Fic: The Gay Beckhams
TitleThe Gay Beckhams
Pairing: Rafa/Roger
Wordcount: ~1200
Rating: PG
Summary: No more hiding. Valentine's Day fluff fic.
In the waiting room before the press conference, Rafa is taut with anticipation, vibrating with energy. He's sitting on the couch, but he's not still. He can't keep his legs from bouncing up and down a little, like it's a change of ends and he's keeping himself loose and warmed up for running. Mirka, sitting next to him, puts one hand on his knee and he stops then, looking at her. She smiles at him, and squeezes the knee a little bit for reassurance before she releases it. She looks up at Roger, standing in the corner. It's him, really, who should be sitting next to Rafa. But he can't sit. Standing clears his head a little. But he looks at Rafa, and Rafa meets his eyes and gives him a small, private smile. They read the thought on each other's faces: this is the right thing. And: I love you.
There's a knock on the door, soft and tentative, but it still makes Roger start. The little assistant opens the door and puts her mousey-blonde head into the room and says, "Mr Federer, Mr Nadal, ten minutes?"
"Okay," Rafa says. His voice sounds tense and strained.
When the assistant has gone, Roger says, "Can Rafa and I have a moment, please?"
Mirka gets up and comes over to him first, smiling gently. She kisses him on the cheek, her lips lingering fondly, and when she pulls back she smooths away the stain of her lipgloss with gentle, affectionate fingers. He smiles down at her, this beautiful, incredible woman, and reaches out and takes her hand, small and delicate in his big calloused one.
"I love you," she tells him. "It's a wonderful thing you're doing."
"I love you," he says, pressing her hand one more time before he releases it, and she smiles at him and turns away.
When she goes over to kiss Rafa, Toni Nadal comes over to Roger, his cap pulled down low over his eyes. There will be no kisses here, but when Toni offers Roger his hand there's warmth in his firm grip, and his smile and terse nod show approval. Toni isn't a man of many words, but he's not one to mince them, either. If he had disapproved of what Roger and Rafa are about to do - if he disapproved of Roger - he would have said so. He hasn't, not once.
When Mirka and Toni have left, the room seems oddly empty and quiet. The calm before the storm, Roger thinks.
Rafa stands up and crosses the room to where Roger is standing. "Still time to back out," he says, with a small smile. He reaches out and pinches the cuff of Roger's jacket gently, the back of his hand warm against Roger's wrist where the pulse is pounding.
"We could climb out the window," Roger agrees, tipping his head in the direction of the small window.
"Hmph, no. Third floor," Rafa says.
"Drainpipe?"
"Maybe safer to run instead?"
"Mirka will hunt us down."
"We fend her off," Rafa says, laughing a little now, looking softer and more relaxed. "With rackets."
"Or," Roger says, stepping forward to bring Rafa into the circle of his arms, "or we go through with it."
Rafa sighs, breath warm against Roger's skin, and bumps his nose against Roger's cheek, his hair falling forward. Roger can smell the shampoo they both use now, that Roger had lathered into Rafa's hair that morning when they shared the shower, and Rafa's aftershave, the one he'd designed himself. Maybe they can bring out a joint line, Roger thinks, inanely, breathing in Rafa's familiar scent. Like the Beckhams. The gay Beckhams. Jesus Christ.
"Well," Rafa says, sighing theatrically. "I guess, you know, since we are here, and since half the press of the world is waiting down the hall, is better if we go through with it, no?"
"Things will be different now," Roger says.
"More press, for sure."
"But no more hiding."
Rafa pulls back enough that he can meet and hold Roger's gaze, soft and serious. "No more hiding," he says. Roger kisses him, more promise than passion. After today, they will never have to hide their kisses again.
There's another knock on the door then, and the assistant chirps, "Mr Federer, Mr Nadal, they're ready for you now!" through the door. She doesn't come in this time; Mirka must have warned her off. Roger's stomach twists, half dread, but half excitement too, a sudden burst of adrenaline singing through his blood. He feels exhilarated, like it's the grand slam final of his life and he's seconds away from walking on court. Mirka is right, he thinks; it's a wonderful thing they're doing.
"Ready?" he asks, totally incapable of keeping the grin off his face, and Rafa grins back, that bright wide smile that Roger loves so much it makes his heart ache.
"Ready," Rafa says, and then he takes Roger's hand and winds their fingers together tightly.
The murmur of the assembled press grows louder and louder as they make their way down the corridor, hand in hand. On either side Roger can see the organisers of the surprise press conference casting glances at each other when they think Roger and Rafa can't see. Nobody had told them what the press conference was about, and Roger feels a rush of guilty pleasure, like the thrill of having gotten away with a prank, that sharpens further the anticipation sparking in his stomach now. It's so close now.
At the end of the corridor there are two big double doors that lead into the conference room, and the main organiser of the event has his hand on one of them ready to push it open and reveal them to the world's press when Rafa suddenly stops and says, "Oh, wait!"
Everyone freezes, and Rafa turns towards Roger and for one terrible second Roger is certain that Rafa is about to make a bolt for it - but instead he only turns to Roger and presses a soft, fond kiss to Roger's mouth, and when he pulls back he grins and says, "Sorry. Let's go."
When they push through the doors there is a shocked half-second of silence before the clicking of the cameras begins, loud over the murmur of voices. Roger can imagine what they are saying to each other while they watch Roger and Rafa make their way to the desk, which looks so familiar with its twin microphones and bottles of Evian water set out just like the run-of-the-mill postmatch pressers they've each done countless times. They've done press conferences together before too, but they've never walked hand-in-hand to the desk before, or edged their seats closer together when they sit down so that their knees bump together under the table. When Roger looks out over the assembled press, he recognises a lot of the faces, so many of them sharing the same looks of blank incomprehension that he almost wants to giggle.
"Hello, everybody," Rafa says, and Roger can hear the barely-contained grin in his voice, that he matches with his own as he looks out over the room and says, "Hello, and Happy Valentine's Day."
Pairing: Rafa/Roger
Wordcount: ~1200
Rating: PG
Summary: No more hiding. Valentine's Day fluff fic.
In the waiting room before the press conference, Rafa is taut with anticipation, vibrating with energy. He's sitting on the couch, but he's not still. He can't keep his legs from bouncing up and down a little, like it's a change of ends and he's keeping himself loose and warmed up for running. Mirka, sitting next to him, puts one hand on his knee and he stops then, looking at her. She smiles at him, and squeezes the knee a little bit for reassurance before she releases it. She looks up at Roger, standing in the corner. It's him, really, who should be sitting next to Rafa. But he can't sit. Standing clears his head a little. But he looks at Rafa, and Rafa meets his eyes and gives him a small, private smile. They read the thought on each other's faces: this is the right thing. And: I love you.
There's a knock on the door, soft and tentative, but it still makes Roger start. The little assistant opens the door and puts her mousey-blonde head into the room and says, "Mr Federer, Mr Nadal, ten minutes?"
"Okay," Rafa says. His voice sounds tense and strained.
When the assistant has gone, Roger says, "Can Rafa and I have a moment, please?"
Mirka gets up and comes over to him first, smiling gently. She kisses him on the cheek, her lips lingering fondly, and when she pulls back she smooths away the stain of her lipgloss with gentle, affectionate fingers. He smiles down at her, this beautiful, incredible woman, and reaches out and takes her hand, small and delicate in his big calloused one.
"I love you," she tells him. "It's a wonderful thing you're doing."
"I love you," he says, pressing her hand one more time before he releases it, and she smiles at him and turns away.
When she goes over to kiss Rafa, Toni Nadal comes over to Roger, his cap pulled down low over his eyes. There will be no kisses here, but when Toni offers Roger his hand there's warmth in his firm grip, and his smile and terse nod show approval. Toni isn't a man of many words, but he's not one to mince them, either. If he had disapproved of what Roger and Rafa are about to do - if he disapproved of Roger - he would have said so. He hasn't, not once.
When Mirka and Toni have left, the room seems oddly empty and quiet. The calm before the storm, Roger thinks.
Rafa stands up and crosses the room to where Roger is standing. "Still time to back out," he says, with a small smile. He reaches out and pinches the cuff of Roger's jacket gently, the back of his hand warm against Roger's wrist where the pulse is pounding.
"We could climb out the window," Roger agrees, tipping his head in the direction of the small window.
"Hmph, no. Third floor," Rafa says.
"Drainpipe?"
"Maybe safer to run instead?"
"Mirka will hunt us down."
"We fend her off," Rafa says, laughing a little now, looking softer and more relaxed. "With rackets."
"Or," Roger says, stepping forward to bring Rafa into the circle of his arms, "or we go through with it."
Rafa sighs, breath warm against Roger's skin, and bumps his nose against Roger's cheek, his hair falling forward. Roger can smell the shampoo they both use now, that Roger had lathered into Rafa's hair that morning when they shared the shower, and Rafa's aftershave, the one he'd designed himself. Maybe they can bring out a joint line, Roger thinks, inanely, breathing in Rafa's familiar scent. Like the Beckhams. The gay Beckhams. Jesus Christ.
"Well," Rafa says, sighing theatrically. "I guess, you know, since we are here, and since half the press of the world is waiting down the hall, is better if we go through with it, no?"
"Things will be different now," Roger says.
"More press, for sure."
"But no more hiding."
Rafa pulls back enough that he can meet and hold Roger's gaze, soft and serious. "No more hiding," he says. Roger kisses him, more promise than passion. After today, they will never have to hide their kisses again.
There's another knock on the door then, and the assistant chirps, "Mr Federer, Mr Nadal, they're ready for you now!" through the door. She doesn't come in this time; Mirka must have warned her off. Roger's stomach twists, half dread, but half excitement too, a sudden burst of adrenaline singing through his blood. He feels exhilarated, like it's the grand slam final of his life and he's seconds away from walking on court. Mirka is right, he thinks; it's a wonderful thing they're doing.
"Ready?" he asks, totally incapable of keeping the grin off his face, and Rafa grins back, that bright wide smile that Roger loves so much it makes his heart ache.
"Ready," Rafa says, and then he takes Roger's hand and winds their fingers together tightly.
The murmur of the assembled press grows louder and louder as they make their way down the corridor, hand in hand. On either side Roger can see the organisers of the surprise press conference casting glances at each other when they think Roger and Rafa can't see. Nobody had told them what the press conference was about, and Roger feels a rush of guilty pleasure, like the thrill of having gotten away with a prank, that sharpens further the anticipation sparking in his stomach now. It's so close now.
At the end of the corridor there are two big double doors that lead into the conference room, and the main organiser of the event has his hand on one of them ready to push it open and reveal them to the world's press when Rafa suddenly stops and says, "Oh, wait!"
Everyone freezes, and Rafa turns towards Roger and for one terrible second Roger is certain that Rafa is about to make a bolt for it - but instead he only turns to Roger and presses a soft, fond kiss to Roger's mouth, and when he pulls back he grins and says, "Sorry. Let's go."
When they push through the doors there is a shocked half-second of silence before the clicking of the cameras begins, loud over the murmur of voices. Roger can imagine what they are saying to each other while they watch Roger and Rafa make their way to the desk, which looks so familiar with its twin microphones and bottles of Evian water set out just like the run-of-the-mill postmatch pressers they've each done countless times. They've done press conferences together before too, but they've never walked hand-in-hand to the desk before, or edged their seats closer together when they sit down so that their knees bump together under the table. When Roger looks out over the assembled press, he recognises a lot of the faces, so many of them sharing the same looks of blank incomprehension that he almost wants to giggle.
"Hello, everybody," Rafa says, and Roger can hear the barely-contained grin in his voice, that he matches with his own as he looks out over the room and says, "Hello, and Happy Valentine's Day."
