blue blue sky
title blue blue sky
rating pg
pairing none, really. hints at andy roddick/roger federer
word count 383
summary a look at winter through the eyes of andy roddick.
notes so i was thinking about texas this morning, because it's snowing in new york, and texas is my home in so many ways, and then this kind of happened. also, the ending bears no relation to my opinion of andy roddick, it just seemed to fit with the rest of the drabble.
Winter in Texas is not like winter in Australia. Winter in Texas is strangely beautiful, with the blue blue sky and the slanting rain every few days that casts a gray blanket over everything. Andy loves winter in Texas, with the sun peeking through the clouds and the slight chill to the air that makes him want to spend ages curled up on the sofa watching old movies. He loves the way folks bundle up if the mercury dips below 50, and he loves the way the rain can change from lashing violently against the windows to gently pattering on the roof in a matter of seconds.
But here in Australia, winter is summer and it is hot, hot in a different way than summer in Texas. It is hot in a way that makes him sweat even insides and it is hot in a way that makes him feel like the sky is pressing down on him, fixing him to the tennis court. Andy wipes sweat out of his eyes and looks up for a moment at the blue blue sky, the same sky that is his in Texas, only this sky isn’t as expansive, for all that it should be. He twirls his racquet in his hands and the grip is slick with sweat. He can’t feel his fingers, and he isn’t sure if that’s a by-product of the heat, some rebellion his body has against this lack of winter, or if it’s something to do with his shoulder, but he knows it isn’t good.
He loses the match, and he crumples a little bit at the net. His hand is still numb and the sun is still beating down on him and all he wants is to go back to Texas and hear the rain against the windows and curl up on the couch to cheer Roger on in the final, because if he can’t win this thing, Rog damn well better.
In the locker room, Andy looks at himself in the mirror for too long, taking in the tan lines that are the product of chasing summer around the world, and he rubs at the back of his neck, wondering why he fought so hard to come back to this when all he wants now is to go home.
rating pg
pairing none, really. hints at andy roddick/roger federer
word count 383
summary a look at winter through the eyes of andy roddick.
notes so i was thinking about texas this morning, because it's snowing in new york, and texas is my home in so many ways, and then this kind of happened. also, the ending bears no relation to my opinion of andy roddick, it just seemed to fit with the rest of the drabble.
Winter in Texas is not like winter in Australia. Winter in Texas is strangely beautiful, with the blue blue sky and the slanting rain every few days that casts a gray blanket over everything. Andy loves winter in Texas, with the sun peeking through the clouds and the slight chill to the air that makes him want to spend ages curled up on the sofa watching old movies. He loves the way folks bundle up if the mercury dips below 50, and he loves the way the rain can change from lashing violently against the windows to gently pattering on the roof in a matter of seconds.
But here in Australia, winter is summer and it is hot, hot in a different way than summer in Texas. It is hot in a way that makes him sweat even insides and it is hot in a way that makes him feel like the sky is pressing down on him, fixing him to the tennis court. Andy wipes sweat out of his eyes and looks up for a moment at the blue blue sky, the same sky that is his in Texas, only this sky isn’t as expansive, for all that it should be. He twirls his racquet in his hands and the grip is slick with sweat. He can’t feel his fingers, and he isn’t sure if that’s a by-product of the heat, some rebellion his body has against this lack of winter, or if it’s something to do with his shoulder, but he knows it isn’t good.
He loses the match, and he crumples a little bit at the net. His hand is still numb and the sun is still beating down on him and all he wants is to go back to Texas and hear the rain against the windows and curl up on the couch to cheer Roger on in the final, because if he can’t win this thing, Rog damn well better.
In the locker room, Andy looks at himself in the mirror for too long, taking in the tan lines that are the product of chasing summer around the world, and he rubs at the back of his neck, wondering why he fought so hard to come back to this when all he wants now is to go home.