Tennis rps fic: Approach shot, Rafa Nadal/Roger Federer, NC 17
Title: Approach shot
Authors: emungere and louiselux
Fandom: tennis rps
Pairing: Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Warnings: explicit m/m, not safe for work
Notes: thanks to morebliss and buckle_berry just for being awesome.
Summary: Rafa and Roger meet at Wimbledon in 2003, when Rafa is 17 and Roger is 21. They spend an unusual evening together.
"Is this cheese?" Rafa asked.
The pasta on his plate had small white flecks in between the bits of unidentifiable vegetable matter. He could take it back, but there was a long queue at the food counter and he had to be on court in an hour. He hadn't even fetched his racquets from the stringer's yet.
"Eat some and find out," Toni said, carrying on with his plate of lasagne. He was reading yesterday's copy of Marca at the same time, his glasses slipping down his nose. All around them was laughter, talk, but in between Rafa noticed the still and silent faces of nervous players. He always noticed them the most.
"But if I eat it I might puke," Rafa said. The pasta had a glutinous shine to it.
"Rafael," Toni said. "Don't talk like that at the table, please."
"Hmm, sorry. But I hate cheese."
"It's probably not cheese. Eat some; otherwise it's going to be wasted. Think about all the children in Africa who'd want that food."
Rafa gave in and chewed a forkful. It wasn't cheese. Good. He ploughed into the rest, looking about him as he ate. Marat Safin was in one corner, laughing. A lot of the Spanish players were out already, but Feli was huddled at one table with his coach, their heads together. Toni had steered them away when Rafa had wanted to eat with them.
Rafa scanned the room, not letting himself think about who he was looking for, but he saw him soon enough. He was at a table that sat near the doors to the terrace, his dark head bent over some sheets of paper, making notes with a pencil. Between making notes, with a thoughtful look and a frown, the end would slip into his mouth. Rafa watched the slight flex of his jaw muscles as he bit on it. In front of him on the table stood a glass jug of water and a bottle of strawberry milk.
Roger Federer. Toni had started talking about Roger a lot in the last two years. In his opinion, Roger could be the best one day soon. He was the best player without a slam, Toni always said. His problem was all in the head, which was something Rafa should take into account should they ever play.
Rafa thought he was cool, for a lot of reasons that weren't all to do with how he played tennis, although that was important too. He dressed well, and he smiled a lot, and he had long hair. Rafa was growing his out, but at the moment it hung around his cheekbones like a kid's haircut, and he wasn't a kid anymore. He was as tall as Tommy, and he had bigger biceps.
But even more than the way Roger looked, Rafa admired his confidence. He had a sort of personal gravity that made everyone in the room centre around him. Was that a natural thing, or something he did on purpose? Really, Rafa thought, chewing his pasta and watching Roger, it seemed utterly instinctive.
"You want to go over and say hi?" Toni said, making him jump. He hadn't even noticed Toni watching him. "You want to hit with him?"
"What? He'd never hit with someone like me!"
Toni smiled. "I'll ask his manager, how about that? How about tomorrow morning?"
"Nooo, Uncle! Don't!"
Toni laughed and looked at his watch. "Better get your racquets. I'll meet you in the lockers in 15 minutes. Don't be late."
Rafa took a last look at Roger, then cleared his tray and sped off. He jogged most of the way there, aware of the time running away from him, and of the tightening of nerves in his gut. The stringers were busy and he had to wait. Finally his racquets were done and bagged and he was allowed to scoop them up and run. He knew the way. Cut across the edge of the car park, behind the gift shop, around the edge of the practise courts...
He was running fast when he hit someone coming around a corner, hard. They made a surprised 'Ooof'. Rafa fell backwards and his racquets scattered, clattering on the concrete path. He groaned, thinking of Toni's face if they were damaged.
"Hey, they're okay," someone said. "But how about you?"
Rafa looked up to see Roger, leaning down over him, squinting from the sun in his eyes. His hair hung all around his tanned face, not tied back. His eyes were very brown. His extended hand, when Rafa grabbed it, was rough and hard. Roger pulled him up.
"I-I-- Lo siento," Rafa stuttered, panicking as his English deserted him.
"You were going like a cannonball," Roger said. "Are you playing a match?"
"Soon," Rafa managed, scrabbling for his racquets. Roger helped him. Rafa dropped them again. "Two o' clock."
"Juniors?" said Roger, looking at him, up and down.
"No. Senior," Rafa said. His chest was tight.
Roger put his hand on Rafa's shoulder. "What's your name?"
"Rafael Nadal."
"Oh! I've heard of you," Roger said.
"What? You have?" Rafa hoped he wasn't gaping unattractively. He suddenly became aware of the old pimples on his cheek and his stupid baggy t-shirt that he'd dribbled cola down this morning. Roger looked amazing, sort of smooth and lean and neat everywhere.
"Yeah, I chatted with your uncle a couple of times," Roger said. "He's a good guy. Good luck with the match. I hope you win."
"Uh. Thank you very much."
Roger looked him up and down again, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The tip of his tongue appeared on his lower lip for an instant. Gazing at him, Rafa was faintly shocked to realise he was almost the same height as Roger.
"Maybe I'll see you again later?" Roger said. "I hope so."
See him later? Where? Did he mean in the café? Or the locker room, or where?
"I hope also," Rafa said. He looked at his watch and was horrified to see the big hand nearly at 30 minutes past. "Puta! So late. Sorry."
Roger Federer hoped he'd win. Rafa ran, racquets clutched in one arm, and clenched a fist. He'd do his best.
***
Roger flicked through the sheets of player information until he found the entry he was looking for. Rafael Nadal gazed back at him very seriously. Who the hell looked like that at sixteen? He could still feel where Rafa had smacked into him. Roger had put a hand on his arm for a moment to steady him, and it'd felt like iron.
He looked older, otherwise Roger would never've thought about giving him even a vague come on. He stretched out on the sofa of his hotel room, bare feet pressing against the smooth leather, and he thought about the luscious curve of Nadal's ass as he'd bent down to pick up his stuff. Amazing ass, long legs, pretty face, and those spooky intense eyes that'd seemed to be eating Roger up. Roger liked that, too much.
He pushed one hand down the front of his shorts. He'd probably go down on Roger, if Roger asked; if he walked up to him later in the bar and said it in his ear. He let himself imagine it. He pushed one hand into his underwear and cupped his cock as it stiffened. He pictured Nadal's red lips around his cock, sliding up and down, sucking him off. Sucking his cock and moaning. Or bent over and moaning. His skin had been hot and smooth.
"Oh god, yeah," he said. It took a few quick strokes, working himself fast and tight. He looked down at the dark and swollen head of his cock where it was clenched in his fist and thought of that body spread out under him, then he came on his stomach.
He lay still for a few minutes, glad that he didn't have to be anywhere for the next-- he checked his watch-- forty minutes. He scrabbled for the TV remote and the machine buzzed into life. They were playing highlights. He watched, half thinking about getting ready for practise, feeling his limbs get heavier. Then Nadal was on screen, being interviewed after his second round win against Childs.
He was trying to grow his hair out, that was clear. It touched his cheekbones in dark curls. He was half muscular, half lanky, golden brown from the sun, his full mouth--that Roger had imagined doing so much else-- quick to break into a smile. His English was really bad. He wasn't even old enough to be properly shaving.
Roger wanted him.
He swallowed and turned on his side, pillowing his head on one arm. He wondered if he had time to go again.
***
Rafa was out in the third round. Toni seemed satisfied with it. "You will do better next year," Toni said, but Toni always said that. Rafa wanted to do better this year. Especially since Roger Federer had said he hoped he'd win. He had won that match, at least, and if he were at all superstitious--but he wasn't.
Toni had pounded all thoughts of lucky and lucky out of his head years ago. He'd played as well as he could, and maybe better, but Roger's words hadn't made him lucky. They'd just given him extra motivation. That was right and sensible, but he still heard a stubborn child's voice at the back of his mind suggesting that if anyone could bend the laws of nature, it was definitely Roger Federer.
Rafa twitched in his tight jeans and fought the urge to readjust himself or his underwear. The two nights before this he'd come down to the players' lounge in his good clothes, nice trousers his mama had bought and a shirt with a collar that buttoned down. Feli had taken him aside last night and asked what the hell he was doing.
"Are you trying to give people a bad impression of our country?"
"What?" Rafa had said.
"The clothes. I know not everyone is born with fashion sense, but you look like a kid who's outgrown his school uniform."
Rafa's eyes had gone, with horrible inevitability, to where Roger sat with Andy Roddick and Marat Safin. Feli had laughed at him a lot, was in fact still laughing at him, but had also helped him choose his clothes tonight.
Rafa wasn't sure whether he should be grateful or angry. He felt squirmy. Everything was too tight, everywhere. He wished he hadn't worn underwear at all. There wasn't room for it.
On the other hand, Roger was looking at him. Rafa blinked. Roger was actually coming towards him, smiling, and Rafa looked stupidly over his shoulder for whoever that smile was really meant for. There was no one there.
When he turned back, Roger was close. He smelled good.
"I saw your match," Roger said. "You played well."
"I lost."
Roger shrugged. "You're only sixteen. The third round at Wimbledon? That's pretty good for sixteen."
"Seventeen," Rafa said. "I--I have birthday this month."
Roger's smile grew warmer. "Happy birthday," he said.
"Thank you very much. You really think is good?"
Roger's expression changed, becoming more serious. Rafa felt himself staring. Up close Roger was really hard to look away from. "I played juniors here until I was eighteen, so yeah, I do think you've done well." He smiled. "You deserve a drink or something. Let me buy you one."
"I no drink. Sorry."
"Oh? Me neither." Roger touched his forearm, just with the tips of his fingers. "How about an ice cream instead? There's a shop across the road from here, we could get one."
"But. But-- what about... " Rafa looked around. No one was paying them any attention, not even Feli. "You are sure?"
"Why not?" Roger said. His gaze dipped to Rafa's mouth, lingering, and he smiled in an irresistible way. "It's not much, but let's call it a late birthday present. I know, it's so generous of me."
Rafa smiled back, unable to stop himself. "Yes, please," he said out loud.
They walked along the tarmac paths in the warm night air. Dusk had settled, and the sky was dark blue. Traffic roared dully in the background, behind the quiet grounds. They made their way out onto the road, where a row of shops stood, brightly lit against the night. The air smelled of dust. On the way, Roger talked to him about what he thought his chances of winning were this year, and about the best matches he'd played. Rafa thought it was the most amazing ten minutes of his life so far.
"You never get past any quarter final yet in the slam," Rafa said.
"How do you know that?" Roger said.
"I follow your career," Rafa said, and then said it again when Roger didn't understand him.
"Career, right. Oh, you do?" He looked pleased. "That must be fun for you."
Rafa sucked on his lower lip, wondering if he should make a complete fool of himself. Why not? He'd probably never have this chance again. "I believe you win this time," he said. "This year."
Roger looked at him, then laughed. "You sound more sure than my coach."
Rafa watched the way he moved, laughed, the way he pushed his hair back impatiently. He found himself hopelessly caught by all of it. "For sure, you win it," he said more confidently, as if he could make it happen just by saying it.
Roger's shoulder bumped his as they walked. "Thanks," Roger said.
In the shop, Roger bought him the ice cream he wanted: vanilla with chocolate coating, and nuts, and bits of toffee. Roger had the same, and they unwrapped them and ate them walking back. Roger asked him about Mallorca and Rafa answered as best he could.
"Are you leaving tomorrow?" Roger asked, as they slipped in through the gate, showing their passes to the guard there.
"Leaving? No. My parents - they have friends to meet. So I stay for practise."
"That's good thinking. You could learn a lot."
Rafa had an electric tingle somewhere in his stomach. "Yeah. I wanna watch you."
They stopped walking. Roger threw his ice cream stick into a waste bin. "I'm flattered," he said.
Roger looked to each side of the path, as if checking that no one was about, and Rafa couldn't work out why he was doing that, right until Roger stepped closer and leaned towards him, and kissed him on the mouth.
Time seemed to slow down. His lips were cold from the ice cream, and sweet. They were soft and pliant, sliding against Rafa's own. Rafa gasped, open mouthed, and Roger pulled away before Rafa had time to kiss him back.
"You like that?" Roger murmured. He sounded painfully gentle.
"Y--yeah."
"Come back to my room?" Roger said.
"I-I-- Now?"
"You don't have to."
Rafa realised he had one hand twisted into Roger's jacket. He let go, reluctantly. "I want, yes. Yes. Please. Yes."
Roger put a hand on his waist, fingers just pushing up under the t-shirt that Feli had lent him. "I'll drive us. It's very close."
Rafa stared at his lower lip, which was slightly wet, and at the angles and shadows of his deep set eyes. Toni wouldn't miss him for hours yet. That meant they had hours to... Oh God.
"Okay," he mumbled. His too-tight jeans were even tighter now.
Roger was staying at a small hotel nearby. It had potted palms outside in brass boxes. Roger said hello to the doorman. He kissed Rafa again while they were in the lift, pressing him back against the panel of buttons while the blood pounded in Rafa's temples and the brass handrail dug into his spine. This time, Rafa dared to kiss him back.
Roger's room was small and cramped with suitcases and kit, piles of newspapers, clothes. The bed stood in the middle, a neat island in the chaos, its white sheets turned down, inviting Rafa in. Rafa looked around as Roger closed and then locked the door.
"Just in case," Roger said. Rafa didn't ask in case of what, although he thought he should. He didn't dare. "Do you want a coke?"
"No," Rafa said. "Thank you very much. No."
Roger unzipped his hoodie and shrugged it off onto a chair, then walked to where Rafa stood, and put his hands on Rafa's shoulders. Rafa could be cool about this, and follow Roger's lead, and everything would be fine. He was still thinking that when he heard himself making a kind of gasping noise. He threw his arms around Roger's neck, closed his eyes and kissed him. It was kind of hard to find his mouth at first, with his eyes closed, and that was awkward. He had his mouth on Roger's jaw, pressed against stubble. Roger started to say something just before their lips finally met and touched.
Roger's body was solid all over, like a wall. He tasted sweet and his lips were warm now, soft and inviting. He pushed his tongue into Rafa's mouth, opening him wide. He traced over Rafa's tongue and his teeth, and over the roof of his mouth. They kissed for a long time, just standing pressed together. He found out that Roger made an amazing soft moan when Rafa sucked on his tongue. Roger's arm crushed tight round his waist.
"Let's go to bed," Roger said, in a hoarse voice.
The bed was very hard. Rafa struggled out of his clothes awkwardly, lying on his back, wishing he'd thought to get undressed standing up like Roger had. He watched as Roger stripped, as his bare legs were revealed, and his chest. Rafa was used to nudity, but this was something new. He stared at Roger's chest and stomach, and the heavy hard length of his cock. His mouth got so dry he couldn't even speak. Roger came closer and knelt on the bed, moving towards him on hands and knees as Rafa lay back.
"Are we going to fuck?" Rafa said, hoping it sounded casual.
Roger smiled, very sweetly, like he was amused. "Yeah, if you want that?" he said, and as he said it, the head of his cock brushed Rafa's thigh. He was gazing down, looking at everything Rafa had. "You've done it before? With a guy?"
"Two times," Rafa said, firmly. No need to mention it hadn't gone quite right either time.
***
Roger settled back on Rafa's thighs, glad the answer had been yes. Twice, even. He wasn't sure how careful he could be with Rafa naked and stretched out under him, his for the next few hours.
"Good," he said. "That's good. Girls, too, or no?" He pressed a hand flat to Rafa's chest and ran it down over his smooth skin, all the way to his hip.
"Once," Rafa said. He was staring at Roger's hand, now quite near his cock, which stood up stiff against his belly. "It not so good."
"That will be hard on the tour," Roger said. "Keeping it secret. You should get a girlfriend, even just for show." He'd been given that advice himself, and tried it out. It hadn't worked very well, he had to admit.
"Like you?" Rafa said. His voice was strained now. "You see that girl, two years."
Roger closed his hand around Rafa's cock and just held it, felt it twitch as Rafa rolled his head on the pillow and inhaled sharply.
"It didn't work out," Roger said. "I like cock too much. Maybe I should hire someone, you think?" That was what Tony thought, that he should hire a girl to go to functions with. Roger thought it sounded incredibly tedious.
Rafa just moaned. His eyes slipped shut as Roger's hand tightened, and his hips twisted up.
Roger smiled down at him. Rafa's hands were flexing open and closed on air. His stomach muscles were tight, and those impressive biceps clenched and strained until Roger could see the grain of his muscle under the skin. His hair fell across his face. It was just long enough to catch at the wet corner of his mouth.
Roger brushed it away and kissed him softly. His own hair fell down to touch Rafa's pink cheeks. "I want to fuck you now," he said, against Rafa's lips. "Turn over."
He backed off to let Rafa move and watched him flop over onto his stomach, less graceful than he was on court, more desperate. Roger put a hand on the back of his neck and smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "You stay just like that."
He reached for the lube and pushed Rafa's thighs apart. Rafa's skin was fever-hot, soft, smooth. When Roger's fingers touched his hole, a shudder went through him, and he sucked in air.
"It's all right," Roger told him, and kissed the base of his spine as he pressed one finger inside. Under him, face pressed to the pillow, Rafa made a small keening noise and groped back with one hand until he touched Roger's knee.
A noise from the hall caught Roger for a moment. The laughter and footsteps passed soon enough, but his quick glance toward the door had tripped over his belt, coiled loosely on the floor by the bed, well within reach.
He looked at Rafa's wrist and grasping fingers, back to the belt, back to Rafa again. The tendons and tiny bones stood out, strong and defined, under his skin.
Roger bit his lip. He pushed another finger in, careless, maybe too hard from the sound Rafa made. He spread his other hand out over Rafa's back and stroked him, murmured apologies and soothing words. He looked at Rafa's wrist again. Could hardly look away.
He'd done it once before, and his stomach tightened and his cock hardened with the memory of it. And it would be better, he was sure, with Rafa. The other boy had treated it as a bit of a joke. Rafa wouldn't do that. He would moan, and say Roger's name in that half-awed tone, and maybe--maybe be just the tiniest bit scared, until Roger reassured him.
Roger had grasped Rafa's wrist before he could think it all through. Rafa twisted round to look at him, eyes wide and very dark, gold-brown nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils. Roger's other hand reached down and snagged the belt, all on its own. Rafa's eyes got still wider when he saw it.
Probably Roger was supposed to ask, but he didn't. He pulled Rafa's other wrist in and wound the belt around and around. It was cloth, and folded easily against Rafa's skin, digging in just a fraction. Roger tied it off and pulled the end back through the buckle to secure it. He swallowed hard.
Rafa's lips were parted. His body shook with his breath. A long, silent moment curled between them. Roger's mouth was dry.
"It's all right," he whispered, and stroked down Rafa's muscled arm. "It's all right, shh."
Only then did Rafa speak, letting out a ragged sound that was Roger's name and a plea, both at once. Roger's cock throbbed in response. He rolled on a condom, slicked his fingers and dipped them into Rafa's body again. Rafa's hands clenched and his bonds made a creaking sound, muscles flexing all along his arms. Slowly, with a low moan, he raised his hips.
Roger pulled his fingers out. His heart was hammering now. He spread Rafa's ass, one smooth round cheek in each hand, and pushed his cock in, almost certainly too fast and too hard. He stilled, squeezing his eyes tight shut at the rush. Below him, Rafa cried out against the pillow, twisting almost away from him.
"Roger. Oh, Roger. Oh. Oh." He sounded like all the breath had been squeezed out of his lungs.
"Sorry. It's all right," Roger whispered again, listening to his own voice, sounding so amazingly calm. He slid his hands under Rafa's hips and raised him, helping him up and back so that he was on his knees, face against the pillow. He eased him back slowly, so that Roger's cock was deep inside him.
Roger ran a hand down his spine and Rafa twisted to look back over his shoulder. His mouth was red and bitten, his cheeks flushed pink, his eyes unfocused. Roger slid his hand up Rafa's spine and into his hair, letting himself clutch at a handful. Rafa froze, then turned his face into the pillow with a desperate groan, almost a growl. It was nothing like the sounds Roger had heard him make on court.
Roger fucked him in that position, slow and hard, letting his balls slap with every thrust, grinding in to the hilt every time. He let go of Rafa's hair and dragged his nails down Rafa's back, along the deep ridge of his spine. Rafa's body made a graceful line, his back hollowed and his hips raised. Roger could see the curve of his jaw and the way his lips moved almost silently.
He didn't want to spin it out any more. He couldn't.
Roger bore him flat to the bed, sinking into his body, tight and slick. "You're mine," he whispered, bending over Rafa's ear. The pink curve of it was exposed though locks of dark hair. "Caught. How do you like it?"
He meant it as a joke, mostly, but when Rafa turned his face his eyes were black and a little wary. Their lips were inches apart.
"I-- I not know," he said. He was blushing deep red. "I--I like."
Roger kissed him. Rafa caught his tongue with his own and their lips slid together, awkward at that angle, messy, perfect.
"You can suck my cock after this," Roger said. He didn't mean that, either, he just wanted to say it, to push Rafa higher. Rafa's eyelashes fluttered and his mouth fell open. Roger ground in deeper, moaning, abruptly right on the edge. Rafa had clenched tight around him.
"Si, si, yes," Rafa said, almost silently, then he frowned and twisted away, hiding his face in the pillow once more.
Roger couldn't stop after that. He should probably get Rafa off as well, but he couldn't even think about a reach-around. The bed began to bang against the wall in dull thumps. Roger stared at the twisted belt and the dip at the base of Rafa's spine. The muscles there moved under tanned skin.
He ran his fingers over the belt, hooking them in to pull it tighter. Rafa groaned into the pillow and squirmed, spreading his knees. He should've asked, but he hadn't. He was lucky that Rafa was so into it. His heart pounded. Sweat dripped down his temple, like the faint gleaming sheen of sweat all over Rafa's skin.
"Oh, yeah. Yes," Roger hissed, and ground down into him, and started to come. He braced his hands on the bed and closed his eyes, going with it, panting hard.
He opened them again when Rafa made a small choked sound under him.
"Okay. It's okay," Roger said. He pulled out, then worked at the belt with his fingers, loosening it and then unwinding it. Underneath, Rafa's wrists were red. Roger ran his thumb over the marks. When Rafa rolled over, his face was red too.
"Do you want a hand job?" Roger said.
"No," said Rafa, and he bit his lower lip, making a vague gesture downwards with his right hand. Rafa's stomach, and the sheets under him, were smeared with come. Roger pulled off the condom and threw it over where he guessed the waste basket was.
"Oh," said Roger, and he stared at Rafa's flush and the way his throat was working. His eyes were still black, fixed on Roger's face. Hair was stuck in long strands across his cheeks. Roger swallowed. "You really liked that, huh?"
Rafa nodded. "Was good," he mumbled, staring.
Roger patted his leg, then stood and walked to the mini fridge.
They sat side by side on the bed and drank coke. Rafa's wrists were flaming red, and Roger wondered how he was going to explain that to his uncle.
"You do this--like this--a lot?" Rafa asked. He was pressing the Coke can to his wrist. Beads of moisture rolled off red metal and onto his skin.
Roger almost said yes. Yeah, sure, all the time. He tied up lots of guys. But his face felt hot, and he suspected Rafa would know he was lying.
"No," he said. "Only once before. I...guess I should've asked, you know?"
Rafa nodded, but he didn't look unhappy that Roger hadn't asked, or like he was thinking of Roger at all. Roger gripped his can tighter and then reached for Rafa's wrist and gripped that. He tried to do it gently.
Rafa looked at him, lips parted and wet. "What?" he said.
"I don't know."
Rafa leaned in, slowly enough that the tension in Roger's stomach had plenty of time to wind up tight, and kissed him. It was short and soft. Roger let go of his wrist.
"I am go," Rafa said. "Have to," he corrected. "Have to go. Toni will look for me."
Roger nodded and watched while Rafa stood and dressed.
"I'll see you around," Roger said, when Rafa paused at the door.
Rafa smiled at him. "Yes. We play, no? I hope soon."
***
When Rafa got outside, he had to sit down on the curb a minute. Things spun around him, mostly his thoughts, but also bits of the world. The streetlights were heavily haloed by water vapour, and when he stared at them, other things seemed to blur as well. He put his face in his hands and breathed.
The heat of his wrists was palpable on his face. He had to find a long sleeved shirt. He might have to borrow one off Feli.
Roger Federer, his brain said. His brain still sounded awed, but now Rafa was thinking of Roger's anxious face and the way he'd almost managed to apologize but not quite. It made Rafa smile.
His phone bleeped at him. It was a text from Toni demanding to know where he was and telling him he'd have early practice tomorrow and he'd better not be out drinking.
The normality of it got Rafa on his feet and walking. He checked the time. He hadn't been gone that long, certainly not more than an hour. He grinned up into the hazy glow of the lights and the black sky beyond. He felt like a different person.
Toni would be waiting. The streets were quiet. The sweet scent of flowers floated out on the warm air from flower beds. As he walked, he thought of something to tell Toni, because Toni would be able to see something on Rafa's face.
There would be a girl, and he'd met her in the player's lounge, and they'd gone for a walk and he'd kissed her. That was simple and straightforward. He kicked a small jagged stone along in front of him until it pinged off someone's expensive looking alloy. It was far more straightforward than the truth. It was more believable, too. There were a lot of stories that would be more believable than the truth.
He usually felt bad when he lied to Toni, but not this time. He had a secret, about Roger and about himself. There were lots of reasons why he needed to keep it, but only one seemed important.
He needed to keep it like a treasure, like a keepsake, a thing to take out and look at and remember. He would remember tonight, always, even if it never happened again. And he would make sure Roger remembered him.
He'd get better, and he would see Roger around. At least on court. Maybe off court, too.
Authors: emungere and louiselux
Fandom: tennis rps
Pairing: Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Warnings: explicit m/m, not safe for work
Notes: thanks to morebliss and buckle_berry just for being awesome.
Summary: Rafa and Roger meet at Wimbledon in 2003, when Rafa is 17 and Roger is 21. They spend an unusual evening together.
"Is this cheese?" Rafa asked.
The pasta on his plate had small white flecks in between the bits of unidentifiable vegetable matter. He could take it back, but there was a long queue at the food counter and he had to be on court in an hour. He hadn't even fetched his racquets from the stringer's yet.
"Eat some and find out," Toni said, carrying on with his plate of lasagne. He was reading yesterday's copy of Marca at the same time, his glasses slipping down his nose. All around them was laughter, talk, but in between Rafa noticed the still and silent faces of nervous players. He always noticed them the most.
"But if I eat it I might puke," Rafa said. The pasta had a glutinous shine to it.
"Rafael," Toni said. "Don't talk like that at the table, please."
"Hmm, sorry. But I hate cheese."
"It's probably not cheese. Eat some; otherwise it's going to be wasted. Think about all the children in Africa who'd want that food."
Rafa gave in and chewed a forkful. It wasn't cheese. Good. He ploughed into the rest, looking about him as he ate. Marat Safin was in one corner, laughing. A lot of the Spanish players were out already, but Feli was huddled at one table with his coach, their heads together. Toni had steered them away when Rafa had wanted to eat with them.
Rafa scanned the room, not letting himself think about who he was looking for, but he saw him soon enough. He was at a table that sat near the doors to the terrace, his dark head bent over some sheets of paper, making notes with a pencil. Between making notes, with a thoughtful look and a frown, the end would slip into his mouth. Rafa watched the slight flex of his jaw muscles as he bit on it. In front of him on the table stood a glass jug of water and a bottle of strawberry milk.
Roger Federer. Toni had started talking about Roger a lot in the last two years. In his opinion, Roger could be the best one day soon. He was the best player without a slam, Toni always said. His problem was all in the head, which was something Rafa should take into account should they ever play.
Rafa thought he was cool, for a lot of reasons that weren't all to do with how he played tennis, although that was important too. He dressed well, and he smiled a lot, and he had long hair. Rafa was growing his out, but at the moment it hung around his cheekbones like a kid's haircut, and he wasn't a kid anymore. He was as tall as Tommy, and he had bigger biceps.
But even more than the way Roger looked, Rafa admired his confidence. He had a sort of personal gravity that made everyone in the room centre around him. Was that a natural thing, or something he did on purpose? Really, Rafa thought, chewing his pasta and watching Roger, it seemed utterly instinctive.
"You want to go over and say hi?" Toni said, making him jump. He hadn't even noticed Toni watching him. "You want to hit with him?"
"What? He'd never hit with someone like me!"
Toni smiled. "I'll ask his manager, how about that? How about tomorrow morning?"
"Nooo, Uncle! Don't!"
Toni laughed and looked at his watch. "Better get your racquets. I'll meet you in the lockers in 15 minutes. Don't be late."
Rafa took a last look at Roger, then cleared his tray and sped off. He jogged most of the way there, aware of the time running away from him, and of the tightening of nerves in his gut. The stringers were busy and he had to wait. Finally his racquets were done and bagged and he was allowed to scoop them up and run. He knew the way. Cut across the edge of the car park, behind the gift shop, around the edge of the practise courts...
He was running fast when he hit someone coming around a corner, hard. They made a surprised 'Ooof'. Rafa fell backwards and his racquets scattered, clattering on the concrete path. He groaned, thinking of Toni's face if they were damaged.
"Hey, they're okay," someone said. "But how about you?"
Rafa looked up to see Roger, leaning down over him, squinting from the sun in his eyes. His hair hung all around his tanned face, not tied back. His eyes were very brown. His extended hand, when Rafa grabbed it, was rough and hard. Roger pulled him up.
"I-I-- Lo siento," Rafa stuttered, panicking as his English deserted him.
"You were going like a cannonball," Roger said. "Are you playing a match?"
"Soon," Rafa managed, scrabbling for his racquets. Roger helped him. Rafa dropped them again. "Two o' clock."
"Juniors?" said Roger, looking at him, up and down.
"No. Senior," Rafa said. His chest was tight.
Roger put his hand on Rafa's shoulder. "What's your name?"
"Rafael Nadal."
"Oh! I've heard of you," Roger said.
"What? You have?" Rafa hoped he wasn't gaping unattractively. He suddenly became aware of the old pimples on his cheek and his stupid baggy t-shirt that he'd dribbled cola down this morning. Roger looked amazing, sort of smooth and lean and neat everywhere.
"Yeah, I chatted with your uncle a couple of times," Roger said. "He's a good guy. Good luck with the match. I hope you win."
"Uh. Thank you very much."
Roger looked him up and down again, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The tip of his tongue appeared on his lower lip for an instant. Gazing at him, Rafa was faintly shocked to realise he was almost the same height as Roger.
"Maybe I'll see you again later?" Roger said. "I hope so."
See him later? Where? Did he mean in the café? Or the locker room, or where?
"I hope also," Rafa said. He looked at his watch and was horrified to see the big hand nearly at 30 minutes past. "Puta! So late. Sorry."
Roger Federer hoped he'd win. Rafa ran, racquets clutched in one arm, and clenched a fist. He'd do his best.
***
Roger flicked through the sheets of player information until he found the entry he was looking for. Rafael Nadal gazed back at him very seriously. Who the hell looked like that at sixteen? He could still feel where Rafa had smacked into him. Roger had put a hand on his arm for a moment to steady him, and it'd felt like iron.
He looked older, otherwise Roger would never've thought about giving him even a vague come on. He stretched out on the sofa of his hotel room, bare feet pressing against the smooth leather, and he thought about the luscious curve of Nadal's ass as he'd bent down to pick up his stuff. Amazing ass, long legs, pretty face, and those spooky intense eyes that'd seemed to be eating Roger up. Roger liked that, too much.
He pushed one hand down the front of his shorts. He'd probably go down on Roger, if Roger asked; if he walked up to him later in the bar and said it in his ear. He let himself imagine it. He pushed one hand into his underwear and cupped his cock as it stiffened. He pictured Nadal's red lips around his cock, sliding up and down, sucking him off. Sucking his cock and moaning. Or bent over and moaning. His skin had been hot and smooth.
"Oh god, yeah," he said. It took a few quick strokes, working himself fast and tight. He looked down at the dark and swollen head of his cock where it was clenched in his fist and thought of that body spread out under him, then he came on his stomach.
He lay still for a few minutes, glad that he didn't have to be anywhere for the next-- he checked his watch-- forty minutes. He scrabbled for the TV remote and the machine buzzed into life. They were playing highlights. He watched, half thinking about getting ready for practise, feeling his limbs get heavier. Then Nadal was on screen, being interviewed after his second round win against Childs.
He was trying to grow his hair out, that was clear. It touched his cheekbones in dark curls. He was half muscular, half lanky, golden brown from the sun, his full mouth--that Roger had imagined doing so much else-- quick to break into a smile. His English was really bad. He wasn't even old enough to be properly shaving.
Roger wanted him.
He swallowed and turned on his side, pillowing his head on one arm. He wondered if he had time to go again.
***
Rafa was out in the third round. Toni seemed satisfied with it. "You will do better next year," Toni said, but Toni always said that. Rafa wanted to do better this year. Especially since Roger Federer had said he hoped he'd win. He had won that match, at least, and if he were at all superstitious--but he wasn't.
Toni had pounded all thoughts of lucky and lucky out of his head years ago. He'd played as well as he could, and maybe better, but Roger's words hadn't made him lucky. They'd just given him extra motivation. That was right and sensible, but he still heard a stubborn child's voice at the back of his mind suggesting that if anyone could bend the laws of nature, it was definitely Roger Federer.
Rafa twitched in his tight jeans and fought the urge to readjust himself or his underwear. The two nights before this he'd come down to the players' lounge in his good clothes, nice trousers his mama had bought and a shirt with a collar that buttoned down. Feli had taken him aside last night and asked what the hell he was doing.
"Are you trying to give people a bad impression of our country?"
"What?" Rafa had said.
"The clothes. I know not everyone is born with fashion sense, but you look like a kid who's outgrown his school uniform."
Rafa's eyes had gone, with horrible inevitability, to where Roger sat with Andy Roddick and Marat Safin. Feli had laughed at him a lot, was in fact still laughing at him, but had also helped him choose his clothes tonight.
Rafa wasn't sure whether he should be grateful or angry. He felt squirmy. Everything was too tight, everywhere. He wished he hadn't worn underwear at all. There wasn't room for it.
On the other hand, Roger was looking at him. Rafa blinked. Roger was actually coming towards him, smiling, and Rafa looked stupidly over his shoulder for whoever that smile was really meant for. There was no one there.
When he turned back, Roger was close. He smelled good.
"I saw your match," Roger said. "You played well."
"I lost."
Roger shrugged. "You're only sixteen. The third round at Wimbledon? That's pretty good for sixteen."
"Seventeen," Rafa said. "I--I have birthday this month."
Roger's smile grew warmer. "Happy birthday," he said.
"Thank you very much. You really think is good?"
Roger's expression changed, becoming more serious. Rafa felt himself staring. Up close Roger was really hard to look away from. "I played juniors here until I was eighteen, so yeah, I do think you've done well." He smiled. "You deserve a drink or something. Let me buy you one."
"I no drink. Sorry."
"Oh? Me neither." Roger touched his forearm, just with the tips of his fingers. "How about an ice cream instead? There's a shop across the road from here, we could get one."
"But. But-- what about... " Rafa looked around. No one was paying them any attention, not even Feli. "You are sure?"
"Why not?" Roger said. His gaze dipped to Rafa's mouth, lingering, and he smiled in an irresistible way. "It's not much, but let's call it a late birthday present. I know, it's so generous of me."
Rafa smiled back, unable to stop himself. "Yes, please," he said out loud.
They walked along the tarmac paths in the warm night air. Dusk had settled, and the sky was dark blue. Traffic roared dully in the background, behind the quiet grounds. They made their way out onto the road, where a row of shops stood, brightly lit against the night. The air smelled of dust. On the way, Roger talked to him about what he thought his chances of winning were this year, and about the best matches he'd played. Rafa thought it was the most amazing ten minutes of his life so far.
"You never get past any quarter final yet in the slam," Rafa said.
"How do you know that?" Roger said.
"I follow your career," Rafa said, and then said it again when Roger didn't understand him.
"Career, right. Oh, you do?" He looked pleased. "That must be fun for you."
Rafa sucked on his lower lip, wondering if he should make a complete fool of himself. Why not? He'd probably never have this chance again. "I believe you win this time," he said. "This year."
Roger looked at him, then laughed. "You sound more sure than my coach."
Rafa watched the way he moved, laughed, the way he pushed his hair back impatiently. He found himself hopelessly caught by all of it. "For sure, you win it," he said more confidently, as if he could make it happen just by saying it.
Roger's shoulder bumped his as they walked. "Thanks," Roger said.
In the shop, Roger bought him the ice cream he wanted: vanilla with chocolate coating, and nuts, and bits of toffee. Roger had the same, and they unwrapped them and ate them walking back. Roger asked him about Mallorca and Rafa answered as best he could.
"Are you leaving tomorrow?" Roger asked, as they slipped in through the gate, showing their passes to the guard there.
"Leaving? No. My parents - they have friends to meet. So I stay for practise."
"That's good thinking. You could learn a lot."
Rafa had an electric tingle somewhere in his stomach. "Yeah. I wanna watch you."
They stopped walking. Roger threw his ice cream stick into a waste bin. "I'm flattered," he said.
Roger looked to each side of the path, as if checking that no one was about, and Rafa couldn't work out why he was doing that, right until Roger stepped closer and leaned towards him, and kissed him on the mouth.
Time seemed to slow down. His lips were cold from the ice cream, and sweet. They were soft and pliant, sliding against Rafa's own. Rafa gasped, open mouthed, and Roger pulled away before Rafa had time to kiss him back.
"You like that?" Roger murmured. He sounded painfully gentle.
"Y--yeah."
"Come back to my room?" Roger said.
"I-I-- Now?"
"You don't have to."
Rafa realised he had one hand twisted into Roger's jacket. He let go, reluctantly. "I want, yes. Yes. Please. Yes."
Roger put a hand on his waist, fingers just pushing up under the t-shirt that Feli had lent him. "I'll drive us. It's very close."
Rafa stared at his lower lip, which was slightly wet, and at the angles and shadows of his deep set eyes. Toni wouldn't miss him for hours yet. That meant they had hours to... Oh God.
"Okay," he mumbled. His too-tight jeans were even tighter now.
Roger was staying at a small hotel nearby. It had potted palms outside in brass boxes. Roger said hello to the doorman. He kissed Rafa again while they were in the lift, pressing him back against the panel of buttons while the blood pounded in Rafa's temples and the brass handrail dug into his spine. This time, Rafa dared to kiss him back.
Roger's room was small and cramped with suitcases and kit, piles of newspapers, clothes. The bed stood in the middle, a neat island in the chaos, its white sheets turned down, inviting Rafa in. Rafa looked around as Roger closed and then locked the door.
"Just in case," Roger said. Rafa didn't ask in case of what, although he thought he should. He didn't dare. "Do you want a coke?"
"No," Rafa said. "Thank you very much. No."
Roger unzipped his hoodie and shrugged it off onto a chair, then walked to where Rafa stood, and put his hands on Rafa's shoulders. Rafa could be cool about this, and follow Roger's lead, and everything would be fine. He was still thinking that when he heard himself making a kind of gasping noise. He threw his arms around Roger's neck, closed his eyes and kissed him. It was kind of hard to find his mouth at first, with his eyes closed, and that was awkward. He had his mouth on Roger's jaw, pressed against stubble. Roger started to say something just before their lips finally met and touched.
Roger's body was solid all over, like a wall. He tasted sweet and his lips were warm now, soft and inviting. He pushed his tongue into Rafa's mouth, opening him wide. He traced over Rafa's tongue and his teeth, and over the roof of his mouth. They kissed for a long time, just standing pressed together. He found out that Roger made an amazing soft moan when Rafa sucked on his tongue. Roger's arm crushed tight round his waist.
"Let's go to bed," Roger said, in a hoarse voice.
The bed was very hard. Rafa struggled out of his clothes awkwardly, lying on his back, wishing he'd thought to get undressed standing up like Roger had. He watched as Roger stripped, as his bare legs were revealed, and his chest. Rafa was used to nudity, but this was something new. He stared at Roger's chest and stomach, and the heavy hard length of his cock. His mouth got so dry he couldn't even speak. Roger came closer and knelt on the bed, moving towards him on hands and knees as Rafa lay back.
"Are we going to fuck?" Rafa said, hoping it sounded casual.
Roger smiled, very sweetly, like he was amused. "Yeah, if you want that?" he said, and as he said it, the head of his cock brushed Rafa's thigh. He was gazing down, looking at everything Rafa had. "You've done it before? With a guy?"
"Two times," Rafa said, firmly. No need to mention it hadn't gone quite right either time.
***
Roger settled back on Rafa's thighs, glad the answer had been yes. Twice, even. He wasn't sure how careful he could be with Rafa naked and stretched out under him, his for the next few hours.
"Good," he said. "That's good. Girls, too, or no?" He pressed a hand flat to Rafa's chest and ran it down over his smooth skin, all the way to his hip.
"Once," Rafa said. He was staring at Roger's hand, now quite near his cock, which stood up stiff against his belly. "It not so good."
"That will be hard on the tour," Roger said. "Keeping it secret. You should get a girlfriend, even just for show." He'd been given that advice himself, and tried it out. It hadn't worked very well, he had to admit.
"Like you?" Rafa said. His voice was strained now. "You see that girl, two years."
Roger closed his hand around Rafa's cock and just held it, felt it twitch as Rafa rolled his head on the pillow and inhaled sharply.
"It didn't work out," Roger said. "I like cock too much. Maybe I should hire someone, you think?" That was what Tony thought, that he should hire a girl to go to functions with. Roger thought it sounded incredibly tedious.
Rafa just moaned. His eyes slipped shut as Roger's hand tightened, and his hips twisted up.
Roger smiled down at him. Rafa's hands were flexing open and closed on air. His stomach muscles were tight, and those impressive biceps clenched and strained until Roger could see the grain of his muscle under the skin. His hair fell across his face. It was just long enough to catch at the wet corner of his mouth.
Roger brushed it away and kissed him softly. His own hair fell down to touch Rafa's pink cheeks. "I want to fuck you now," he said, against Rafa's lips. "Turn over."
He backed off to let Rafa move and watched him flop over onto his stomach, less graceful than he was on court, more desperate. Roger put a hand on the back of his neck and smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "You stay just like that."
He reached for the lube and pushed Rafa's thighs apart. Rafa's skin was fever-hot, soft, smooth. When Roger's fingers touched his hole, a shudder went through him, and he sucked in air.
"It's all right," Roger told him, and kissed the base of his spine as he pressed one finger inside. Under him, face pressed to the pillow, Rafa made a small keening noise and groped back with one hand until he touched Roger's knee.
A noise from the hall caught Roger for a moment. The laughter and footsteps passed soon enough, but his quick glance toward the door had tripped over his belt, coiled loosely on the floor by the bed, well within reach.
He looked at Rafa's wrist and grasping fingers, back to the belt, back to Rafa again. The tendons and tiny bones stood out, strong and defined, under his skin.
Roger bit his lip. He pushed another finger in, careless, maybe too hard from the sound Rafa made. He spread his other hand out over Rafa's back and stroked him, murmured apologies and soothing words. He looked at Rafa's wrist again. Could hardly look away.
He'd done it once before, and his stomach tightened and his cock hardened with the memory of it. And it would be better, he was sure, with Rafa. The other boy had treated it as a bit of a joke. Rafa wouldn't do that. He would moan, and say Roger's name in that half-awed tone, and maybe--maybe be just the tiniest bit scared, until Roger reassured him.
Roger had grasped Rafa's wrist before he could think it all through. Rafa twisted round to look at him, eyes wide and very dark, gold-brown nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils. Roger's other hand reached down and snagged the belt, all on its own. Rafa's eyes got still wider when he saw it.
Probably Roger was supposed to ask, but he didn't. He pulled Rafa's other wrist in and wound the belt around and around. It was cloth, and folded easily against Rafa's skin, digging in just a fraction. Roger tied it off and pulled the end back through the buckle to secure it. He swallowed hard.
Rafa's lips were parted. His body shook with his breath. A long, silent moment curled between them. Roger's mouth was dry.
"It's all right," he whispered, and stroked down Rafa's muscled arm. "It's all right, shh."
Only then did Rafa speak, letting out a ragged sound that was Roger's name and a plea, both at once. Roger's cock throbbed in response. He rolled on a condom, slicked his fingers and dipped them into Rafa's body again. Rafa's hands clenched and his bonds made a creaking sound, muscles flexing all along his arms. Slowly, with a low moan, he raised his hips.
Roger pulled his fingers out. His heart was hammering now. He spread Rafa's ass, one smooth round cheek in each hand, and pushed his cock in, almost certainly too fast and too hard. He stilled, squeezing his eyes tight shut at the rush. Below him, Rafa cried out against the pillow, twisting almost away from him.
"Roger. Oh, Roger. Oh. Oh." He sounded like all the breath had been squeezed out of his lungs.
"Sorry. It's all right," Roger whispered again, listening to his own voice, sounding so amazingly calm. He slid his hands under Rafa's hips and raised him, helping him up and back so that he was on his knees, face against the pillow. He eased him back slowly, so that Roger's cock was deep inside him.
Roger ran a hand down his spine and Rafa twisted to look back over his shoulder. His mouth was red and bitten, his cheeks flushed pink, his eyes unfocused. Roger slid his hand up Rafa's spine and into his hair, letting himself clutch at a handful. Rafa froze, then turned his face into the pillow with a desperate groan, almost a growl. It was nothing like the sounds Roger had heard him make on court.
Roger fucked him in that position, slow and hard, letting his balls slap with every thrust, grinding in to the hilt every time. He let go of Rafa's hair and dragged his nails down Rafa's back, along the deep ridge of his spine. Rafa's body made a graceful line, his back hollowed and his hips raised. Roger could see the curve of his jaw and the way his lips moved almost silently.
He didn't want to spin it out any more. He couldn't.
Roger bore him flat to the bed, sinking into his body, tight and slick. "You're mine," he whispered, bending over Rafa's ear. The pink curve of it was exposed though locks of dark hair. "Caught. How do you like it?"
He meant it as a joke, mostly, but when Rafa turned his face his eyes were black and a little wary. Their lips were inches apart.
"I-- I not know," he said. He was blushing deep red. "I--I like."
Roger kissed him. Rafa caught his tongue with his own and their lips slid together, awkward at that angle, messy, perfect.
"You can suck my cock after this," Roger said. He didn't mean that, either, he just wanted to say it, to push Rafa higher. Rafa's eyelashes fluttered and his mouth fell open. Roger ground in deeper, moaning, abruptly right on the edge. Rafa had clenched tight around him.
"Si, si, yes," Rafa said, almost silently, then he frowned and twisted away, hiding his face in the pillow once more.
Roger couldn't stop after that. He should probably get Rafa off as well, but he couldn't even think about a reach-around. The bed began to bang against the wall in dull thumps. Roger stared at the twisted belt and the dip at the base of Rafa's spine. The muscles there moved under tanned skin.
He ran his fingers over the belt, hooking them in to pull it tighter. Rafa groaned into the pillow and squirmed, spreading his knees. He should've asked, but he hadn't. He was lucky that Rafa was so into it. His heart pounded. Sweat dripped down his temple, like the faint gleaming sheen of sweat all over Rafa's skin.
"Oh, yeah. Yes," Roger hissed, and ground down into him, and started to come. He braced his hands on the bed and closed his eyes, going with it, panting hard.
He opened them again when Rafa made a small choked sound under him.
"Okay. It's okay," Roger said. He pulled out, then worked at the belt with his fingers, loosening it and then unwinding it. Underneath, Rafa's wrists were red. Roger ran his thumb over the marks. When Rafa rolled over, his face was red too.
"Do you want a hand job?" Roger said.
"No," said Rafa, and he bit his lower lip, making a vague gesture downwards with his right hand. Rafa's stomach, and the sheets under him, were smeared with come. Roger pulled off the condom and threw it over where he guessed the waste basket was.
"Oh," said Roger, and he stared at Rafa's flush and the way his throat was working. His eyes were still black, fixed on Roger's face. Hair was stuck in long strands across his cheeks. Roger swallowed. "You really liked that, huh?"
Rafa nodded. "Was good," he mumbled, staring.
Roger patted his leg, then stood and walked to the mini fridge.
They sat side by side on the bed and drank coke. Rafa's wrists were flaming red, and Roger wondered how he was going to explain that to his uncle.
"You do this--like this--a lot?" Rafa asked. He was pressing the Coke can to his wrist. Beads of moisture rolled off red metal and onto his skin.
Roger almost said yes. Yeah, sure, all the time. He tied up lots of guys. But his face felt hot, and he suspected Rafa would know he was lying.
"No," he said. "Only once before. I...guess I should've asked, you know?"
Rafa nodded, but he didn't look unhappy that Roger hadn't asked, or like he was thinking of Roger at all. Roger gripped his can tighter and then reached for Rafa's wrist and gripped that. He tried to do it gently.
Rafa looked at him, lips parted and wet. "What?" he said.
"I don't know."
Rafa leaned in, slowly enough that the tension in Roger's stomach had plenty of time to wind up tight, and kissed him. It was short and soft. Roger let go of his wrist.
"I am go," Rafa said. "Have to," he corrected. "Have to go. Toni will look for me."
Roger nodded and watched while Rafa stood and dressed.
"I'll see you around," Roger said, when Rafa paused at the door.
Rafa smiled at him. "Yes. We play, no? I hope soon."
***
When Rafa got outside, he had to sit down on the curb a minute. Things spun around him, mostly his thoughts, but also bits of the world. The streetlights were heavily haloed by water vapour, and when he stared at them, other things seemed to blur as well. He put his face in his hands and breathed.
The heat of his wrists was palpable on his face. He had to find a long sleeved shirt. He might have to borrow one off Feli.
Roger Federer, his brain said. His brain still sounded awed, but now Rafa was thinking of Roger's anxious face and the way he'd almost managed to apologize but not quite. It made Rafa smile.
His phone bleeped at him. It was a text from Toni demanding to know where he was and telling him he'd have early practice tomorrow and he'd better not be out drinking.
The normality of it got Rafa on his feet and walking. He checked the time. He hadn't been gone that long, certainly not more than an hour. He grinned up into the hazy glow of the lights and the black sky beyond. He felt like a different person.
Toni would be waiting. The streets were quiet. The sweet scent of flowers floated out on the warm air from flower beds. As he walked, he thought of something to tell Toni, because Toni would be able to see something on Rafa's face.
There would be a girl, and he'd met her in the player's lounge, and they'd gone for a walk and he'd kissed her. That was simple and straightforward. He kicked a small jagged stone along in front of him until it pinged off someone's expensive looking alloy. It was far more straightforward than the truth. It was more believable, too. There were a lot of stories that would be more believable than the truth.
He usually felt bad when he lied to Toni, but not this time. He had a secret, about Roger and about himself. There were lots of reasons why he needed to keep it, but only one seemed important.
He needed to keep it like a treasure, like a keepsake, a thing to take out and look at and remember. He would remember tonight, always, even if it never happened again. And he would make sure Roger remembered him.
He'd get better, and he would see Roger around. At least on court. Maybe off court, too.