Tennis Fic
Title: What You Need
Author: Sulwen
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Rating: PG (I promise I'm going to porn them eventually! It's just been all about the emotion lately...)
Wordcount: 1343
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the order of the words.
Summary: Rafa's having a rough night. Roger helps.
This fic can be considered a sequel to this: http://community.livejournal.com/fedal_slash/43836.html
...but you don't need to have read that to enjoy this one.
Roger paused outside the door to Rafa's hotel room, chiding himself yet again for following through with this idea. It hadn't been a good one, not all those hours ago when they'd finally decided to cancel play and not now. He tried to imagine himself in the same situation - not difficult - and he knew that if it were him, he wouldn't want or need the distraction. And yet here he was, standing at the door, and Roger knew that he wouldn't be turning back now.
There was a long pause after Roger's soft knock, but eventually the door opened and Rafa was there. Suddenly, everything was better. This thing between them was still new, new enough to be bright and shiny and wondrous every time they were together. A tension lifted from Roger's shoulders that he hadn't realized was there, and he wanted nothing more than to take Rafa in his arms and hold him for an eternity.
But this didn't look like a happy, cuddly Rafa. This was the beast across the net, the one Roger could hardly believe was the same person as the shy boy Rafa became off-court. His usually soft mouth was set in a hard line, and rather than laughing joy in those dark eyes, Roger saw a drive that looked like it was edging into desperation. It hurt just to look at, and a part of Roger was glad when Rafa turned away without a word and went back to where he had been sitting on the edge of the bed.
He made his way into the room and shut the door behind him, knocked off-balance by this cold greeting. Even before they had become…more...Rafa had always been so friendly. Even before they were friends. Even before they knew each other's names.
Rafa had the TV on, the sound turned down all the way. He was watching a tape of the Murray match from this year's Wimbledon, staring at it with such intensity that Roger almost expected the screen to explode. On the screen, Rafa ran Murray from pillar to post, finally firing a powerful forehand shot that was pretty much the definition of unreturnable. The camera changed to a close view of Rafa's face as he reached for the towel. He wasn't even breathing hard, and only a light sheen of sweat coated his skin.
Roger chuckled a bit to himself. "Looks easy from here, right?" he asked, feebly attempting to lighten the mood - or at least get Rafa to say something.
For a long moment, he thought he'd failed. But then Rafa dropped his eyes to the floor and ran both hands through his hair. He hadn't showered after the match, and his hair had dried into several thick strands. Roger had the inexplicable urge to put one of them in his mouth, taste the lingering salt there. He pushed it away, waiting.
"It is easy. For us I mean, no? Even when it's hard matches, still. Easy. It's what we do," Rafa said. His voice sent a shiver through Roger, and he felt a bit ashamed that he was reacting so physically when there were obviously more important things going on here. He waited for the rest of the statement, the part he had thought to himself so many times over this past year.
"So why is it so hard?" Rafa's voice was so soft Roger almost couldn't hear it, the voice of a child admitting to a deeply-held and embarrassing fear.
He walked to the foot of the bed and sat down beside Rafa, close, but not touching, ignoring the electric thrill that went through his veins at the proximity. "There are lots of answers to that question. I think I've heard most of them from one coach or another in my life. But none of them ever meant much, and maybe that's why I don't do coaches any more," Roger said, immediately kicking himself mentally for turning this around to be about himself. You got into that habit when you had an entourage whose whole job was to ask about you. He continued quickly. "I think he was just having a good day. A great day. And maybe you were having a bad day. It happens to everybody. I should know."
"And what if his good day is tomorrow, too?" Rafa asked.
"Then you'll have to have a better one." The words sounded trite as they left Roger's mouth, but they sounded true too, so that was all right.
There was a long stretch of silence. On the TV, the second set played itself out. Roger could see the strain in Rafa's jaw where he was grinding his teeth together, and before he could stop himself, his hand was there, fingers running lightly over warm skin. He caressed Rafa's cheek gently, and eventually he felt the tension begin to disappear under his touch. Rafa's face became relaxed and pliable in his hand, and Roger angled it up to his own, leaning in for a kiss.
But as soon as their lips touched, Rafa sprung back, shaking his head fiercely. "No. No, Rogi. Not tonight," he said.
Roger could feel his face hardening, and the temper that always seemed to be just below the surface these days suddenly boiled high. He wondered, sometimes, if it was Rafa's influence on him that had done that. "Rafa...it might be better to take your mind off it, you know. What could you do in one night?" he asked. Not getting any answer, he continued. "Or...we could talk. Strategy, I mean. I could help."
"If you want to help, go. Leave. Why did you come?" Rafa asked, keeping his eyes staunchly on the carpet.
That hurt, and more than that, it was not Rafa. Looking at him, Roger realized that it was almost like looking at himself a few weeks ago. And suddenly he knew exactly what to say, and he smiled.
"You know, this...thing we do. Tennis. It's part of who we are. A big part. It's even part of what's between us. But it's not all. Not even close. We are - we have - something so much bigger than that. Nights like these, it's easy to forget," he said.
Finally, Rafa met his gaze. "You mean...it doesn't matter if I lose?" he asked.
"I'd love to play you Monday. You know that. But if it doesn't happen, it's ok." Sitting there so close, staring deep into Rafa's eyes, Roger felt something stir within him and give him the confidence to take things a step farther than they'd gone before. "I'll still love you, Rafa, win or lose. Even if you retired tonight, in the middle of a match. Always."
Rafa's eyes widened and his mouth quirked up into a half-smile, and he was just Rafa again, soft and quiet and sweet. "You love me?" he asked, all innocence and surprise.
Roger nodded. "I have for a very long time, I think. I just didn't know it yet."
"I...Rogi...um..." Rafa trailed off, then shook his head and laughed. When he spoke next, it was in Spanish, quick and emotional and mostly unintelligible to Roger. But the meaning came through, and Roger couldn't help but grin. And then they were kissing again, really kissing, deep and wet and perfect, and Roger's hands were buried in Rafa's hair and Rafa's hands were moving restlessly over Roger's body, from thighs to hands to face and back, trying to touch everything at once. Roger could taste the lingering bitterness of long stress, but underneath it, washing it away, was the clean, sweet taste that was all Rafa.
Before they could get entirely swept away, Roger pulled back gently and gave Rafa a serious stare. "Look, I want to do what you need. If you want me to go, I'll go. But...if you want me to stay...."
This time, there was no hesitation. "Stay. And no talking of tennis. Just me and you," Rafa said firmly. He reached over and turned off the TV, banishing all thoughts of what tomorrow may hold, and Roger grinned.
"All right. I can do that."
Author: Sulwen
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Rating: PG (I promise I'm going to porn them eventually! It's just been all about the emotion lately...)
Wordcount: 1343
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the order of the words.
Summary: Rafa's having a rough night. Roger helps.
This fic can be considered a sequel to this: http://community.livejournal.com/fedal_slash/43836.html
...but you don't need to have read that to enjoy this one.
Roger paused outside the door to Rafa's hotel room, chiding himself yet again for following through with this idea. It hadn't been a good one, not all those hours ago when they'd finally decided to cancel play and not now. He tried to imagine himself in the same situation - not difficult - and he knew that if it were him, he wouldn't want or need the distraction. And yet here he was, standing at the door, and Roger knew that he wouldn't be turning back now.
There was a long pause after Roger's soft knock, but eventually the door opened and Rafa was there. Suddenly, everything was better. This thing between them was still new, new enough to be bright and shiny and wondrous every time they were together. A tension lifted from Roger's shoulders that he hadn't realized was there, and he wanted nothing more than to take Rafa in his arms and hold him for an eternity.
But this didn't look like a happy, cuddly Rafa. This was the beast across the net, the one Roger could hardly believe was the same person as the shy boy Rafa became off-court. His usually soft mouth was set in a hard line, and rather than laughing joy in those dark eyes, Roger saw a drive that looked like it was edging into desperation. It hurt just to look at, and a part of Roger was glad when Rafa turned away without a word and went back to where he had been sitting on the edge of the bed.
He made his way into the room and shut the door behind him, knocked off-balance by this cold greeting. Even before they had become…more...Rafa had always been so friendly. Even before they were friends. Even before they knew each other's names.
Rafa had the TV on, the sound turned down all the way. He was watching a tape of the Murray match from this year's Wimbledon, staring at it with such intensity that Roger almost expected the screen to explode. On the screen, Rafa ran Murray from pillar to post, finally firing a powerful forehand shot that was pretty much the definition of unreturnable. The camera changed to a close view of Rafa's face as he reached for the towel. He wasn't even breathing hard, and only a light sheen of sweat coated his skin.
Roger chuckled a bit to himself. "Looks easy from here, right?" he asked, feebly attempting to lighten the mood - or at least get Rafa to say something.
For a long moment, he thought he'd failed. But then Rafa dropped his eyes to the floor and ran both hands through his hair. He hadn't showered after the match, and his hair had dried into several thick strands. Roger had the inexplicable urge to put one of them in his mouth, taste the lingering salt there. He pushed it away, waiting.
"It is easy. For us I mean, no? Even when it's hard matches, still. Easy. It's what we do," Rafa said. His voice sent a shiver through Roger, and he felt a bit ashamed that he was reacting so physically when there were obviously more important things going on here. He waited for the rest of the statement, the part he had thought to himself so many times over this past year.
"So why is it so hard?" Rafa's voice was so soft Roger almost couldn't hear it, the voice of a child admitting to a deeply-held and embarrassing fear.
He walked to the foot of the bed and sat down beside Rafa, close, but not touching, ignoring the electric thrill that went through his veins at the proximity. "There are lots of answers to that question. I think I've heard most of them from one coach or another in my life. But none of them ever meant much, and maybe that's why I don't do coaches any more," Roger said, immediately kicking himself mentally for turning this around to be about himself. You got into that habit when you had an entourage whose whole job was to ask about you. He continued quickly. "I think he was just having a good day. A great day. And maybe you were having a bad day. It happens to everybody. I should know."
"And what if his good day is tomorrow, too?" Rafa asked.
"Then you'll have to have a better one." The words sounded trite as they left Roger's mouth, but they sounded true too, so that was all right.
There was a long stretch of silence. On the TV, the second set played itself out. Roger could see the strain in Rafa's jaw where he was grinding his teeth together, and before he could stop himself, his hand was there, fingers running lightly over warm skin. He caressed Rafa's cheek gently, and eventually he felt the tension begin to disappear under his touch. Rafa's face became relaxed and pliable in his hand, and Roger angled it up to his own, leaning in for a kiss.
But as soon as their lips touched, Rafa sprung back, shaking his head fiercely. "No. No, Rogi. Not tonight," he said.
Roger could feel his face hardening, and the temper that always seemed to be just below the surface these days suddenly boiled high. He wondered, sometimes, if it was Rafa's influence on him that had done that. "Rafa...it might be better to take your mind off it, you know. What could you do in one night?" he asked. Not getting any answer, he continued. "Or...we could talk. Strategy, I mean. I could help."
"If you want to help, go. Leave. Why did you come?" Rafa asked, keeping his eyes staunchly on the carpet.
That hurt, and more than that, it was not Rafa. Looking at him, Roger realized that it was almost like looking at himself a few weeks ago. And suddenly he knew exactly what to say, and he smiled.
"You know, this...thing we do. Tennis. It's part of who we are. A big part. It's even part of what's between us. But it's not all. Not even close. We are - we have - something so much bigger than that. Nights like these, it's easy to forget," he said.
Finally, Rafa met his gaze. "You mean...it doesn't matter if I lose?" he asked.
"I'd love to play you Monday. You know that. But if it doesn't happen, it's ok." Sitting there so close, staring deep into Rafa's eyes, Roger felt something stir within him and give him the confidence to take things a step farther than they'd gone before. "I'll still love you, Rafa, win or lose. Even if you retired tonight, in the middle of a match. Always."
Rafa's eyes widened and his mouth quirked up into a half-smile, and he was just Rafa again, soft and quiet and sweet. "You love me?" he asked, all innocence and surprise.
Roger nodded. "I have for a very long time, I think. I just didn't know it yet."
"I...Rogi...um..." Rafa trailed off, then shook his head and laughed. When he spoke next, it was in Spanish, quick and emotional and mostly unintelligible to Roger. But the meaning came through, and Roger couldn't help but grin. And then they were kissing again, really kissing, deep and wet and perfect, and Roger's hands were buried in Rafa's hair and Rafa's hands were moving restlessly over Roger's body, from thighs to hands to face and back, trying to touch everything at once. Roger could taste the lingering bitterness of long stress, but underneath it, washing it away, was the clean, sweet taste that was all Rafa.
Before they could get entirely swept away, Roger pulled back gently and gave Rafa a serious stare. "Look, I want to do what you need. If you want me to go, I'll go. But...if you want me to stay...."
This time, there was no hesitation. "Stay. And no talking of tennis. Just me and you," Rafa said firmly. He reached over and turned off the TV, banishing all thoughts of what tomorrow may hold, and Roger grinned.
"All right. I can do that."