[Tennis] Figure It Out
Title: Figure it Out
Pairing: Marcel Granollers/Marc López (implied past, adulterous Marcel Granollers/Tommy Robredo)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Created in a world of pure imagination: no money changed hands, no actuality implied, no offence intended.
A/N: Third in the Tangled series, and an attempt to start putting them back together. ~2K
Gstaad was full of memories. It had always been one of Marcel's favourite tournaments, and the last three years had been inextricably entwined with Marc.
2010 had been the first, tentative steps towards their relationship. They'd been good friends for as long as Marcel could remember, Marc had always been there, but that day Marcel had seen him differently. He'd been the victim of a prank from Chiudinelli and Youzhny (he still had no idea why, other than they'd got it into their heads that he was somehow responsible for the persistent rain) which involved handcuffs, an ice-cold shower and none of his clothes. He had been utterly freezing when Marc had found him. Marc had made his feelings on the prank perfectly clear as he had rescued Marcel and taken him back to his room to thaw out. His fierce, continuous muttering had been absurdly touching, and Marcel had felt the first tendrils of interest towards this sweet, determined man who had made him hot cocoa and wrapped him in blankets (and himself) until he could feel his feet again.
By 2011 they'd been dating for seven months, and Marcel had thought he couldn't be happier. Marc's surprise attack under the mistletoe at Felicano and Fernando's Christmas party had been the trigger that flipped them from 'just good friends' into something a lot more; another example of his determination which made Marcel smile warmly whenever he thought of it. That year, the Gstaad final had been on Marc's birthday, and Marcel been thrilled to be able to give Marc the present of the singles trophy. The excitement helped him forget his nerves about introducing Marc to his parents as his partner, but dinner had gone surprisingly well. Marc's pride and gratitude had been evident in the reward he'd given Marcel that night when they got back; Marcel had wondered if it could get any better.
But it could: last year had been the best of the lot. Instead of winning for Marc, he'd won with Marc, and that was the most amazing feeling in the world. Afterwards, in between chasing each other around their hotel room wearing their cowbell trophies, giddy on champagne, success and each other, Marc had suggested they buy a house together; Marcel had thought his face might split in half from grinning so hard. Moving in together meant that Marc was really serious: he wasn't just killing time until he found someone better, and the feeling of knowing that someone felt that way about him was incredible. Although not quite as incredible as moving into their new home in Castelldefels; walking around from room to room and knowing it was theirs.
But now Marc was in their home alone, and Marcel was here in Gstaad. He'd always known it would be hard for this year to live up to the past three, but he'd never thought it would fail to live up to them quite this spectacularly.
Halfway through the mini-tennis session for which Fernando had signed him up with the misguided notion that it would help take his mind off things he decided to bite the bullet. Narrowly avoiding hitting small children in the face more by luck than judgement, his thoughts thousands of miles away, he made up his mind. Enough was enough. It was time to sort this out.
No more being passive and just accepting what came his way. The mess he was in wasn't going to fix itself, was up to him to deal with it. It was time he stopped being a coward and fought to make it right. Fought for Marc.
He just needed to figure out how.
It was Marc's birthday the following week: that would be the perfect time to do it. The trouble was, it would need to be something truly spectacular to prove to Marc how sorry he was. And he'd never been much good at spectacular.
He'd been wracking his brains unsuccessfully for an hour when Feli nagged him into keeping him company as he sunbathed. Marcel could think of at least fifteen other things he rather do (top of the list being 'mope in my room with the blinds closed'), but the words 'no thank you' clearly weren't in Feli's vocabulary: he had, quite literally, dragged Marcel out onto a sun lounger and threatened to tie him to it with his own socks if he moved.
In return, Marcel decided to get input from Feli regarding his dilemma. Obviously, he was careful not to give away why he wanted to do something special for Marc's birthday-Feli had already been sniffing round nosily about why Marc wasn't there-but as Feli was always making extravagant gestures towards Fernando, he might be helpful.
He was no help at all: his suggestions mostly revolved around spending copious quantities of money (which Marcel didn't have) on ostentatious, profligate gifts (which Marc wouldn't want). Having had his suggestions of a Lamborghini, a Rolex, and a holiday home in the Maldives ('which, obviously, your friends could use from time to time!') politely declined, Feli retreated into sulky silence and Marcel was left where he started: with no clue whatsoever.
Marcel knew, deep down, that gifts weren't the answer; Marc was the least materialistic person Marcel had ever known. He still rode his old, battered scooter, no matter how many times his mama told him to buy a car; he was happy without a clothing sponsor, wearing Rafa's extra gear; he didn't even wear a watch. Giving him a present-however expensive-would be empty and meaningless.
So it would have to be a grand gesture, instead. Something to really prove to Marc how desperately sorry he was, and how much he wanted to make it all right.
The trouble was that Marcel wasn't any good at extravagant gestures, either. They always went, well… wrong.
But this time it couldn't. This time he had to make it work. And he thought he might finally have an idea how he could make it special.
Tiptoeing past a now gently snoring Feli, Marcel went back inside and booted up his laptop. He hoped his browser history went back far enough-it was, what, Australia last year when Marc showed him his bucket list? Marcel smiled at the memory of how Marc had blushed as he admitted to having an account at bucketlist.org, and how excited he'd been when they'd ticked 'Ride in a hot air balloon' from 'To Do' to 'Done'. Cursing softly at his lapse in concentration, he scrolled back carefully, peering closely at his screen, determined not to miss it-there! There it was. The list of things Marc most wanted to do. Surely there had to be something on there that Marcel could give him?
Three hours, several phone calls (including one to Rafa-having a world-famous friend had its advantages), and a sum of money on his credit card (the precise digits of which he'd prefer not to think about) later, and Marcel was ready.
Well, physically and practically ready. He wasn't sure there was time in the world for him to be mentally ready.
He actually threw up on the flight home. He wasn't sure if it was nerves or the fact that he'd forgotten to take his travel sickness tablets in all the whirl of activity, but suspected it was probably a bit of both. He honestly couldn't remember being this scared in his whole life.
All the way through baggage reclaim at El Prat, all the way through the taxi journey, he practised what he was going to say (much to the amusement of the other travellers and the taxi driver but by now he was past caring).
The second he walked through the door it was all forgotten. Marc was curled up in his favourite spot on the sofa, catching the late afternoon sun as he read, and Marcel's meticulously rehearsed speech vanished.
He opened his mouth to start it three times but the words had run away, taking every ounce of his courage with them. In the end, all he could manage was a whispered 'Marc, I'm so sorry,' before he sat down with a thump on the other sofa, his legs shaking so hard they wouldn't hold him up any longer.
Marc didn't torture him by asking what for, by making him spell it out-or even asking him why-and for that Marcel was ridiculously grateful. He knew, however, that it wouldn't be that easy. Marc looked coolly at Marcel, eyebrow raised in enquiry, waiting for Marcel to say more. Marcel looked back helplessly, his carefully planned words were still nowhere to be found. In the end he just repeated, over and over again, how sorry he was, how stupid he'd been, how much he regretted it, how scared he was that he'd ruined everything; words tumbling out of his mouth with decreasing coherency until Marc held up a hand and Marcel fell silent.
Then it was Marc's turn to speak, and Marcel's turn to listen. It wasn't so much the cheating itself, Marc told him hollowly, but the fact that it was with Tommy. When Marcel knew how insecure Marc felt about Tommy, when they'd fought about it so badly only a few months ago. Marcel forced himself to listen, the raw pain in Marc's voice lacerating deeper than the words themselves. He'd done this, he thought to himself; he was responsible for the bitterness and hurt and mistrust spilling out of Marc in such an unquenchable torrent. Suddenly his efforts to fix things seemed risible: what if the damage he'd done was too great to ever be repaired?
A sob escaped him at the thought, and Marcel clapped his hand over his mouth to smother it. Marc paused and looked across at him, concern flaring briefly in eyes that were red-rimmed, and Marcel stared back imploringly, willing Marc to see into his brain, see how sorry he was, see the words he couldn't find. They looked at each other in silence for a moment but then, with a shaky laugh, Marc looked away and continued talking. Marcel gripped the edge of the sofa, his knuckles turning white with the effort to make himself sit still, fighting the urge to go to Marc and wrap his whole self around him (kiss him, kiss him, kiss him, tell him how much he loved him); Marc's barriers were clear, Marcel knew this would take time.
They talked until they were exhausted and heartsore from talking. Marcel knew the mess he'd made couldn't be fixed overnight-Marc was too wary and mistrustful for a simple 'sorry' to make everything OK-but the more they talked the more Marcel knew this was all he wanted. He found the words coming back to him as he explained this to Marc: that he was prepared to wait as long as it took, provided Marc would give him the chance to make it right. Nervously, he shared the plans he'd made-the flights to Paris, Versailles, Gordon Ramsay, the Louvre tour-worried that they were too much, that they weren't enough; the look on Marc's face when he realised Marcel's plans involved him completing not one but three things on his bucket list filled Marcel with hope.
They slept in one of the guest rooms that night. In separate beds, but in the same room. Falling asleep to the familiar sound of Marc's breathing, Marcel thought it was a start.
He hoped the next few days would bring the right ending.
FIN
Notes:
Marcel really did get roped into sunbathing with Feli.
bucketlist.org is real. Marc's bucket list isn't.
Pairing: Marcel Granollers/Marc López (implied past, adulterous Marcel Granollers/Tommy Robredo)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Created in a world of pure imagination: no money changed hands, no actuality implied, no offence intended.
A/N: Third in the Tangled series, and an attempt to start putting them back together. ~2K
Gstaad was full of memories. It had always been one of Marcel's favourite tournaments, and the last three years had been inextricably entwined with Marc.
2010 had been the first, tentative steps towards their relationship. They'd been good friends for as long as Marcel could remember, Marc had always been there, but that day Marcel had seen him differently. He'd been the victim of a prank from Chiudinelli and Youzhny (he still had no idea why, other than they'd got it into their heads that he was somehow responsible for the persistent rain) which involved handcuffs, an ice-cold shower and none of his clothes. He had been utterly freezing when Marc had found him. Marc had made his feelings on the prank perfectly clear as he had rescued Marcel and taken him back to his room to thaw out. His fierce, continuous muttering had been absurdly touching, and Marcel had felt the first tendrils of interest towards this sweet, determined man who had made him hot cocoa and wrapped him in blankets (and himself) until he could feel his feet again.
By 2011 they'd been dating for seven months, and Marcel had thought he couldn't be happier. Marc's surprise attack under the mistletoe at Felicano and Fernando's Christmas party had been the trigger that flipped them from 'just good friends' into something a lot more; another example of his determination which made Marcel smile warmly whenever he thought of it. That year, the Gstaad final had been on Marc's birthday, and Marcel been thrilled to be able to give Marc the present of the singles trophy. The excitement helped him forget his nerves about introducing Marc to his parents as his partner, but dinner had gone surprisingly well. Marc's pride and gratitude had been evident in the reward he'd given Marcel that night when they got back; Marcel had wondered if it could get any better.
But it could: last year had been the best of the lot. Instead of winning for Marc, he'd won with Marc, and that was the most amazing feeling in the world. Afterwards, in between chasing each other around their hotel room wearing their cowbell trophies, giddy on champagne, success and each other, Marc had suggested they buy a house together; Marcel had thought his face might split in half from grinning so hard. Moving in together meant that Marc was really serious: he wasn't just killing time until he found someone better, and the feeling of knowing that someone felt that way about him was incredible. Although not quite as incredible as moving into their new home in Castelldefels; walking around from room to room and knowing it was theirs.
But now Marc was in their home alone, and Marcel was here in Gstaad. He'd always known it would be hard for this year to live up to the past three, but he'd never thought it would fail to live up to them quite this spectacularly.
Halfway through the mini-tennis session for which Fernando had signed him up with the misguided notion that it would help take his mind off things he decided to bite the bullet. Narrowly avoiding hitting small children in the face more by luck than judgement, his thoughts thousands of miles away, he made up his mind. Enough was enough. It was time to sort this out.
No more being passive and just accepting what came his way. The mess he was in wasn't going to fix itself, was up to him to deal with it. It was time he stopped being a coward and fought to make it right. Fought for Marc.
He just needed to figure out how.
It was Marc's birthday the following week: that would be the perfect time to do it. The trouble was, it would need to be something truly spectacular to prove to Marc how sorry he was. And he'd never been much good at spectacular.
He'd been wracking his brains unsuccessfully for an hour when Feli nagged him into keeping him company as he sunbathed. Marcel could think of at least fifteen other things he rather do (top of the list being 'mope in my room with the blinds closed'), but the words 'no thank you' clearly weren't in Feli's vocabulary: he had, quite literally, dragged Marcel out onto a sun lounger and threatened to tie him to it with his own socks if he moved.
In return, Marcel decided to get input from Feli regarding his dilemma. Obviously, he was careful not to give away why he wanted to do something special for Marc's birthday-Feli had already been sniffing round nosily about why Marc wasn't there-but as Feli was always making extravagant gestures towards Fernando, he might be helpful.
He was no help at all: his suggestions mostly revolved around spending copious quantities of money (which Marcel didn't have) on ostentatious, profligate gifts (which Marc wouldn't want). Having had his suggestions of a Lamborghini, a Rolex, and a holiday home in the Maldives ('which, obviously, your friends could use from time to time!') politely declined, Feli retreated into sulky silence and Marcel was left where he started: with no clue whatsoever.
Marcel knew, deep down, that gifts weren't the answer; Marc was the least materialistic person Marcel had ever known. He still rode his old, battered scooter, no matter how many times his mama told him to buy a car; he was happy without a clothing sponsor, wearing Rafa's extra gear; he didn't even wear a watch. Giving him a present-however expensive-would be empty and meaningless.
So it would have to be a grand gesture, instead. Something to really prove to Marc how desperately sorry he was, and how much he wanted to make it all right.
The trouble was that Marcel wasn't any good at extravagant gestures, either. They always went, well… wrong.
But this time it couldn't. This time he had to make it work. And he thought he might finally have an idea how he could make it special.
Tiptoeing past a now gently snoring Feli, Marcel went back inside and booted up his laptop. He hoped his browser history went back far enough-it was, what, Australia last year when Marc showed him his bucket list? Marcel smiled at the memory of how Marc had blushed as he admitted to having an account at bucketlist.org, and how excited he'd been when they'd ticked 'Ride in a hot air balloon' from 'To Do' to 'Done'. Cursing softly at his lapse in concentration, he scrolled back carefully, peering closely at his screen, determined not to miss it-there! There it was. The list of things Marc most wanted to do. Surely there had to be something on there that Marcel could give him?
Three hours, several phone calls (including one to Rafa-having a world-famous friend had its advantages), and a sum of money on his credit card (the precise digits of which he'd prefer not to think about) later, and Marcel was ready.
Well, physically and practically ready. He wasn't sure there was time in the world for him to be mentally ready.
He actually threw up on the flight home. He wasn't sure if it was nerves or the fact that he'd forgotten to take his travel sickness tablets in all the whirl of activity, but suspected it was probably a bit of both. He honestly couldn't remember being this scared in his whole life.
All the way through baggage reclaim at El Prat, all the way through the taxi journey, he practised what he was going to say (much to the amusement of the other travellers and the taxi driver but by now he was past caring).
The second he walked through the door it was all forgotten. Marc was curled up in his favourite spot on the sofa, catching the late afternoon sun as he read, and Marcel's meticulously rehearsed speech vanished.
He opened his mouth to start it three times but the words had run away, taking every ounce of his courage with them. In the end, all he could manage was a whispered 'Marc, I'm so sorry,' before he sat down with a thump on the other sofa, his legs shaking so hard they wouldn't hold him up any longer.
Marc didn't torture him by asking what for, by making him spell it out-or even asking him why-and for that Marcel was ridiculously grateful. He knew, however, that it wouldn't be that easy. Marc looked coolly at Marcel, eyebrow raised in enquiry, waiting for Marcel to say more. Marcel looked back helplessly, his carefully planned words were still nowhere to be found. In the end he just repeated, over and over again, how sorry he was, how stupid he'd been, how much he regretted it, how scared he was that he'd ruined everything; words tumbling out of his mouth with decreasing coherency until Marc held up a hand and Marcel fell silent.
Then it was Marc's turn to speak, and Marcel's turn to listen. It wasn't so much the cheating itself, Marc told him hollowly, but the fact that it was with Tommy. When Marcel knew how insecure Marc felt about Tommy, when they'd fought about it so badly only a few months ago. Marcel forced himself to listen, the raw pain in Marc's voice lacerating deeper than the words themselves. He'd done this, he thought to himself; he was responsible for the bitterness and hurt and mistrust spilling out of Marc in such an unquenchable torrent. Suddenly his efforts to fix things seemed risible: what if the damage he'd done was too great to ever be repaired?
A sob escaped him at the thought, and Marcel clapped his hand over his mouth to smother it. Marc paused and looked across at him, concern flaring briefly in eyes that were red-rimmed, and Marcel stared back imploringly, willing Marc to see into his brain, see how sorry he was, see the words he couldn't find. They looked at each other in silence for a moment but then, with a shaky laugh, Marc looked away and continued talking. Marcel gripped the edge of the sofa, his knuckles turning white with the effort to make himself sit still, fighting the urge to go to Marc and wrap his whole self around him (kiss him, kiss him, kiss him, tell him how much he loved him); Marc's barriers were clear, Marcel knew this would take time.
They talked until they were exhausted and heartsore from talking. Marcel knew the mess he'd made couldn't be fixed overnight-Marc was too wary and mistrustful for a simple 'sorry' to make everything OK-but the more they talked the more Marcel knew this was all he wanted. He found the words coming back to him as he explained this to Marc: that he was prepared to wait as long as it took, provided Marc would give him the chance to make it right. Nervously, he shared the plans he'd made-the flights to Paris, Versailles, Gordon Ramsay, the Louvre tour-worried that they were too much, that they weren't enough; the look on Marc's face when he realised Marcel's plans involved him completing not one but three things on his bucket list filled Marcel with hope.
They slept in one of the guest rooms that night. In separate beds, but in the same room. Falling asleep to the familiar sound of Marc's breathing, Marcel thought it was a start.
He hoped the next few days would bring the right ending.
FIN
Notes:
Marcel really did get roped into sunbathing with Feli.
bucketlist.org is real. Marc's bucket list isn't.