fic: i'd wake you up from half a world away (roddick/federer, pg-13)
Title: i'd wake you up from half a world away
Pairing: Roddick/Federer friendship
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,900
Author's Notes: For context; Nole and Lleyton having adjacent ice baths, Roger talking about younger players, Andy's South American exos. Also, there are ~helpful pictures in this fic, because I use italics so much that it looks like everyone's just really emphatic.
Summary: The first texts come out of the blue, after his first round win, months after they've last spoken (and when he stops to think about it later, much later, it's the longest they've gone without speaking in over a decade)
What are you wearing? Andy says, immediately following it up with,
And I'm not trying to be cute.
Seriously, is that pink?
**view in light style**
The first texts come out of the blue, after his first round win, months after they've last spoken (and when he stops to think about it later, much later, it's the longest they've gone without speaking in over a decade)
What are you wearing? Andy says, immediately following it up with,
And I'm not trying to be cute.
Seriously, is that pink?
Good match, by the way.
Thank you, Andy, he replies, when he's reasonably sure Andy's done
Not yours. Novak's. Egomaniac.
I haven't missed you.
Liar.
* * *
The next time, his phone vibrates in his pocket in the middle of his post-match press conference, but he ignores it until afterwards, on his way back to the hotel:
God, you give dull pressers
We can't all have your ... flair, he replies
True.
Don't you have something better to do?
You love it. Then, in quick succession,
And no. No I do not.
I retired, remember?
Free man.
Roger smiles slightly, and replies, simply, I remember.
* * *Nothing for two whole days? Roger asks, after he plays Tomic. I'm hurt.
You're sending me mixed signals, man, Andy replies, a couple of hours later.
* * *
Andy messages him again, in the early hours of the Australian morning, after what's already being touted as the match of the tournament.
Holy crap. I didn't know Stan had it in him.
I did, he replies,, when he wakes up, blinking until his eyes focus on the screen properly.
Yeah yeah.
Did you watch it all?
All 5 hours. I still can't feel my ass.
Do you miss it? it's vague, he knows, and maybe too personal, but Andy understands.
My ass? he jokes, first.
No.
It takes Andy a couple of minutes to reply. Not that much.
And maybe that's that.
* * *That night, three messages, all sent while he's still on court with Milos.
On my god. Stop taking off your shirt.
We get it.
You love your body.
* * *
The 49ers beat the Falcons.
The who beat the who? and he's known Andy long enough to bet it's a football thing, but it's his rest day, and he's in a good mood.
... never mind, Andy replies, and Roger can almost see him rolling his eyes.
* * *
Later that night, he messages Roger again;
Lleyton and Novak sharing a bath?
There's a mental picture for you.
Sweet dreams :)
You're a cruel man, Andy, he replies (but he's laughing as he sends it).
* * *
The pink's growing on me, Andy allows, while Roger's a little busy playing a quarter.
You don't look that bad. I guess
Are you flirting with me? Roger teases, lightly, later (and it's not their usual style, but he's just played a five-setter and he's still buzzing with it).
Andy's reply is short, amused. You wish, superstar.
* * *
He turns his phone off after he loses to Murray.
Takes a day to just be.
* * *
He messages Andy over dinner, on Saturday (and it's still the early hours of the morning in America, he knows).
I'm at that place that sets the desserts on fire. I think we came here one year?
And he's not an idiot; he knows (as certainly as he does their head-to-head (21-3)) that they did come here, maybe ten years ago, knows that Andy kept running his hand through his hair, self-conscious without a cap, knows that Andy snapped, mock-outraged, "How are we meant to eat it if it's on fire?", knows that back before responsibility and pressure and - distance, before they had Stan and Rafa, or Mardy and the Bryans always around, they were young and stupid and adventurous together, bonded by ambition and ranking and excitement.
Then - and he regrets it as soon as he sends it, someone who's spent a lifetime choosing his words and shot so carefully:
I miss having you around
* * *
Yeah, Andy replies, something during the Australian night. Swish place.
Then - haha.
Drunk? Or hacked?
Neither, Roger replies, after breakfast, and the answer - the out - is so easy (Meant to send that to Rafa, sorry), and Andy would laugh and let him take it, he would, but he says, instead, too honestly, probably:
Nostalgic, maybe.
And the message has barely sent before his phone's ringing, and he's laughing as he answers it, laughing for the first time in a couple of days, "Did I really sound that pitiful?" he greets Andy.
"Yes," Andy says, flatly, immediately. "Get a grip."
Roger laughs again, warm and happy. "Always a pleasure, Andy."
"It's the middle of the night here," and it's only a slight exaggeration, "I don't have time for this shit."
It took him a while to really get Andy's sense of humour, but this - this - he remembers.
"Am I keeping you from something?" he asks, mildly, and there's a pause.
"OK. So I don't have a lot going on right now. No need to be a dick about it."
"Sorry," Roger says, unapologetically.
"I guess commiserations are in order," Andy half-asks (and it's not that he's not sure if Roger lost, but this, he knows, is Andy's way of seeing how Roger's doing - so different to Rafa's direct sympathy, an easy arm around Roger's neck; so different to Murray's calculating, perfunctory grimaces (he can't blame him, can't pretend he wouldn't be doing the same sums, eyeing off the same rankings, if he was twenty-five again and that still mattered most); so different to Stan's friendly shoulder claps (because, bless him, but Stan's never known what it's like to lose the really big ones)).
"I'm OK," Roger says (and he will be. There are losses that still hurt, years later.
This won't be one of them).
"You know?" he continues, "I'll put the girls to bed tonight ..."
"Yeah," is all Andy says, but because he's not chasing anything (a ranking, a slam; a comeback, a breakthrough), he does get it. Then, to lighten the mood, "Speaking of - I saw an article that said you were done. Tough break," and Roger can hear the amusement in his voice.
He sighs, in mock disappointment (it's not the first, and it won't be the last). "That's a shame."
"If I were you?" Andy says, "I'd get them to address me as the reigning Wimbledon champ in the pressers. Wear my silver medal everywhere," and he sounds so matter-of-fact that Roger can't catch his laugh, undignified and so, fondly amused.
"I don't ... I don't think so," he pretends to mull, and he's sure Andy shrugs in reply.
"Your call." Then, a little more seriously, "Sports journalists are full of crap."
"I don't know," Roger says, slowly, a lilt to his voice, "I read that you got fat."
Andy huffs out a fast, sharp laugh. "Swing and a miss," he kids, "I still look good."
Roger smiles slightly before asking, "So what is new with you?" because he doesn't actually know what Andy's been doing since - September, really.
"Don't pretend you care now," Andy snaps, adding, normally, "I'm playing a golf exo in a couple of weeks."
Roger's lips twitch. "Can you even play golf?"
Andy snorts. "We'll see." A pause, then a dubious, "How hard can it be?" and they're both laughing a bit.
"How was South America?" Roger remembers.
"Good," Andy says; doesn't elaborate.
"Juan Martin says you played well," Roger presses.
"You talkin' about me in the locker room?" Andy asks, lightly, clearly amused, and there's the briefest of pauses, so he adds, "He's lying through his teeth. He just feels guilty for ending my career," a practiced pause, then, "We both know you did that years ago," and they're laughing again, in way they haven't always been able to, in a way Roger's missed.
"Andy," Roger says, making no attempt to mask the affection in his voice.
"So," Andy says, "What's brought on your mid-life crisis?"
"Hey," Roger protests, half-heartedly, at the jab.
"Mmnn?" Andy asks, mock-innocent.
Roger sighs, stretching out on his hotel room couch, as he tries to answer him.
"The - kids. On tour," and he doesn't use it cruelly, because he remembers how much he hated it when he was a teenager travelling the world, remembers how Rafa's face used to curdle when the guys teased him about his age.
"Getting younger and faster?" Andy supplies, and Roger doesn't disagree, but there's more to it.
"They make me feel old," he admits.
"You are old."
"Thank you, Andy," he says, dryly.
"I'm not your life coach," he snaps, without heat.
"They're just so determined not to make friends with each other," he says, and it's so genuinely bewildering to him, coming from a tour generation with steadfast, lifelong friendships (Feliciano and Fernando, Andy and the Bryans, Stan and himself), most of them borne of proximity and Davis Cup teamwork, no doubt, but he counted Marat and Rafa amongst his closest friends on the circuit, knows that even Murray and Novak have grown closer in the last few years.
"You should go set them straight," Andy deadpans, "We would've loved that at their age."
"We weren't that bad," Roger protests.
"Yeah, we were worse," Andy scoffs, and Roger can almost picture them, ponytail and backwards cap, so sure they knew it all. "Some things - you gotta figure out yourself," Andy adds, pretty astutely.
"Yeah," Roger says, slowly (as much a concession as he's willing to give).
"Anyway, we didn't all get along," Andy says.
"We-"
"Pete and Andre," Andy challenges him.
"They were really before us-"
"Rafa and Soderling."
"That was a - a misunderstanding."
"Ana and Jelena."
"I think they sorted that out, actually."
"Nico and Tomas."
"No-one likes Tomas," Roger kids, "On-court or off," and Andy laughs. "But - point taken," he adds, a little grudgingly. He glances at the alarm clock beside him. "I should get going," he says, almost reluctantly, "My flight out's this afternoon," and Andy hums, a noise of understanding, almost (isn't long enough out of the game not to remember the punishing travel schedule, the tedium of airports, the physical drag of jet-lag. Maybe, Roger thinks, you never really forget).
"Where are you headed?"
"Rotterdam, next."
"Well, good luck," Andy says, the words strange between them (between two men who've spent their entire adult lives trying to beat each other).
"Thank you. For - all of-" he's stilted, a little embarrassed, and, mercifully, Andy cuts him off.
"Yeah."
"Don't be a stranger, OK?" he says.
"Yeah," Andy repeats, then, mock-brusquely, "Don't you have a plane to catch?"
* * *
He's waiting in the QANTAS lounge for their boarding call when his phone buzzes, one last time.
Hit me up next time you're in the States, yeah?
We'll have dinner or something.
Early night, though. We're getting old.
He smiles, slowly, and replies, simply, in response to - everything:
For sure, Andy.
Disclaimer: References to real persons, places and events are made in the context of fiction, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory or factual
Pairing: Roddick/Federer friendship
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,900
Author's Notes: For context; Nole and Lleyton having adjacent ice baths, Roger talking about younger players, Andy's South American exos. Also, there are ~helpful pictures in this fic, because I use italics so much that it looks like everyone's just really emphatic.
Summary: The first texts come out of the blue, after his first round win, months after they've last spoken (and when he stops to think about it later, much later, it's the longest they've gone without speaking in over a decade)
What are you wearing? Andy says, immediately following it up with,
And I'm not trying to be cute.
Seriously, is that pink?
**view in light style**
The first texts come out of the blue, after his first round win, months after they've last spoken (and when he stops to think about it later, much later, it's the longest they've gone without speaking in over a decade)
What are you wearing? Andy says, immediately following it up with,
And I'm not trying to be cute.
Seriously, is that pink?
Good match, by the way.
Thank you, Andy, he replies, when he's reasonably sure Andy's done
Not yours. Novak's. Egomaniac.
I haven't missed you.
Liar.
* * *
The next time, his phone vibrates in his pocket in the middle of his post-match press conference, but he ignores it until afterwards, on his way back to the hotel:
God, you give dull pressers
We can't all have your ... flair, he replies
True.
Don't you have something better to do?
You love it. Then, in quick succession,
And no. No I do not.
I retired, remember?
Free man.
Roger smiles slightly, and replies, simply, I remember.
* * *Nothing for two whole days? Roger asks, after he plays Tomic. I'm hurt.
You're sending me mixed signals, man, Andy replies, a couple of hours later.
* * *
Andy messages him again, in the early hours of the Australian morning, after what's already being touted as the match of the tournament.
Holy crap. I didn't know Stan had it in him.
I did, he replies,, when he wakes up, blinking until his eyes focus on the screen properly.
Yeah yeah.
Did you watch it all?
All 5 hours. I still can't feel my ass.
Do you miss it? it's vague, he knows, and maybe too personal, but Andy understands.
My ass? he jokes, first.
No.
It takes Andy a couple of minutes to reply. Not that much.
And maybe that's that.
* * *That night, three messages, all sent while he's still on court with Milos.
On my god. Stop taking off your shirt.
We get it.
You love your body.
* * *
The 49ers beat the Falcons.
The who beat the who? and he's known Andy long enough to bet it's a football thing, but it's his rest day, and he's in a good mood.
... never mind, Andy replies, and Roger can almost see him rolling his eyes.
* * *
Later that night, he messages Roger again;
Lleyton and Novak sharing a bath?
There's a mental picture for you.
Sweet dreams :)
You're a cruel man, Andy, he replies (but he's laughing as he sends it).
* * *
The pink's growing on me, Andy allows, while Roger's a little busy playing a quarter.
You don't look that bad. I guess
Are you flirting with me? Roger teases, lightly, later (and it's not their usual style, but he's just played a five-setter and he's still buzzing with it).
Andy's reply is short, amused. You wish, superstar.
* * *
He turns his phone off after he loses to Murray.
Takes a day to just be.
* * *
He messages Andy over dinner, on Saturday (and it's still the early hours of the morning in America, he knows).
I'm at that place that sets the desserts on fire. I think we came here one year?
And he's not an idiot; he knows (as certainly as he does their head-to-head (21-3)) that they did come here, maybe ten years ago, knows that Andy kept running his hand through his hair, self-conscious without a cap, knows that Andy snapped, mock-outraged, "How are we meant to eat it if it's on fire?", knows that back before responsibility and pressure and - distance, before they had Stan and Rafa, or Mardy and the Bryans always around, they were young and stupid and adventurous together, bonded by ambition and ranking and excitement.
Then - and he regrets it as soon as he sends it, someone who's spent a lifetime choosing his words and shot so carefully:
I miss having you around
* * *
Yeah, Andy replies, something during the Australian night. Swish place.
Then - haha.
Drunk? Or hacked?
Neither, Roger replies, after breakfast, and the answer - the out - is so easy (Meant to send that to Rafa, sorry), and Andy would laugh and let him take it, he would, but he says, instead, too honestly, probably:
Nostalgic, maybe.
And the message has barely sent before his phone's ringing, and he's laughing as he answers it, laughing for the first time in a couple of days, "Did I really sound that pitiful?" he greets Andy.
"Yes," Andy says, flatly, immediately. "Get a grip."
Roger laughs again, warm and happy. "Always a pleasure, Andy."
"It's the middle of the night here," and it's only a slight exaggeration, "I don't have time for this shit."
It took him a while to really get Andy's sense of humour, but this - this - he remembers.
"Am I keeping you from something?" he asks, mildly, and there's a pause.
"OK. So I don't have a lot going on right now. No need to be a dick about it."
"Sorry," Roger says, unapologetically.
"I guess commiserations are in order," Andy half-asks (and it's not that he's not sure if Roger lost, but this, he knows, is Andy's way of seeing how Roger's doing - so different to Rafa's direct sympathy, an easy arm around Roger's neck; so different to Murray's calculating, perfunctory grimaces (he can't blame him, can't pretend he wouldn't be doing the same sums, eyeing off the same rankings, if he was twenty-five again and that still mattered most); so different to Stan's friendly shoulder claps (because, bless him, but Stan's never known what it's like to lose the really big ones)).
"I'm OK," Roger says (and he will be. There are losses that still hurt, years later.
This won't be one of them).
"You know?" he continues, "I'll put the girls to bed tonight ..."
"Yeah," is all Andy says, but because he's not chasing anything (a ranking, a slam; a comeback, a breakthrough), he does get it. Then, to lighten the mood, "Speaking of - I saw an article that said you were done. Tough break," and Roger can hear the amusement in his voice.
He sighs, in mock disappointment (it's not the first, and it won't be the last). "That's a shame."
"If I were you?" Andy says, "I'd get them to address me as the reigning Wimbledon champ in the pressers. Wear my silver medal everywhere," and he sounds so matter-of-fact that Roger can't catch his laugh, undignified and so, fondly amused.
"I don't ... I don't think so," he pretends to mull, and he's sure Andy shrugs in reply.
"Your call." Then, a little more seriously, "Sports journalists are full of crap."
"I don't know," Roger says, slowly, a lilt to his voice, "I read that you got fat."
Andy huffs out a fast, sharp laugh. "Swing and a miss," he kids, "I still look good."
Roger smiles slightly before asking, "So what is new with you?" because he doesn't actually know what Andy's been doing since - September, really.
"Don't pretend you care now," Andy snaps, adding, normally, "I'm playing a golf exo in a couple of weeks."
Roger's lips twitch. "Can you even play golf?"
Andy snorts. "We'll see." A pause, then a dubious, "How hard can it be?" and they're both laughing a bit.
"How was South America?" Roger remembers.
"Good," Andy says; doesn't elaborate.
"Juan Martin says you played well," Roger presses.
"You talkin' about me in the locker room?" Andy asks, lightly, clearly amused, and there's the briefest of pauses, so he adds, "He's lying through his teeth. He just feels guilty for ending my career," a practiced pause, then, "We both know you did that years ago," and they're laughing again, in way they haven't always been able to, in a way Roger's missed.
"Andy," Roger says, making no attempt to mask the affection in his voice.
"So," Andy says, "What's brought on your mid-life crisis?"
"Hey," Roger protests, half-heartedly, at the jab.
"Mmnn?" Andy asks, mock-innocent.
Roger sighs, stretching out on his hotel room couch, as he tries to answer him.
"The - kids. On tour," and he doesn't use it cruelly, because he remembers how much he hated it when he was a teenager travelling the world, remembers how Rafa's face used to curdle when the guys teased him about his age.
"Getting younger and faster?" Andy supplies, and Roger doesn't disagree, but there's more to it.
"They make me feel old," he admits.
"You are old."
"Thank you, Andy," he says, dryly.
"I'm not your life coach," he snaps, without heat.
"They're just so determined not to make friends with each other," he says, and it's so genuinely bewildering to him, coming from a tour generation with steadfast, lifelong friendships (Feliciano and Fernando, Andy and the Bryans, Stan and himself), most of them borne of proximity and Davis Cup teamwork, no doubt, but he counted Marat and Rafa amongst his closest friends on the circuit, knows that even Murray and Novak have grown closer in the last few years.
"You should go set them straight," Andy deadpans, "We would've loved that at their age."
"We weren't that bad," Roger protests.
"Yeah, we were worse," Andy scoffs, and Roger can almost picture them, ponytail and backwards cap, so sure they knew it all. "Some things - you gotta figure out yourself," Andy adds, pretty astutely.
"Yeah," Roger says, slowly (as much a concession as he's willing to give).
"Anyway, we didn't all get along," Andy says.
"We-"
"Pete and Andre," Andy challenges him.
"They were really before us-"
"Rafa and Soderling."
"That was a - a misunderstanding."
"Ana and Jelena."
"I think they sorted that out, actually."
"Nico and Tomas."
"No-one likes Tomas," Roger kids, "On-court or off," and Andy laughs. "But - point taken," he adds, a little grudgingly. He glances at the alarm clock beside him. "I should get going," he says, almost reluctantly, "My flight out's this afternoon," and Andy hums, a noise of understanding, almost (isn't long enough out of the game not to remember the punishing travel schedule, the tedium of airports, the physical drag of jet-lag. Maybe, Roger thinks, you never really forget).
"Where are you headed?"
"Rotterdam, next."
"Well, good luck," Andy says, the words strange between them (between two men who've spent their entire adult lives trying to beat each other).
"Thank you. For - all of-" he's stilted, a little embarrassed, and, mercifully, Andy cuts him off.
"Yeah."
"Don't be a stranger, OK?" he says.
"Yeah," Andy repeats, then, mock-brusquely, "Don't you have a plane to catch?"
* * *
He's waiting in the QANTAS lounge for their boarding call when his phone buzzes, one last time.
Hit me up next time you're in the States, yeah?
We'll have dinner or something.
Early night, though. We're getting old.
He smiles, slowly, and replies, simply, in response to - everything:
For sure, Andy.
Disclaimer: References to real persons, places and events are made in the context of fiction, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory or factual