your wife had everything to do with that,” Mirka said from the doorway.
“I heard that,” Larry chuckled. “That explains why Rafa's bed wasn't slept in last night. Not that I'm keeping tabs on my house guests. Would you ask Rafa to call me? Anytime before ten a.m.”
“I will.”
“Thanks, Roger. Hope to see you back here next year.”
“I hope so, too. This has always been one of my favourite tournaments.”
“That's what I like to hear. Talk to you soon, Roger.”
They ended the call.
Roger raised an eyebrow towards his wife. Mirka just shrugged.
“When he wakes up invite him to breakfast. I'll fix something.”
“Wait. Where did you sleep last night?”
“In the third bedroom.” She came forward then and kissed him on the forehead. “Do you want anything special for breakfast?”
“You know what I like. Maybe fruit and croissants for Raf? No cheese.”
Mirka looked again at Rafa, her expression souring slightly. It cleared as she glanced once more at Roger, and then she left the room. Roger was reluctant to disturb Rafa. He liked waking up next to him. He had come to terms ages ago with his attraction to the fiery Spaniard and had talked to Mirka about it. She was okay with it as long as he didn't do anything about it. Looking and fantasizing was fine. It was following through on the attraction and letting it get physical that she objected to. Roger had decided not to risk his marriage or the friendship he had with Rafa. Besides, Rafa was more than likely not interested in him that way.
A gusty little sigh blew out between Rafa's lips and then his eyes slowly opened. A brilliant smile crossed his face when he realized it was Roger next to him. The smile was so warm and full of affection that it stole Roger's breath. He blinked, startled by the emotion being directed at him.
The smile vanished, replaced by some sort of realization crossing Rafa's face. He sat up, his movements abrupt and hurried. The blanket fell away but tangled around his legs. As he tugged at it, trying to free himself Roger reached out and grabbed his wrist. Rafa stilled, but didn't look at him.
“What's wrong?” Roger asked.
“Nada.”
“It's not nothing. Something. Talk to me, Raf,” Roger commanded quietly.
“You are my friend.”
“Yes.”
“It's wrong.”
“Wrong to be friends?” Roger was puzzled and a little hurt.
“No! Wrong to be more.”
“More than friends?”
“Si.”
“How can we be more than -- Oh.” It all fell into place. That look. Not simply affection. Love. Rafa loved him as more than a friend.
“Oh, Rafa. I didn't know.”
“Yes.” Rafa sounded miserable and kept his face turned away.
“I think, if I understand what you're saying, I think I feel the same way.” Roger fairly shook with nerves. This was a watershed moment.
Slowly, very slowly, Rafa turned to look at him. His eyes travelled over Roger's face, searching for answers.
Roger kept still, trying to let what he felt in his heart show in his expression. He knew he should not let anything show. He could joke it away, pretend that he meant something other than what he had intimated, but he would never do something so cruel, especially to Rafa. He owed it to Rafa to be honest. They had always been fully honest with each other, even when they disagreed on matters outside of them personally.
His expression brightening, Rafa started to lean down; his eyes closing halfway and his gaze intent on Roger's mouth. Roger felt the stirrings of something deep in his gut, and his heart rate speeded up. He sat up. The movement brought him closer to Rafa, who reached for him. His hands went to Roger's shoulders, one sliding around and up into Roger's hair.
“No.”
The word was spoken quietly, but it was as effective as ice water. They pulled apart, hands dropping away, and they stared at each other. Rafa was seated on the bed again.
“We can't,” Roger said.
“I - sorry,” Rafa said, his body language indicating his misery. He studied his hands in his lap.
Roger couldn't help it. All he could do was continue to stare, drinking in the sight of Rafa, beautiful, wanting, wanted, untouchable.
Roger swallowed hard. “Yeah. Me too. I'm sorry, too.”
Lifting his head Rafa said, “I should go.”
“Rafa, I think we need to still be friends. Can we do that?”
A smile stuttered across Rafa's face, before it caught and held. “Yes. I like that.”
Relieved beyond words, Roger nodded and finally managed, “Good. Very good.”
Rafa did climb off the bed then. He flipped the corner of the blanket back and forth before folding it neatly and setting it down next to Roger.
“I hope you win our next match.”
Roger grinned. “Yeah? Well, I'll have to do my best.”
“You always do, Rogi. Next time your back will be healthy, my knee will be good and we will have a real battle.”
“You're on.”
Rafa started to walk away. He lifted one hand and trailed it across Roger's cheek, his touch so feathery as to be almost intangible. Roger shivered. He caught Rafa's wrist, turning the palm toward him. He pressed a kiss to it, his eyes locked on Rafa. Big brown eyes widened and blinked. A sweet smile graced Rafa's lips, before he pulled away.
He watched Rafa walk out the door, feeling as though an opportunity had been missed. It made him sad to think that. He loved his wife. She had to be his priority. But...if only... He sighed and buried his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. It was no good pursuing those thoughts, the might-have-beens with Rafa.
The murmur of voices carried up the stairs. The closing of the front door. Rafa was gone.
Roger fell back against the pillows, until Mirka called him to breakfast. He got up and went on with his day, his step a little heavy, his eyes a little sad when they stared back at him in the mirror. He smiled when someone told a joke, he played with his children and later that night made love with his wife.
And he wondered about possibilities.
# end
Author: Jae Kayelle
Pairing: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction.
Summary: What might have been.
Word count: 2032
Or read it on AO3
Mirka opened the door wide when she saw it was Rafa standing on the front step, looking hopeful and a little like he wasn't sure of his welcome. He was always like that after he defeated Roger in a match.
“Hello, Rafa. Please come in.” She smiled warmly to let him know she still liked him.
He sidled into the foyer. “Hola, Mirka. How are you?”
“I'm well. Are you here to see Roger?”
“Yes. If he wants to see me.”
“Of course he wants to see you. He always enjoys your company. He's lying down right now, though. I'll go see if he's awake.”
She went upstairs to the bedroom. Roger was sprawled on the bed in shorts and t shirt, one arm flung across his eyes. He moved the arm just enough to look at her when she approached.
“Rafa's here. Do you feel like talking to him?”
“Sure, but could you ask him to come here?”
She leaned over him, one hand resting lightly on his chest. “Is there anything I can get you?”
He shook his head. She left and a moment later Rafa entered the room.
“Hola, Raf.”
“Hi.” Rafa hovered by the side of the bed. “How you feel?”
Roger dropped his arm to his side. “Pretty good, actually. Steph got me some really good painkillers from one of the tournament doctors. Making me a little floaty. Thought I better lie down before I did something unwise like trying to play another two or three sets with you.”
Studying his friend's face Rafa decided Roger's smile did look a little extra...happy. He relaxed and settled beside Roger on the far side of the bed, putting his feet up and lying back against the headboard.
“I knew your back was not good. Your move a little off during the second set.” He mock-scowled. “You say you're okay.”
“Yeah, the adrenaline wore off from the first set,” Roger confessed. “I was having too much fun getting to play you again. A year is a long time.”
“Si. Too long. We both kind of wounded this time.”
“Wounded warriors.” Roger seemed to find that funny.
“Why you play tonight, Rogi?”
“I just told you. I had fun. I missed us.”
Rafa made a face. “Is nice but you could hurt yourself worse.”
“If I had pulled out there wouldn't have been any of the top four in the matches yesterday, with Vika and Sam both retiring. My fans were there to see me, well, me play you. I couldn't let them down.”
“You a nice man.”
Roger laughed. “Thank you but, for me, it is all about the fans. Without them where would we be? I'll bet your fans are delirious that you are playing this week. I know I'm ridiculously happy that you're back on tour. I missed you.”
Sliding down a little so that his head rested on the pillows Rafa said, “I'm ridiculous happy too. For same reasons and my own.”
“That's...” Roger yawned hugely. “That's good. Sorry. I'm getting sleepy.”
“I go now,” but Rafa made no move to get up, as he was very comfortable right where he was. He shifted again and rolled onto his side, so that he faced Roger. He watched as Roger fought the pull of sleep, brought on by the day's exertions and the effect of the painkillers. His brown eyes sought Rafa's just before his lids closed and stayed that way. His breathing evened out and he was asleep.
Rafa simply watched.
He had promised himself never to do more than watch.
#
The trill of someone's cell phone woke Roger. He lifted his head and looked blearily around him. Blinking to clear his vision Roger noted that Rafa lay beside him on the bed, sound asleep and curled on his right side. Roger took in the wavy hair that was thinning a little on top, and the peaceful expression on his face. It pleased Roger to see him looking so at ease.
Then he realized the phone was still ringing. It was Rafa's, lying between them on the bed, with Larry Ellison's name on the screen. After a brief hesitation Roger answered the call with a deft swipe of his finger and brought the cell to his ear.
“Hello, Larry?”
“Hello?” The owner of the tournament sounded puzzled by the unexpected voice.
“Yeah, it's Roger. If you're looking for Rafa he's here with me.”
“Roger! Good morning. How are you doing?”
Roger made a face. This was why he normally kept his injuries his private concern. So many well-meaning people asked too many questions. Then he realized he was over-reacting. It wasn't a secret that he'd hurt himself in the match against Dodig, and Larry, if anyone, had something of a right to know what was going on with him.
“I'm feeling a lot better after a good night's rest,” he answered truthfully.
“That's good. Really glad to hear it. You take care of yourself, take it easy for a while. Say, Roger, could I speak with Rafa?”
“Well, he's, um, he's asleep right now. We were up late talking and I guess we both fell asleep. I think my wife may have had something to do with us being covered up by a blanket.” He plucked at the lightweight covering that he didn't remember being there last night. His face burned a little in embarrassment at telling this to Larry.
“Your wife had everything to do with that,” Mirka said from the doorway.
“I heard that,” Larry chuckled. “That explains why Rafa's bed wasn't slept in last night. Not that I'm keeping tabs on my house guests. Would you ask Rafa to call me? Anytime before ten a.m.”
“I will.”
“Thanks, Roger. Hope to see you back here next year.”
“I hope so, too. This has always been one of my favourite tournaments.”
“That's what I like to hear. Talk to you soon, Roger.”
They ended the call.
Roger raised an eyebrow towards his wife. Mirka just shrugged.
“When he wakes up invite him to breakfast. I'll fix something.”
“Wait. Where did you sleep last night?”
“In the third bedroom.” She came forward then and kissed him on the forehead. “Do you want anything special for breakfast?”
“You know what I like. Maybe fruit and croissants for Raf? No cheese.”
Mirka looked again at Rafa, her expression souring slightly. It cleared as she glanced once more at Roger, and then she left the room. Roger was reluctant to disturb Rafa. He liked waking up next to him. He had come to terms ages ago with his attraction to the fiery Spaniard and had talked to Mirka about it. She was okay with it as long as he didn't do anything about it. Looking and fantasizing was fine. It was following through on the attraction and letting it get physical that she objected to. Roger had decided not to risk his marriage or the friendship he had with Rafa. Besides, Rafa was more than likely not interested in him that way.
A gusty little sigh blew out between Rafa's lips and then his eyes slowly opened. A brilliant smile crossed his face when he realized it was Roger next to him. The smile was so warm and full of affection that it stole Roger's breath. He blinked, startled by the emotion being directed at him.
The smile vanished, replaced by some sort of realization crossing Rafa's face. He sat up, his movements abrupt and hurried. The blanket fell away but tangled around his legs. As he tugged at it, trying to free himself Roger reached out and grabbed his wrist. Rafa stilled, but didn't look at him.
“What's wrong?” Roger asked.
“Nada.”
“It's not nothing. Something. Talk to me, Raf,” Roger commanded quietly.
“You are my friend.”
“Yes.”
“It's wrong.”
“Wrong to be friends?” Roger was puzzled and a little hurt.
“No! Wrong to be more.”
“More than friends?”
“Si.”
“How can we be more than -- Oh.” It all fell into place. That look. Not simply affection. Love. Rafa loved him as more than a friend.
“Oh, Rafa. I didn't know.”
“Yes.” Rafa sounded miserable and kept his face turned away.
“I think, if I understand what you're saying, I think I feel the same way.” Roger fairly shook with nerves. This was a watershed moment.
Slowly, very slowly, Rafa turned to look at him. His eyes travelled over Roger's face, searching for answers.
Roger kept still, trying to let what he felt in his heart show in his expression. He knew he should not let anything show. He could joke it away, pretend that he meant something other than what he had intimated, but he would never do something so cruel, especially to Rafa. He owed it to Rafa to be honest. They had always been fully honest with each other, even when they disagreed on matters outside of them personally.
His expression brightening, Rafa started to lean down; his eyes closing halfway and his gaze intent on Roger's mouth. Roger felt the stirrings of something deep in his gut, and his heart rate speeded up. He sat up. The movement brought him closer to Rafa, who reached for him. His hands went to Roger's shoulders, one sliding around and up into Roger's hair.
“No.”
The word was spoken quietly, but it was as effective as ice water. They pulled apart, hands dropping away, and they stared at each other. Rafa was seated on the bed again.
“We can't,” Roger said.
“I - sorry,” Rafa said, his body language indicating his misery. He studied his hands in his lap.
Roger couldn't help it. All he could do was continue to stare, drinking in the sight of Rafa, beautiful, wanting, wanted, untouchable.
Roger swallowed hard. “Yeah. Me too. I'm sorry, too.”
Lifting his head Rafa said, “I should go.”
“Rafa, I think we need to still be friends. Can we do that?”
A smile stuttered across Rafa's face, before it caught and held. “Yes. I like that.”
Relieved beyond words, Roger nodded and finally managed, “Good. Very good.”
Rafa did climb off the bed then. He flipped the corner of the blanket back and forth before folding it neatly and setting it down next to Roger.
“I hope you win our next match.”
Roger grinned. “Yeah? Well, I'll have to do my best.”
“You always do, Rogi. Next time your back will be healthy, my knee will be good and we will have a real battle.”
“You're on.”
Rafa started to walk away. He lifted one hand and trailed it across Roger's cheek, his touch so feathery as to be almost intangible. Roger shivered. He caught Rafa's wrist, turning the palm toward him. He pressed a kiss to it, his eyes locked on Rafa. Big brown eyes widened and blinked. A sweet smile graced Rafa's lips, before he pulled away.
He watched Rafa walk out the door, feeling as though an opportunity had been missed. It made him sad to think that. He loved his wife. She had to be his priority. But...if only... He sighed and buried his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. It was no good pursuing those thoughts, the might-have-beens with Rafa.
The murmur of voices carried up the stairs. The closing of the front door. Rafa was gone.
Roger fell back against the pillows, until Mirka called him to breakfast. He got up and went on with his day, his step a little heavy, his eyes a little sad when they stared back at him in the mirror. He smiled when someone told a joke, he played with his children and later that night made love with his wife.
And he wondered about possibilities.
# end