What I have to say about the invitation
Title: What I have to say about the invitation
Pairing: Mario Ancic/Simone Bolelli
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4,038
Warning: heavy angst
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters and this is a fiction.
Summary: Mario gets an unexpected visit from the mailman and sometimes, time isn’t the best cure.
Author’s note: The story is set during last summer, which starts with Mario’s POV and moves onto Simone’s. Happy birthday to my dear friend crystaleyesd. I wish you all the best and may we remain good friends till your next birthday :) gordos kindly made time to beta read for me. Thank you, Gordie!
So you're getting married.
I suppose a few words of congratulations are in order, but excuse me if I don’t feel like it. The mailman just dropped off the wedding invitation you kindly sent me and I prefer to punch you in the face.
Why did you send me this? What were you thinking? Why weren’t you thinking? We broke up three months ago and you want me to come to your wedding? Does your bride know who I am? Does she know you sent out a card to someone you used to share a bed with? A life with?
I honestly can’t get why you sent me this. What do you want me to do? To RSVP and check if I have something decent to wear? Or do you want me to feel guilty about how we broke up? Because you think I haven’t been punished enough for pushing you out of my life? Is that what this is about? You think I don’t wake up in the morning and feel chilly even when it’s mid July? You’re not here anymore, Bolelli. You walked out of my life! So just stay there! I don’t need you to remind me that you’re not with me anymore, okay? Don’t send me anything. This is a warning. And, don’t come visit me in my dreams either. I don’t need you. I don’t love you.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell like that. It’s just that I didn’t expect you to send me anything, not to mention a wedding invitation. I didn’t even know you were getting married. I did hear from a couple of player friends that a young model seemed to be following you around but Jesus, it’s only been three months. You wanted to replace me that bad? Where did you even find a woman you want in your life so quickly? I never knew you were into models. But then, I guess I never really knew you. We even lived together for a couple of months, but still, I sometimes feel like I never knew you.
There’s no point in asking this, but if we had tried harder to know each other better, do you think we could’ve got past it? Do you think you would’ve still been a bachelor if I didn’t drive you insane? I know that feeling sick wasn’t an excuse to treat you that way. I know that you put up with my cranky moods for so long, and for what it’s worth, I appreciate your effort. You’ve been an amazing boyfriend until you decided to pack your bags and leave me in the middle of the night.
Yes, I did read your letter the next morning, but that’s not my point. You left me. Just like that. You left me without having the gut to say it to my face. What kind of coward does that? You left me there all alone in our house where there were so many memories of us. I couldn’t fucking move that day, you know. I stayed in bed for god knows how long, because I was too afraid to run into something that would remind me of you. And, even though I was painfully aware that you left me, a stupid part of me couldn’t stop hoping that outside that bedroom door, you might be having breakfast like any other day. You were always up earlier, remember? You usually tried your best to wait till I got up, but sometimes you were too hungry and started to eat first. All day and all night, I stared at that door. I was too terrified to open it and see for myself that you actually left me for good. I guess I was a coward too. Maybe you and I weren’t that different, after all.
I had a dream last night. I was dancing with you at a party, showing off to everyone that you were mine, that I was the one who had won your heart. The music was relaxing and you fit perfectly in my arms, and even though it was a dream, I remember very clearly how you laughed when the guy with the saxophone had missed a note. After you finally stopped mocking at the poor man, we talked about how funny it had been to take dance classes together. You used to claim that you’d always liked to dance, but let’s face it, you were quite horrible at it, and I had never enjoyed that particular activity until I had managed to find pleasure in learning it with you.
Wait. Am I still talking about the dream or about what we shared for real? I’m confused. But then, our relationship has been all about confusion. We didn’t know how to talk to each other. We only knew how to jump each other, assuming that it would somehow get the message to the other side of the bed as if we were really talking. Sometimes we would wear happy faces and hit the ceiling so hard that made us fall faster and harder towards the ground. Sometimes we were so upset and depressed that we dug holes with our own hands and buried ourselves in them, not aware of what we had just done. You and I had so many bright days and dark nights together until one night, I never saw the day again.
Do you know what it feels like to be left alone in a hole? Do you know what it’s like to keep waiting for someone to rescue you? It was after four weeks that I realized that you weren't coming back, that I had to leave there on my own. So I decided to move and tried to sit up, and it was only then that I realized that I was in restraints. Your eyes gently looking into mine, the back of your hand wiping the sweat off my forehead, all the Italian jokes you told me, the delicious spaghetti sauce you brought from your hometown all came slicing me at once. I felt blood burst out of my back, my insides turn into pieces of rock and ugly pusses fill up the hole.
It hurt so much that I couldn’t even cry out! I wanted to ask for help, but I knew there was nobody out there who knew where I was. Except for you. You were the only one who could’ve rescued me, but the only one who must’ve wanted me exactly where I was. That’s when I stopped loving you. I stopped loving myself, loving this world, and loving the concept of love.
I suppose this invitation doesn’t mean anything after all. This is me being the drama queen as I always used to be. You probably sent out this piece of paper to a lot of players or who knows if your bride hasn’t just sent it out to all of the top hundred? I think I’m ninety two or something this week, so perhaps my theory’s right.
So if you want to know whether I’ll be at your wedding, the answer is no. I have no intention whatsoever in seeing you give your whole life to some random girl. In fact, I have no intention in seeing you at all.
Goodbye, Simone. I’m going to burn this paper and go to bed now. It’s over. Everything is.
Seven months later, February 2010, Belgrade
So here I am, standing in front of my locker, wondering if I should shed a few tears over my win. Ever since I got married, I only managed to win four matches. Four. Geez, what an ugly number that is. Given how my last win came half a year ago and how I’m currently ranked outside the top 100, I guess I don’t have to say it out loud that I’m not the marrying kind. Or who knows? Maybe I didn’t get married to the right person. Oh well, whatever. I’m going to finish drying my hair and go back to the hotel for a nap.
Wait. What are these under my eyes? Dark circles? I take a closer look at my face while thanking the tournament for putting mirrors on the lockers even when it is a challenger event. Man, I’ve got to do something about this. I’ll grab one of my wife’s eye creams and put on a facial mask before I take that nap. That should do for now. I’ll come up with something better once I get back home.
I take out my stuff from the locker and am about to shut it closed when I hear someone come into the locker room. I take a glance in the mirror, hoping that it would be someone I know. I usually have quite some players to joke with, but here, I’ve felt pretty much alone. However, as I get a clear view of the player who has just walked in, I wish that I was anywhere but here. Anywhere.
It’s him. He’s back; back on tour, back in front of me, and this probably means back in my dreams as well. I slam the locker shut, not able to control my emotions or my strength. Damn, he must’ve spotted me. I should’ve sneaked out before he noticed that I was here. What am I supposed to do now? I try my best not to shiver and put the towel over my head. I’m just drying my hair, you know. I’m not hiding from him or from this brutal world. I’m just drying my hair.
Okay. I think my hair is dry now. He still can’t be here, right? I’ve been drying my hair for god knows how long. He can’t be here and he really shouldn’t be. This is a small locker room and I’m not strong enough to face him where there’s no place to hide. I’m not the type of player who checks the draw or the order of play. I always leave it to my coach. And, since I’ve recently hired a new coach as a desperate attempt to save my sinking career, he didn’t warn me about Ancic and I didn’t know he was here. Did he know I was here? Did he care? Did he wince when he saw my name?
Wow, how delusional of me to think that he would even bother to wince. Let’s face it. I don’t mean anything to him anymore. I left him, just like that, not even having the gut to say it to his face. I was devastated when he told me he had to take another long break from tennis. I had done everything in my power to help him get better, only to see him fall out of the world again. That’s when the nightmare began. He started to yell at me, to cry at night, and to throw things against the wall. I tried to understand how hard it must be for him to take up another fight against mono, but he yelled at me, saying that there was no way I could possibly understand him.
Ouch, that still hurts. Really, I deserved better than that. I wanted to yell back at him and tell him how hard it was for me as well; how hard it was to see him get weaker and thinner, and to leave him behind when I had to fly out to a tournament. It wasn’t easy on either of us, but he couldn’t stop yelling at me. He was filled up with so much anger and one night, I realized with a disgusting amount of pain that the anger had taken up most of the space inside him. The love he had for me had become tiny bits of sand, waiting to be brushed off from the world.
There is no good excuse to leave the man you love, in the middle of the night. I know that. And, I regretted it after some time. That’s why I invited him to my wedding, however cruel it may sound. I didn’t see any other way to run into him and I figured both of us could use some closure. But, as I had expected, he didn’t show up. I think I looked at the door more often than at my bride. I noticed how the door got smaller and smaller every time I glanced at it. So I tried to stop staring at it, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see him and I wanted to marry him. But he didn’t show up and he didn’t love me.
He didn’t love me! I simply couldn’t live with that. He didn’t love me.
I stopped caring about my family, about my job, and eventually about myself. There was no point in pretending that I was fine. Everybody could tell that something was wrong with me and I clearly didn’t look like a happy newlywed. I spent days and nights, wandering around in my dreams. I felt better there. I could cry out in pain without having to hide from my wife and when I got lucky, I even got to see him. He still had that gentle smile of his, those caring eyes that always reminded me of a deer, and that soothing, low voice which never failed to do wonders to my heart.
Then, I got addicted to my own dreams. I couldn’t get enough of him. I had to see him more often and I had to sleep more to do that. So I slept and slept, hoping that I would have one of those dreams. Some days, I was lucky. Some days, I wasn’t. If he ever got to see me sleep all day, he might’ve thought that I had caught mono from him. Well, it wouldn’t have been a huge understatement even if he thought that. I was sick and I was in pain, just like he used to be. I needed him. He was the only cure but he was also the last thing on Earth that I could have. I was married.
I remember how I wanted to pick a girl who was nothing like him; someone who wouldn’t pinch my puffy cheek when I pouted, someone who wouldn’t tremble with a frying pan in her hand because she was scared to death when it came to cooking, someone who wouldn’t use difficult legal terms which sounded hotter than they were supposed to be. I thought it would help me move on. He deserved to be with someone better than me. The doctor said he couldn’t afford to be under any kind of stress, but I was giving him plenty. I wanted to be selfish and stay, but I loved him too much. Sooner or later, I was going to lose it and yell back at him. He had always been the calm one, not me. It was only a matter of time that we ripped out each other’s heart from our chests and stomped on them. I had to do something before such a tragedy happened and he got sicker. I had to leave the house in a hurry, and it was only when I returned to Italy that I realized that all I had brought along was an empty shell of me. Everything else of me had chosen to stay in that house with the man I had once loved.
Okay. I’ve been sitting here for too long. He can’t be here anyway. He must’ve left as soon as he saw me or he must’ve stepped out on court. I finally leave my hideout and gather my stuff. I don’t even look around as I hurry to the door which looks like the emergency exit out of Hell. I’m almost there. I only have a couple of steps left. In three, two, one.
I reach out for the doorknob, only to see the door swing open on its own. I don’t have superpowers. This must be a dream. I must’ve fallen asleep while I was hiding under the towel. And, since I’ve made up my mind that this is a dream, here he is again. He is the one who opened the door. He looks like shit though. His hair doesn’t shine anymore and what’s up with his face? He looks like a walking dead. I must be tired if I can’t imagine him better than this. I knew I really needed that nap.
I shake my head, annoyed at the unusual image of the handsome man. It’s strange though. My dreams tend to be pretty vivid, but this one beats all the other ones. He might look pale like a ghost and might be glaring at me as if my presence angered him to death, but he does look very real. How strange.
It’s quite pathetic to realize how there’s a tiny piece of me that wants all of this to be real. I haven’t seen him in person in such a long time, and sometimes, I wish I’d get even a glimpse of him. Maybe I should touch him, you know. I have to take advantage of such a vivid dream, right? It’s my own dream. Nobody can stop me. By the way, I’d have to make a mental note for my future dreams. He’s wearing a black strap on his right arm. I should know better than that. He hates black when it comes to tennis stuff. He’s one of those superstitious players who think that a dark color like black would bring them bad luck. I used to laugh when he called adidas every time he got a black shirt or almost-black shorts. I used to laugh a lot when I was with him. Too bad I left my smiles in that house too.
Meh, now I’m feeling down. I stop torturing myself and reach out for his arm.
Wait. What was that? His body is warmer than usual. Wow, this is hell of a vivid dream. I feel like I’m touching the real him. This is so awesome. Why can’t all of my dreams be like this one? This is really awesome. I caress his right arm, trying to make the black strap disappear. He doesn’t have to be sick or injured in my dreams. He can be a healthy Mario Ancic; the Croatian number one, the top ten player who never gave up on tennis despite his illness, and the friendly player who likes to giggle at bad Italian jokes.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
All of a sudden, he hisses in his lowest voice and pushes me against the wall. Ouch, my back! This pain is real! Wait. Does this mean he’s real too then? He’s not a piece of my imagination? He is real? I grab his arm tighter to confirm my theory. I’m so confused.
“Do not… Touch me.”
His warm breath near my cheek clears the confusion at once. This is happening in real life. I give him a nod to let him know that I got the message, but he seems to have no intention to let go of me. His body is still pressed against mine and I love every single second of it. This is where I want to be and this is where I belong.
I stare into his eyes and search for anything that isn’t close to anger. There must be something else in there. You can’t let out this much anger over a simple touch. I’d like to focus on such an important task, but it’s becoming very difficult to concentrate. It’s so good to see him again, to be this close to him again. Ah, I feel myself getting hard and I’m curious as to how he will react. Perhaps a punch in the face? Or will he spit on me? Nah, he’s too classy for that.
Much to my disappointment, he chooses to pull away. He must’ve felt me against his thigh. I torture my brain to come up with a plan to have him close again, but my brain is still too excited to see him.
Damn. He’s walking away. He’s leaving me. I need to say something!
“You didn’t come to my wedding!” I bark and notice with pleasure that I said the right thing.
No matter how angry he looks, he just turned around and is on his way back to me. I swallow hard as he uses those long legs to close the distance between us and I can’t help but squirm in anticipation. He’s coming back.
The next thing I know, he’s grabbing me by the neck against the wall, giving me a hard time to breathe. Hey, I’m dead inside anyway. This could be an ideal way to leave, right? My limbs start to go numb and I feel my throat tighten up, but I don’t fight back. What’s the point? He already took everything from me. He might as well just finish me now, so I won’t have to suffer ever again. Just think about how poetic it is; achieving death by the one who owns your heart. Classic, huh?
Just when I think I won’t live for another second, he crushes his lips against mine and I die in his arms. I must be dead if he’s kissing me. It’s not something that can happen in the real world. And, he’s not just kissing me. He’s devouring me. I’m getting harder by the second and I can tell that the feeling is mutual. I wrap my arms around his neck as tightly as I can. He’s not going anywhere. I can have him all to myself on this side of the world. Here, I don’t have obligations towards my wife. Here, there is no such thing as disease or sorrow. Here, he’s mine and nobody can take him away. He is mine.
I have no idea how much time has passed. I don’t care how much time has passed. I vaguely remember hearing other players scream and leave the locker room. I know that we shouldn’t be kissing like this. I shouldn’t have touched his arm or I should’ve, at least, pushed him away before I lost my mind. There’s always a chance that one of the players who ran out of the room talks to the press and ends both of our careers. Well, neither of us is playing like the good old times, so perhaps the press wouldn’t even bother to write about us, but still, this can’t end well.
I’ve been telling my dear love everything through the kiss and he has been returning the favor. All sorts of emotions rush through me - emotions that I thought I could never get back - until all of a sudden, our tales come to an end and I realize that he isn’t with me anymore.
“Mario?” I call out his name as I slide down against the wall. Do I still have a heartbeat?
“Stay away from me.”
His voice seems so distinct and he’s standing so far away. What makes it worse is that I can’t quite put my finger on the expression on his face. Has it been that long? We broke up that long ago? We had such a weak bond that would be damaged by less than a year apart? I can’t read you anymore, Mario. I can’t feel you. I can’t stand up and walk over to you. I guess you really finished me.
As he slowly turns around, showing his back to me, I understand that it’s over. Everything is.