(no subject)
Title: Whenever One of Us Wins a Slam
Characters: Rafael Nadal/Andy Murray, Rafael Nadal/Roger Federer
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Work of fiction. Never really happened.
Summary: Sequel to Whenever We Both Lose. Rafa's second time with Andy.
Author's Notes: Takes place tomorrow(actually tonight in Shanghai).
Our liaisons are usually determined by tournament results, but with people always leaving, it can sometimes be a few weeks before they happen, and once again, I’ve had to wait longer than usual for Andy Murray. “Whenever one of us wins a slam,” I offered to him in the locker room at Wimbledon, just after beating him, and though I knew he wanted me, I was surprised by how eagerly he agreed. That time I had to wait until August. Now I’ve had to wait until October. Excepting my wining at the French, this may become a regular thing for us. Still, it’s good to enjoy these things before the tournament you’re at interferes.
It was with the memory of his skin still clinging to my hands that I came to you in Cincinnati, since we’d both lost in Canada. It was gratifying then, to talk as we did, with a level of honesty new to us, even if I still can’t tell you my most painful truth. Though may noone ever know how blackly I was tempted when you confessed you were worried about the state of your marriage. But you said so yourself; this stage of parenthood often strains a relationship. If I know you two, you’ll survive it. And I’ll be left feeling guilty that I ever dared entertain, even for a fleeting moment, that little thought...
And even if you weren’t entirely nice in what you said to me, about my possibly winning the US Open that year, “It wouldn’t be the same for you, you know, in that you wouldn’t have to wait and suffer for it the way I did, and that if you do this now, you’ll never understand what that’s like. Maybe a little bit, from Wimbledon 2007, but that’s still only one year, you know.”
“It isn’t easy for me,” I protested then, angered by you in a way I very rarely am.
“Of course not, I know that. But it’s not the same as time. And I’ll have to be jealous, you know, that you would be spared that.”
We haven’t talked since I did indeed win the US Open, on what in a way does feel like my first try, though Uncle Toni calls it my third, or occasionally my fourth, depending on what mood he’s in. I understand what you were saying, and whether or not you have the right to be resentful...well, sometimes we can’t help it, can we?
But it’s something I have to think about right now, as I head for the room of a man whose agony I definitely can never grasp. Nor can you, though.
I have to go to him; he won’t come to me. I was advised of that as soon as word got around about our agreement at Wimbledon. And I’d heard the stories already; everyone’s heard them. British tennis has its own traditions, and Andy should’ve been deflowered by Tim Henman; whoever thinks himself or herself the next top British player is supposed to approach his or her predecessor about that; it’s a far older practice than anything else done on the Tour. But they say Andy couldn’t bring himself to make the first move, not even when it was so greatly demanded of him, of course Henman wouldn’t pressure him, and someone finally had to lock the two of them in a hotel room together, after he’d probably already lost his virginity to his girlfriend, though of course that might have taken time too.
That’s translated to him being like you, in that he doesn’t have many liaisons. Would he have gotten you, had he been able to do more than pull your pigtails? Probably not, though, and I think he’s lost interest now anyway.
I think his focus has changed targets.
He’s nervous answering the door. I mutter something nondescript, casually step in and click it shut behind me. I feel better having done this, knowing already when he’ll finally respond.
But it’s awkward, as we stand there. It’s never like this with you, where we always find words for each other, or with Nole, or with my countrymen, my teammates, where it’s even easier. I never knew what to say to Marat, but he always dragged me to the bed quickly enough to skip this part.
“D’you want something to drink?” he finally manages. I can almost hear his heart hammering over it.
“A coke, please.” I remember in Cincinnati the two of us drank. Much of the mini-bar, by the time the night was over. You were probably drunk when you made your speech to me, though not obviously so. But even if Andy was willing, I wouldn’t want to do that with him. I’m afraid of what I would tell him, and even more of what he would tell me.
He takes one too, and we drink in silence. I watch his throat swallow; he gulps it, and I can see sweat. I don’t even know what it is about him that makes it so easy for me to want him.
When our glasses are empty, I look into those grey eyes and hold them. He must see the concern in mine, but he quails back. “You are better from your cold?” I ask, because he seems that, at least.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“Don’t what? Do you not want to do this?”
“No! I mean, I want to.” The blood fills his face, and he can’t look at me anymore.
I put my hand to his flushed cheek. “Hard week?” I ask. No response. “Hard year.” He nods, though barely. I’m the wrong person to be here. “Do you wish I was someone else?” A hasty shake of his head. A nod would have been a relief.
I want to run my lips along that tense jaw, so I do. I feel those muscles relax, but when I move my hand to his shoulders they’re taut. I stroke, and he makes a strange, half-frightened sound.
“Shhh,” I whisper, and embrace him. He goes partially limp; he’ll be that way for the first part of tonight. But not entirely; I feel his fingers grip my shirt, knuckles pressing hard into my chest; the telltale signs of a man who doesn’t want to admit how badly he wants to be held.
Back in Canada, when I laid him out on the bed and he spread his legs, all too eager to please, my first thought was that he was the exact opposite of you. You dominate when he submits, take when he gives, tear my clothes off and tell me exactly what you want to do to me when he hesitates with his hands, waits for me to take hold of them and bring them to where I want them. But I’ve never slept with anyone so needy. Verbal pleas from him became physical gestures when I was in him, lifting his head up to demand kisses, gripping me so tightly I have to nudge his hands away from where any bruises would be visible, pushing back against me as if he was starved for it. He begged and cried and chanted my name until he was shouting it. And afterwards he clung to me tightly and burrowed into my body, and made wild protesting noises when I tried to disengage. The truth is, he demands just as much as you do. He just does so with less certainty that he ought to get it.
I want to give him everything. Like you, he brings that out of me. I run my hands down his back and press us closer, until there’s no way he can’t feel my erection. By my ear I hear his breathing grow very quick. His body is mass of tension, all but pulsing in its need for relief. I want to free him. At least for tonight; any more than that is beyond my ability.
“Just relax,” I murmur to him as I steer us towards the bedroom, in Spanish, and I don’t know if he's any good with it these days, but he moves his head closer to listen to me. “Let me take care of you tonight, let me make you feel good.” Into a messy bedroom and we have to step over a pile of tennis rackets to reach the bed. Down he goes, just like last time, legs spread, arms spread, lips parted and neck bared, offering himself up to me. My mouth waters. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” I hiss into his mouth before claiming it.
It’s just as I anticipated it, just as it’s been in my head every time I’ve jerked off between the US Open and tonight; I even managed to stop thinking about you for a while, for the first time in close to two years. He gasps when I pull his shirt off, lies limp and moaning as I tease his chest until he can’t take it anymore and seizes my head. I try to suck him off but he doesn’t have the patience, grabbing me and pulling me up and grinding against my cock. When my shirt comes off, his hands stumble across my chest; I offer my neck to his mouth and he bites, teeth grazing my skin. I plunge my tongue in and out of his mouth until he’s frantic, nearly kicking me off of him as his legs flail, then hastily pulling me close again, hands on my ass shoving at my pants, which I unbutton, trying to worm his chest against mine; long before last time was over I was able to figure out he wants the physical contact as much as the sex.
So I don’t try to break out of the mold our bodies are forming against each other, instead just yanking his shorts down far enough and curling my hand around his cock. Now at last desire has spurred him to action completely; a moment later his hand finds my cock. I moan at the feel of it, and at the sigh of “Rafa...” the accompanies kisses down my neck. I crook my head down for another kiss, then push my body back against his and thrust into his hand.
He chants my name in between kisses and cries of “Oh God, please” as we stroke and shove and I press him down into the bed, his body mine to do what I want to with my hand and mouth. I want to fuck him, but not as much as I don’t want to break contact. I watch his face as he approaches the breaking point, his mouth open wide, and when his eyes flutter open for a moment, they look at me with as if I were a god; it’ll frighten me when I think about it later but now I just growl and thrust harder, squeeze his cock and it shoots his hot release between our tangled bodies. I thrust twice more against his trembling body and my world explodes; I hear him groan along with me as the pleasure overwhelms me, sending me shuddering against him.
He’s gone limp again; it’ll only last a second but it’s enough time for me to pull away with a “We need to clean up.” I think he wants to protest anyway, but he lets me go.
By the time I come back from the bathroom he’s pulled himself together, at least partly, sitting on the bed and staring down at the blankets. He accepts a towel without looking at me. I, on the other hand, can’t stop looking at him. He raises his hand to his forehead; I watch the light play on his knuckles. When he lifts his head, his eyes look oddly lost.
Then they turn to me, and oh God, let that longing not be what I fear it is. Let it just be hero worship, or for what I have, or even just a crush. Let him not be looking at me the way I look at you.
And to think, once, early in the time I have bourn this, I cursed that I was alone in it. Be careful what you wish for.
I have to kiss him again. It feels so good, his rough lips and stubble and hard body beneath my hands. It feels like a trap too, though, especially since now he won’t let go for the rest of the night. And I shouldn’t stay here, not the night before we both play. But how can any man with a heart push him away and leave him alone here?
So I lean back, and let his head rest on my breast; what a contrast to you, who sleeps so restlessly this would be impossible. Of course that could just be because you’ve always just lost when you’re with me, but both times we’ve been together so far, so has he. He would have been disappointed, had he ever had you.
And then he actually asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to go now? I mean, what with us maybe playing each other in less than a week.”
“Last time we did play in less than a week,” I point out.
“Yeah, but last time you’d beaten me before that. I just thought, well, if you felt differently now, I’d understand.”
“So you do still see yourself as good.” I don’t try to hide my relief.
“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I’ll be fine here.” I don’t miss the emphasis on the final word. Here isn’t the point. He could go down in his first match here and he’ll still be fine unless it knocks him out of London, and there are other ways to get there. And here isn’t where he’s in the most danger of suffering that fate.
I told him he would win a slam, right after beating him at Wimbledon. You told him, in front of the world, after beating him in Melbourne. I’m sure Stan Wawrinka told him too, after beating him in New York, especially since they sleep together whenever they play each other, so he would’ve had plenty of opportunity. At some point us repeating it gets ridiculous.
So what do I say? I bet you would know. Even you still don’t care for him, you’d still be able to figure it out.
But I technically didn’t answer his earlier question, so I do that. “I’ll stay. If we wake up early, we can even do this again, no? I still want to fuck you.” Maybe if we lie here long enough, we could even get it up for another go.
“On the day we’re both playing?” I forgot I’m talking to a guy who’s known to practice a strict abstinence regimen from half a week before a slam. I wonder if anybody’s ever pointed out to him he’s won all his titles when he’s not practicing it. But I really shouldn’t, so I don’t, especially since it’s not like it’ll ever affect me. Besides, he has a good point.
Still I insist, “I want to do it again.”
He laughs. Laughs, smiles. I love to see him smile. It’s not like your smile, which makes me feel like my whole heart lights up and shines and sings; it’s more a gentle flame within, that won’t make me feel as brilliant. But might keep me warm longer. He kisses me again, rolling us over so I’m on top again.
“This is perfect,” I say, speaking in Spanish, because now I’m not sure I want him to know what I’m saying, but I have to say it to him. “And I’m glad we made this arrangement. I’ll be a lucky man when you win that first slam, that it’ll be me that you’ll come to glowing with the joy of it, my arms that get to hold you, me you’ll associate with the win no matter how long it takes for us to be in the same place at the same time again. I’ll dream about that night until it happens.”
Yes, I’m saying when. And I’ll force myself to believe in it if I have to.
He’s growing tenser under me. Did he understand me or not? Given where on his body my hands are currently traveling, it could have all just been babble to him.
I flash back to a night half a world away and a year and a half ago, the last time we were together before you married Mirka and kept yourself to her until the twins were half a year old. Even now, it’s only been me since, and don’t think I’m not very aware of that fact. Of course you couldn’t know what I said to you then, since you were asleep.
Below me, Andy hisses, “Rafa...touch me...just touch me...” If he understood, I suppose that’s all he has to say.
For a moment more, I remember a year and a half ago in Miami, when I didn’t dare hold you.
Then I give myself over to a man whom I know I can’t hold as close as he needs.
Maybe noone can.
Characters: Rafael Nadal/Andy Murray, Rafael Nadal/Roger Federer
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Work of fiction. Never really happened.
Summary: Sequel to Whenever We Both Lose. Rafa's second time with Andy.
Author's Notes: Takes place tomorrow(actually tonight in Shanghai).
Our liaisons are usually determined by tournament results, but with people always leaving, it can sometimes be a few weeks before they happen, and once again, I’ve had to wait longer than usual for Andy Murray. “Whenever one of us wins a slam,” I offered to him in the locker room at Wimbledon, just after beating him, and though I knew he wanted me, I was surprised by how eagerly he agreed. That time I had to wait until August. Now I’ve had to wait until October. Excepting my wining at the French, this may become a regular thing for us. Still, it’s good to enjoy these things before the tournament you’re at interferes.
It was with the memory of his skin still clinging to my hands that I came to you in Cincinnati, since we’d both lost in Canada. It was gratifying then, to talk as we did, with a level of honesty new to us, even if I still can’t tell you my most painful truth. Though may noone ever know how blackly I was tempted when you confessed you were worried about the state of your marriage. But you said so yourself; this stage of parenthood often strains a relationship. If I know you two, you’ll survive it. And I’ll be left feeling guilty that I ever dared entertain, even for a fleeting moment, that little thought...
And even if you weren’t entirely nice in what you said to me, about my possibly winning the US Open that year, “It wouldn’t be the same for you, you know, in that you wouldn’t have to wait and suffer for it the way I did, and that if you do this now, you’ll never understand what that’s like. Maybe a little bit, from Wimbledon 2007, but that’s still only one year, you know.”
“It isn’t easy for me,” I protested then, angered by you in a way I very rarely am.
“Of course not, I know that. But it’s not the same as time. And I’ll have to be jealous, you know, that you would be spared that.”
We haven’t talked since I did indeed win the US Open, on what in a way does feel like my first try, though Uncle Toni calls it my third, or occasionally my fourth, depending on what mood he’s in. I understand what you were saying, and whether or not you have the right to be resentful...well, sometimes we can’t help it, can we?
But it’s something I have to think about right now, as I head for the room of a man whose agony I definitely can never grasp. Nor can you, though.
I have to go to him; he won’t come to me. I was advised of that as soon as word got around about our agreement at Wimbledon. And I’d heard the stories already; everyone’s heard them. British tennis has its own traditions, and Andy should’ve been deflowered by Tim Henman; whoever thinks himself or herself the next top British player is supposed to approach his or her predecessor about that; it’s a far older practice than anything else done on the Tour. But they say Andy couldn’t bring himself to make the first move, not even when it was so greatly demanded of him, of course Henman wouldn’t pressure him, and someone finally had to lock the two of them in a hotel room together, after he’d probably already lost his virginity to his girlfriend, though of course that might have taken time too.
That’s translated to him being like you, in that he doesn’t have many liaisons. Would he have gotten you, had he been able to do more than pull your pigtails? Probably not, though, and I think he’s lost interest now anyway.
I think his focus has changed targets.
He’s nervous answering the door. I mutter something nondescript, casually step in and click it shut behind me. I feel better having done this, knowing already when he’ll finally respond.
But it’s awkward, as we stand there. It’s never like this with you, where we always find words for each other, or with Nole, or with my countrymen, my teammates, where it’s even easier. I never knew what to say to Marat, but he always dragged me to the bed quickly enough to skip this part.
“D’you want something to drink?” he finally manages. I can almost hear his heart hammering over it.
“A coke, please.” I remember in Cincinnati the two of us drank. Much of the mini-bar, by the time the night was over. You were probably drunk when you made your speech to me, though not obviously so. But even if Andy was willing, I wouldn’t want to do that with him. I’m afraid of what I would tell him, and even more of what he would tell me.
He takes one too, and we drink in silence. I watch his throat swallow; he gulps it, and I can see sweat. I don’t even know what it is about him that makes it so easy for me to want him.
When our glasses are empty, I look into those grey eyes and hold them. He must see the concern in mine, but he quails back. “You are better from your cold?” I ask, because he seems that, at least.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“Don’t what? Do you not want to do this?”
“No! I mean, I want to.” The blood fills his face, and he can’t look at me anymore.
I put my hand to his flushed cheek. “Hard week?” I ask. No response. “Hard year.” He nods, though barely. I’m the wrong person to be here. “Do you wish I was someone else?” A hasty shake of his head. A nod would have been a relief.
I want to run my lips along that tense jaw, so I do. I feel those muscles relax, but when I move my hand to his shoulders they’re taut. I stroke, and he makes a strange, half-frightened sound.
“Shhh,” I whisper, and embrace him. He goes partially limp; he’ll be that way for the first part of tonight. But not entirely; I feel his fingers grip my shirt, knuckles pressing hard into my chest; the telltale signs of a man who doesn’t want to admit how badly he wants to be held.
Back in Canada, when I laid him out on the bed and he spread his legs, all too eager to please, my first thought was that he was the exact opposite of you. You dominate when he submits, take when he gives, tear my clothes off and tell me exactly what you want to do to me when he hesitates with his hands, waits for me to take hold of them and bring them to where I want them. But I’ve never slept with anyone so needy. Verbal pleas from him became physical gestures when I was in him, lifting his head up to demand kisses, gripping me so tightly I have to nudge his hands away from where any bruises would be visible, pushing back against me as if he was starved for it. He begged and cried and chanted my name until he was shouting it. And afterwards he clung to me tightly and burrowed into my body, and made wild protesting noises when I tried to disengage. The truth is, he demands just as much as you do. He just does so with less certainty that he ought to get it.
I want to give him everything. Like you, he brings that out of me. I run my hands down his back and press us closer, until there’s no way he can’t feel my erection. By my ear I hear his breathing grow very quick. His body is mass of tension, all but pulsing in its need for relief. I want to free him. At least for tonight; any more than that is beyond my ability.
“Just relax,” I murmur to him as I steer us towards the bedroom, in Spanish, and I don’t know if he's any good with it these days, but he moves his head closer to listen to me. “Let me take care of you tonight, let me make you feel good.” Into a messy bedroom and we have to step over a pile of tennis rackets to reach the bed. Down he goes, just like last time, legs spread, arms spread, lips parted and neck bared, offering himself up to me. My mouth waters. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” I hiss into his mouth before claiming it.
It’s just as I anticipated it, just as it’s been in my head every time I’ve jerked off between the US Open and tonight; I even managed to stop thinking about you for a while, for the first time in close to two years. He gasps when I pull his shirt off, lies limp and moaning as I tease his chest until he can’t take it anymore and seizes my head. I try to suck him off but he doesn’t have the patience, grabbing me and pulling me up and grinding against my cock. When my shirt comes off, his hands stumble across my chest; I offer my neck to his mouth and he bites, teeth grazing my skin. I plunge my tongue in and out of his mouth until he’s frantic, nearly kicking me off of him as his legs flail, then hastily pulling me close again, hands on my ass shoving at my pants, which I unbutton, trying to worm his chest against mine; long before last time was over I was able to figure out he wants the physical contact as much as the sex.
So I don’t try to break out of the mold our bodies are forming against each other, instead just yanking his shorts down far enough and curling my hand around his cock. Now at last desire has spurred him to action completely; a moment later his hand finds my cock. I moan at the feel of it, and at the sigh of “Rafa...” the accompanies kisses down my neck. I crook my head down for another kiss, then push my body back against his and thrust into his hand.
He chants my name in between kisses and cries of “Oh God, please” as we stroke and shove and I press him down into the bed, his body mine to do what I want to with my hand and mouth. I want to fuck him, but not as much as I don’t want to break contact. I watch his face as he approaches the breaking point, his mouth open wide, and when his eyes flutter open for a moment, they look at me with as if I were a god; it’ll frighten me when I think about it later but now I just growl and thrust harder, squeeze his cock and it shoots his hot release between our tangled bodies. I thrust twice more against his trembling body and my world explodes; I hear him groan along with me as the pleasure overwhelms me, sending me shuddering against him.
He’s gone limp again; it’ll only last a second but it’s enough time for me to pull away with a “We need to clean up.” I think he wants to protest anyway, but he lets me go.
By the time I come back from the bathroom he’s pulled himself together, at least partly, sitting on the bed and staring down at the blankets. He accepts a towel without looking at me. I, on the other hand, can’t stop looking at him. He raises his hand to his forehead; I watch the light play on his knuckles. When he lifts his head, his eyes look oddly lost.
Then they turn to me, and oh God, let that longing not be what I fear it is. Let it just be hero worship, or for what I have, or even just a crush. Let him not be looking at me the way I look at you.
And to think, once, early in the time I have bourn this, I cursed that I was alone in it. Be careful what you wish for.
I have to kiss him again. It feels so good, his rough lips and stubble and hard body beneath my hands. It feels like a trap too, though, especially since now he won’t let go for the rest of the night. And I shouldn’t stay here, not the night before we both play. But how can any man with a heart push him away and leave him alone here?
So I lean back, and let his head rest on my breast; what a contrast to you, who sleeps so restlessly this would be impossible. Of course that could just be because you’ve always just lost when you’re with me, but both times we’ve been together so far, so has he. He would have been disappointed, had he ever had you.
And then he actually asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to go now? I mean, what with us maybe playing each other in less than a week.”
“Last time we did play in less than a week,” I point out.
“Yeah, but last time you’d beaten me before that. I just thought, well, if you felt differently now, I’d understand.”
“So you do still see yourself as good.” I don’t try to hide my relief.
“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I’ll be fine here.” I don’t miss the emphasis on the final word. Here isn’t the point. He could go down in his first match here and he’ll still be fine unless it knocks him out of London, and there are other ways to get there. And here isn’t where he’s in the most danger of suffering that fate.
I told him he would win a slam, right after beating him at Wimbledon. You told him, in front of the world, after beating him in Melbourne. I’m sure Stan Wawrinka told him too, after beating him in New York, especially since they sleep together whenever they play each other, so he would’ve had plenty of opportunity. At some point us repeating it gets ridiculous.
So what do I say? I bet you would know. Even you still don’t care for him, you’d still be able to figure it out.
But I technically didn’t answer his earlier question, so I do that. “I’ll stay. If we wake up early, we can even do this again, no? I still want to fuck you.” Maybe if we lie here long enough, we could even get it up for another go.
“On the day we’re both playing?” I forgot I’m talking to a guy who’s known to practice a strict abstinence regimen from half a week before a slam. I wonder if anybody’s ever pointed out to him he’s won all his titles when he’s not practicing it. But I really shouldn’t, so I don’t, especially since it’s not like it’ll ever affect me. Besides, he has a good point.
Still I insist, “I want to do it again.”
He laughs. Laughs, smiles. I love to see him smile. It’s not like your smile, which makes me feel like my whole heart lights up and shines and sings; it’s more a gentle flame within, that won’t make me feel as brilliant. But might keep me warm longer. He kisses me again, rolling us over so I’m on top again.
“This is perfect,” I say, speaking in Spanish, because now I’m not sure I want him to know what I’m saying, but I have to say it to him. “And I’m glad we made this arrangement. I’ll be a lucky man when you win that first slam, that it’ll be me that you’ll come to glowing with the joy of it, my arms that get to hold you, me you’ll associate with the win no matter how long it takes for us to be in the same place at the same time again. I’ll dream about that night until it happens.”
Yes, I’m saying when. And I’ll force myself to believe in it if I have to.
He’s growing tenser under me. Did he understand me or not? Given where on his body my hands are currently traveling, it could have all just been babble to him.
I flash back to a night half a world away and a year and a half ago, the last time we were together before you married Mirka and kept yourself to her until the twins were half a year old. Even now, it’s only been me since, and don’t think I’m not very aware of that fact. Of course you couldn’t know what I said to you then, since you were asleep.
Below me, Andy hisses, “Rafa...touch me...just touch me...” If he understood, I suppose that’s all he has to say.
For a moment more, I remember a year and a half ago in Miami, when I didn’t dare hold you.
Then I give myself over to a man whom I know I can’t hold as close as he needs.
Maybe noone can.