Fic: Messed Up [PG13]
Title: Messed Up
Author: Jae Kayelle
Pairing: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal, Roger/Mirka Federer
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No assumptions are made about the real persons depicted in this story. No profit is being made and no disrespect is intended.
Summary: emotions are laid bare.
Word count: 2507
Series: It's Complicated
AN: this one is kind of talky, but they needed to work things out. More angst. Once again, please just go with the timeline at the Indian Wells tournament and pretend this fits in perfectly.
The four previous stories in this series must be read for this one to make sense. Directly follows Guilt.
Can also be read on AO3
“Mirka!” Rafa repeated and engulfed her in a bear hug, depositing the same wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek that he had given Roger. Mirka looked like she wanted to make a grease spot out of him.
“Hello, Rafa.” She was polite but not friendly. Unfortunately Rafa was not picking up on her mood. He smiled broadly at both of them, leaving his arm around Mirka's shoulders.
“Did you drive over?” Roger asked. Rafa was drunker than he thought.
“No, I took taxi.”
Glancing at Mirka, who was still looking very angry, Roger said, “How about some coffee and then you can go back to Larry's, or wherever you're going tonight?”
“Si, Larry is good host. Nice home.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You see it?”
“I've been there.”
“Why you no stay there with me?”
This could have been funny at another time, but after fighting with Mirka about Rafa this was not one of those times.
“Because I'm staying here with my wife and daughters,” he said firmly. As much as he enjoyed his friendship with Rafa and, yes, he loved him, right this moment he was a little annoyed with having to deal with him while he was drunk. Also, he really needed to establish some kind of groundwork for his relationships with both Rafa and Mirka. Tonight Mirka had the edge.
Roger unwound Rafa's arm from Mirka's shoulders and guided him to the kitchen. “Coffee. Then you go home.”
“Home is Manacor,” Rafa said sorrowfully.
Great. Now he was getting maudlin. “Yes, I know.”
“I miss home. Mi familia.”
“You're not playing Miami. After the final you can go back to Manacor.”
“I'm in the final!” Rafa spun around and threw his arms around Roger, who staggered a step back under the weight of an armful of an inebriated Spaniard. Roger felt a slight twinge in his back.
Mirka appeared at his side and helped manoeuvre Rafa to the kitchen table. She set about making coffee, silent and angry. Roger made sure Rafa wasn't about to topple off his chair and went to help her.
“I'm sorry. One cup of coffee and I'll put him in a taxi and send him off.”
“It's the right thing to do,” she replied in a clipped tone.
“But you wish he'd leave now.”
Mirka glanced over her shoulder at their guest who was leaning heavily on both elbows on the tabletop.
“One coffee and then he leaves.”
“Thank you.”
Their eyes met and Roger swore he saw something there that looked like she might be relenting a little. She started the coffeemaker and went to the refrigerator, bringing out bread and meat for sandwiches.
“He needs to eat, too.”
Roger hid his look of relief by turning away. He fetched a bottle of water and took it to Rafa, placing it in front of him. “Drink this. You'll need it. Mirka is making you something to eat.”
“Gracias,” Rafa said quietly, offering a tentative smile.
Mirka stared at him and then turned her back on him as she continued to make sandwiches. She took them to the table, plunking the plate down. “Roast beef. No ham and no cheese.”
Roger saw Rafa get a peculiar look on his face. “Are you okay, Raf?”
Big brown eyes met his gaze with a pained look. He shook his head. Roger said, “The bathroom is just off the foyer.”
Rafa took off at a run, while Roger and Mirka watched him go. They heard the door to the main floor bathroom slam shut and the faint sounds of retching reached their ears. They looked at one another. Mirka was fighting a smile. It wasn't malicious but she was obviously amused by Rafa's condition.
Roger felt the corners of his mouth turn up and he covered his mouth with his hand. Pretty soon they were both laughing hard enough that tears fell from their eyes.
“Is a joke?” Rafa asked plaintively from the doorway, looking decidedly wrung out.
Roger went to him and took his arm, leading him back to the table. “Feeling better?”
“Ughh.”
“Can't hold your drink, Rafa?” Mirka sniped at him.
“I am poor drinker. I know it and do it anyway.”
“Why did you overdo it tonight, Rafa?” Roger asked. “You never drink before you're out of a tournament or you win the final.”
“I screw up. So sorry, Mirka.” Then he shot Roger a worried look.
“It's okay. I told her. She knows about us.”
“It's not okay!” Mirka snapped. She glared at the two of them.
Dismay destroying the hope he had held about maybe fixing this mess, Roger felt a little despairing right then.
“That's not what I meant.”
“It's not okay that you slept with him!” Mirka was beginning to sound shrewish and that was so not like her. Roger knew he had hurt her, but now he had a sense of just how deeply that hurt went. He wondered if he could ever make things right between them again.
“Mirka...”
“I think you should leave.”
“I go now,” Rafa said pushing himself to his feet and swaying slightly. Roger caught him by the arm to steady him.
“I meant Roger but, yes, you should go too.”
Roger was shocked. “You - you want me to leave? I don't understand.”
“I'm still mad at you,” Mirka said.
“I get that, but...”
“God, I don't know who I am anymore,” Mirka said covering her face with her hands.
“Oh, honey. I'm so sorry.”
“No, it's not that. The way I reacted. I'm so afraid of losing you.”
“You won't lose me. I love you.”
Rafa said, “Is my fault. I was nervous about coming here this day - tonight. I drank too much first. I needed to talk to you both.”
“Is your conscience bothering you, Rafa?” Mirka asked and then looked disgusted with herself. She turned and ran out of the room.
Roger caught up with her just before she got to the stairs. He stopped her by grabbing her left hand. She slowed and then stopped, dropping to sit on the bottom step.
Without looking at Roger she said, “Such drama. This is not us, Roger.”
He sat carefully next to her, afraid to spook her. “No. It's nothing like us.”
“We're Swiss. We're not supposed to be so emotional.”
Roger laughed quietly. “Really? Who told you that?”
Finally glancing at him Mirka smiled. “Well, besides you, we're not supposed to be emotional.”
“Ouch,” he said but he grinned when he spoke.
Mirka laughed too.
“Sweetheart, I'm so sorry I'm putting us through this, but I can't undo what's been done.”
“Do you want to?” At his puzzled look she said, “Would you not sleep with Rafa if you could go back and change it?”
“Yes. If it meant fixing us, making everything better. The way it was. Then, yes, I would go back and change it.”
“But you wouldn't want to. You would still want to sleep with him.”
“We didn't actually sleep together,” he said, then gave himself a mental kick for being so picky. “But, yes, I want him even now. I wouldn't do it because it would endanger our marriage.”
She gave him a funny look, one he couldn't interpret. Then she stood up and walked back into the kitchen. Rafa paused in the middle of taking a bite of a sandwich, his eyebrows doing that funny dance that they did. He put the sandwich down and chewed until he could swallow. Mirka just stood and stared at him. Rafa shot Roger a look as if to ask for help. Roger shrugged. He didn't know what she was going to do, either.
“I didn't know you're gay, Rafa.”
“Um,” he looked at Roger again. “Not really. I mean, sort of. I love Roger, that's all.”
“That's all,” Mirka repeated without inflection.
“Yes.”
When she continued to stare at him he said, “I love him since I was teenager.”
“Are you sure you're not mistaking a crush on your idol for love?”
“That's what Toni say.”
“Toni knows?” Mirka asked glancing in Roger's direction.
“He know I'm attracted to Roger. He doesn't like it.”
“That explains so much,” Roger said drily, thinking of Toni Nadal's recent remarks to the press.
Rafa continued, “He wants me to want to defeat you not...you know.” He flushed in embarrassment.
An awkward silence befell the room, as no doubt they all completed that sentence.
Roger cleared his throat. “How do I fix this? Mirka? What do you want me to do?”
“I want Rafa to not exist. I want you to never have had sex with him. I want him to never have beaten you in so many tournaments.”
Rafa had flinched visibly at her first words. By the time she was done speaking he nodded as if in agreement. Roger thought about how Rafa always apologized when he defeated him in a match. He did the same to Ferrer and Monaco and possibly others. He always sounded sincere. He couldn't help being a great player.
“I -- “
“Do not apologize! I don't actually want you to not exist, Rafa. You're just so...frustrating sometimes. I want my husband to have a better head to head against you. I want...I wish, oh, I don't know what I want!”
Rafa stood up and shuffled closer to her. He reached out slowly and touched her arm to get her attention. “I not want to hurt you, Mirka, or Roger. I love him. I cannot help it. How I feel. I can leave here but my feelings...I will still love him and look at him with love. And when we play match I will still do my best to beat him. I not always win, only most of the time. My body is breaking down. Roger is still fit. He is still best in history. Even if I or Nole break his records, well, some of them,” he shot Roger an apologetic smile. “Roger will always be best.”
“Jesus. You really do believe that, don't you?” Mirka looked at him in wonder.
“Yes?” Rafa seemed puzzled by that remark but Roger knew what she meant. So many people questioned Rafa's honesty when he said that, especially right after beating him. Roger knew him well enough that he always believed him. It was flattering in a weird sort of way, but he was used to it by now.
“I've always thought you were just ass-kissing.”
“Not ass-kissing or ass-picking,” Rafa said with a perfectly straight face, but his eyes sparkled with merriment.
“You mean you know you do that?” Mirka's voice went up a half octave.
Rafa shrugged. “Can't stop.”
“Oh, honey. You could go to therapy.”
“When?” Unless he hired a therapist who was willing to travel the tour it would be impossible to keep to any kind of schedule for that kind of care.
“You could have gone when you were home in Manacor.”
Rafa simply shrugged again. Some things just weren't going to change. Yet somewhere in this off-kilter conversation Mirka had gone from outright hatred of Rafa to calling him “honey” and offering advice.
They both were silent and stood regarding each other as if trying to determine which way the other was going to jump.
Finally Rafa said, “I'm just...sorry.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket and started scrolling through his contact list. “I call someone to pick me up.”
It was on the tip of Roger's tongue to offer to drive him back to Ellison's, but he stopped himself in time. “I can call you a taxi.”
“Is okay. Ferru will come get me.” He tapped a number and waited for it to be picked up. He turned away briefly speaking in Spanish. “Gracias.”
“He'll be here in about twenty minutes. I wait outside.”
“You'll sit down and finish your sandwich.” Mirka directed him back to the table. Then she shot Roger a look, which he interpreted to mean he should sit as well. So he did and helped himself to a sandwich. Then Mirka joined them and poured coffee for all of them. Rafa only sipped at his. He still had to get some sleep. He seemed sober now anyway.
They ate in silence but the tension seemed to be gone.
When the doorbell rang Roger went to the door. David Ferrer stood on the other side. He reached for him and gave him a strong one-armed hug. David squeezed back albeit gently, perhaps mindful of Roger's back.
“Hola, David.”
“Roger. Where Rafa?”
“Come on in for a minute.”
Ferrer followed him to the kitchen. He and Rafa greeted each other before David took Mirka's hand and kissed the back of it, grinning at her. She smiled at him. Ferrer could be a little on the shy side with the wives of the players, but he was always charming. Mirka liked him. She offered him coffee but he thanked her with a shake of his shaggy head.
Rafa put a hand on Ferrer's shoulder and turned him toward the foyer. Roger and Mirka followed. There was a flurry of Spanish during which Roger caught his name and something about love. He glanced at his wife, but if she understood any of it she wasn't reacting. He watched David's face but saw no surprise there. His assumption at Court 7 was right. Ferrer did know more than he had let on.
Just then he turned and smiled at Roger. He made a query of Rafa who nodded somewhat reluctantly.
“Please forgive if I, uh, say wrong. Roger, Mirka. You love each other.” He waited, so they both nodded. Roger wondered where he was going with this. “Rafa love Roger, si?”
Rafa nodded with a jerk of his head.
“Roger, you love Rafa?”
“I do.” This almost felt like a marriage ceremony.
“Why not share?”
# end (to be continued, actually)
Author: Jae Kayelle
Pairing: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal, Roger/Mirka Federer
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No assumptions are made about the real persons depicted in this story. No profit is being made and no disrespect is intended.
Summary: emotions are laid bare.
Word count: 2507
Series: It's Complicated
AN: this one is kind of talky, but they needed to work things out. More angst. Once again, please just go with the timeline at the Indian Wells tournament and pretend this fits in perfectly.
The four previous stories in this series must be read for this one to make sense. Directly follows Guilt.
Can also be read on AO3
“Mirka!” Rafa repeated and engulfed her in a bear hug, depositing the same wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek that he had given Roger. Mirka looked like she wanted to make a grease spot out of him.
“Hello, Rafa.” She was polite but not friendly. Unfortunately Rafa was not picking up on her mood. He smiled broadly at both of them, leaving his arm around Mirka's shoulders.
“Did you drive over?” Roger asked. Rafa was drunker than he thought.
“No, I took taxi.”
Glancing at Mirka, who was still looking very angry, Roger said, “How about some coffee and then you can go back to Larry's, or wherever you're going tonight?”
“Si, Larry is good host. Nice home.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You see it?”
“I've been there.”
“Why you no stay there with me?”
This could have been funny at another time, but after fighting with Mirka about Rafa this was not one of those times.
“Because I'm staying here with my wife and daughters,” he said firmly. As much as he enjoyed his friendship with Rafa and, yes, he loved him, right this moment he was a little annoyed with having to deal with him while he was drunk. Also, he really needed to establish some kind of groundwork for his relationships with both Rafa and Mirka. Tonight Mirka had the edge.
Roger unwound Rafa's arm from Mirka's shoulders and guided him to the kitchen. “Coffee. Then you go home.”
“Home is Manacor,” Rafa said sorrowfully.
Great. Now he was getting maudlin. “Yes, I know.”
“I miss home. Mi familia.”
“You're not playing Miami. After the final you can go back to Manacor.”
“I'm in the final!” Rafa spun around and threw his arms around Roger, who staggered a step back under the weight of an armful of an inebriated Spaniard. Roger felt a slight twinge in his back.
Mirka appeared at his side and helped manoeuvre Rafa to the kitchen table. She set about making coffee, silent and angry. Roger made sure Rafa wasn't about to topple off his chair and went to help her.
“I'm sorry. One cup of coffee and I'll put him in a taxi and send him off.”
“It's the right thing to do,” she replied in a clipped tone.
“But you wish he'd leave now.”
Mirka glanced over her shoulder at their guest who was leaning heavily on both elbows on the tabletop.
“One coffee and then he leaves.”
“Thank you.”
Their eyes met and Roger swore he saw something there that looked like she might be relenting a little. She started the coffeemaker and went to the refrigerator, bringing out bread and meat for sandwiches.
“He needs to eat, too.”
Roger hid his look of relief by turning away. He fetched a bottle of water and took it to Rafa, placing it in front of him. “Drink this. You'll need it. Mirka is making you something to eat.”
“Gracias,” Rafa said quietly, offering a tentative smile.
Mirka stared at him and then turned her back on him as she continued to make sandwiches. She took them to the table, plunking the plate down. “Roast beef. No ham and no cheese.”
Roger saw Rafa get a peculiar look on his face. “Are you okay, Raf?”
Big brown eyes met his gaze with a pained look. He shook his head. Roger said, “The bathroom is just off the foyer.”
Rafa took off at a run, while Roger and Mirka watched him go. They heard the door to the main floor bathroom slam shut and the faint sounds of retching reached their ears. They looked at one another. Mirka was fighting a smile. It wasn't malicious but she was obviously amused by Rafa's condition.
Roger felt the corners of his mouth turn up and he covered his mouth with his hand. Pretty soon they were both laughing hard enough that tears fell from their eyes.
“Is a joke?” Rafa asked plaintively from the doorway, looking decidedly wrung out.
Roger went to him and took his arm, leading him back to the table. “Feeling better?”
“Ughh.”
“Can't hold your drink, Rafa?” Mirka sniped at him.
“I am poor drinker. I know it and do it anyway.”
“Why did you overdo it tonight, Rafa?” Roger asked. “You never drink before you're out of a tournament or you win the final.”
“I screw up. So sorry, Mirka.” Then he shot Roger a worried look.
“It's okay. I told her. She knows about us.”
“It's not okay!” Mirka snapped. She glared at the two of them.
Dismay destroying the hope he had held about maybe fixing this mess, Roger felt a little despairing right then.
“That's not what I meant.”
“It's not okay that you slept with him!” Mirka was beginning to sound shrewish and that was so not like her. Roger knew he had hurt her, but now he had a sense of just how deeply that hurt went. He wondered if he could ever make things right between them again.
“Mirka...”
“I think you should leave.”
“I go now,” Rafa said pushing himself to his feet and swaying slightly. Roger caught him by the arm to steady him.
“I meant Roger but, yes, you should go too.”
Roger was shocked. “You - you want me to leave? I don't understand.”
“I'm still mad at you,” Mirka said.
“I get that, but...”
“God, I don't know who I am anymore,” Mirka said covering her face with her hands.
“Oh, honey. I'm so sorry.”
“No, it's not that. The way I reacted. I'm so afraid of losing you.”
“You won't lose me. I love you.”
Rafa said, “Is my fault. I was nervous about coming here this day - tonight. I drank too much first. I needed to talk to you both.”
“Is your conscience bothering you, Rafa?” Mirka asked and then looked disgusted with herself. She turned and ran out of the room.
Roger caught up with her just before she got to the stairs. He stopped her by grabbing her left hand. She slowed and then stopped, dropping to sit on the bottom step.
Without looking at Roger she said, “Such drama. This is not us, Roger.”
He sat carefully next to her, afraid to spook her. “No. It's nothing like us.”
“We're Swiss. We're not supposed to be so emotional.”
Roger laughed quietly. “Really? Who told you that?”
Finally glancing at him Mirka smiled. “Well, besides you, we're not supposed to be emotional.”
“Ouch,” he said but he grinned when he spoke.
Mirka laughed too.
“Sweetheart, I'm so sorry I'm putting us through this, but I can't undo what's been done.”
“Do you want to?” At his puzzled look she said, “Would you not sleep with Rafa if you could go back and change it?”
“Yes. If it meant fixing us, making everything better. The way it was. Then, yes, I would go back and change it.”
“But you wouldn't want to. You would still want to sleep with him.”
“We didn't actually sleep together,” he said, then gave himself a mental kick for being so picky. “But, yes, I want him even now. I wouldn't do it because it would endanger our marriage.”
She gave him a funny look, one he couldn't interpret. Then she stood up and walked back into the kitchen. Rafa paused in the middle of taking a bite of a sandwich, his eyebrows doing that funny dance that they did. He put the sandwich down and chewed until he could swallow. Mirka just stood and stared at him. Rafa shot Roger a look as if to ask for help. Roger shrugged. He didn't know what she was going to do, either.
“I didn't know you're gay, Rafa.”
“Um,” he looked at Roger again. “Not really. I mean, sort of. I love Roger, that's all.”
“That's all,” Mirka repeated without inflection.
“Yes.”
When she continued to stare at him he said, “I love him since I was teenager.”
“Are you sure you're not mistaking a crush on your idol for love?”
“That's what Toni say.”
“Toni knows?” Mirka asked glancing in Roger's direction.
“He know I'm attracted to Roger. He doesn't like it.”
“That explains so much,” Roger said drily, thinking of Toni Nadal's recent remarks to the press.
Rafa continued, “He wants me to want to defeat you not...you know.” He flushed in embarrassment.
An awkward silence befell the room, as no doubt they all completed that sentence.
Roger cleared his throat. “How do I fix this? Mirka? What do you want me to do?”
“I want Rafa to not exist. I want you to never have had sex with him. I want him to never have beaten you in so many tournaments.”
Rafa had flinched visibly at her first words. By the time she was done speaking he nodded as if in agreement. Roger thought about how Rafa always apologized when he defeated him in a match. He did the same to Ferrer and Monaco and possibly others. He always sounded sincere. He couldn't help being a great player.
“I -- “
“Do not apologize! I don't actually want you to not exist, Rafa. You're just so...frustrating sometimes. I want my husband to have a better head to head against you. I want...I wish, oh, I don't know what I want!”
Rafa stood up and shuffled closer to her. He reached out slowly and touched her arm to get her attention. “I not want to hurt you, Mirka, or Roger. I love him. I cannot help it. How I feel. I can leave here but my feelings...I will still love him and look at him with love. And when we play match I will still do my best to beat him. I not always win, only most of the time. My body is breaking down. Roger is still fit. He is still best in history. Even if I or Nole break his records, well, some of them,” he shot Roger an apologetic smile. “Roger will always be best.”
“Jesus. You really do believe that, don't you?” Mirka looked at him in wonder.
“Yes?” Rafa seemed puzzled by that remark but Roger knew what she meant. So many people questioned Rafa's honesty when he said that, especially right after beating him. Roger knew him well enough that he always believed him. It was flattering in a weird sort of way, but he was used to it by now.
“I've always thought you were just ass-kissing.”
“Not ass-kissing or ass-picking,” Rafa said with a perfectly straight face, but his eyes sparkled with merriment.
“You mean you know you do that?” Mirka's voice went up a half octave.
Rafa shrugged. “Can't stop.”
“Oh, honey. You could go to therapy.”
“When?” Unless he hired a therapist who was willing to travel the tour it would be impossible to keep to any kind of schedule for that kind of care.
“You could have gone when you were home in Manacor.”
Rafa simply shrugged again. Some things just weren't going to change. Yet somewhere in this off-kilter conversation Mirka had gone from outright hatred of Rafa to calling him “honey” and offering advice.
They both were silent and stood regarding each other as if trying to determine which way the other was going to jump.
Finally Rafa said, “I'm just...sorry.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket and started scrolling through his contact list. “I call someone to pick me up.”
It was on the tip of Roger's tongue to offer to drive him back to Ellison's, but he stopped himself in time. “I can call you a taxi.”
“Is okay. Ferru will come get me.” He tapped a number and waited for it to be picked up. He turned away briefly speaking in Spanish. “Gracias.”
“He'll be here in about twenty minutes. I wait outside.”
“You'll sit down and finish your sandwich.” Mirka directed him back to the table. Then she shot Roger a look, which he interpreted to mean he should sit as well. So he did and helped himself to a sandwich. Then Mirka joined them and poured coffee for all of them. Rafa only sipped at his. He still had to get some sleep. He seemed sober now anyway.
They ate in silence but the tension seemed to be gone.
When the doorbell rang Roger went to the door. David Ferrer stood on the other side. He reached for him and gave him a strong one-armed hug. David squeezed back albeit gently, perhaps mindful of Roger's back.
“Hola, David.”
“Roger. Where Rafa?”
“Come on in for a minute.”
Ferrer followed him to the kitchen. He and Rafa greeted each other before David took Mirka's hand and kissed the back of it, grinning at her. She smiled at him. Ferrer could be a little on the shy side with the wives of the players, but he was always charming. Mirka liked him. She offered him coffee but he thanked her with a shake of his shaggy head.
Rafa put a hand on Ferrer's shoulder and turned him toward the foyer. Roger and Mirka followed. There was a flurry of Spanish during which Roger caught his name and something about love. He glanced at his wife, but if she understood any of it she wasn't reacting. He watched David's face but saw no surprise there. His assumption at Court 7 was right. Ferrer did know more than he had let on.
Just then he turned and smiled at Roger. He made a query of Rafa who nodded somewhat reluctantly.
“Please forgive if I, uh, say wrong. Roger, Mirka. You love each other.” He waited, so they both nodded. Roger wondered where he was going with this. “Rafa love Roger, si?”
Rafa nodded with a jerk of his head.
“Roger, you love Rafa?”
“I do.” This almost felt like a marriage ceremony.
“Why not share?”
# end (to be continued, actually)