these wars; they can't be won (djokovic/soderling)
Title: These Wars; They Can't Be Won
Pairings: Novak Djokovic/Robin Soderling
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "he fears he'll get at best, a glare, and at worst, some cutting remark in a mix of two languages that he may not be able to translate but he'll understand anyway"
Notes: Takes place after Davydenko beat Soderling at the WTF in London. Mostly inspired by Djokovic's begging for 'Sir Robin' to beat Davydenko, which would have assured him a place in the semi-finals. For clo, who put up with me fangirling Mark Petchey for two days straight.
these wars; they can't be won
At first the knock at the door is so quiet Robin just assumes it's coming from the television that's turned to low in the background, half watching it from possibly the most comfortable bed he's ever slept it, all the time wishing that he could just switch his brain off and get some sleep. It's only when the knock becomes louder, more insistent, that he slips from beneath the thick covers and pads his way to the door, feet sinking into the plush hotel carpet.
Only a few people would be knocking at this time and he's certain that all of them would have something useful to say. It's most likely to be Magnus; he's gotten used to the all-hours visits from his coach with either a tip about his game or one about the opponent, which to his coach is far too important to wait until the morning. His parents are not too far behind, they know he needs his rest but they also know he's only too happy to see them, something that life on the tour doesn't allow as much as he'd like. Which is why he doesn't bother to look through the peephole, a joke about something more enjoyable his coach could be spending the night doing on the tip of his tongue, and as the first word slips out of his mouth he stops, stunned into silence by the sight of Novak Djokovic leaning against his doorframe.
Maybe stunned isn't quite a strong enough word, the Serb's close to the last person he expected to be standing out his hotel room at close to two am. Not the least expected person (Nadal would definitely take that spot) but he's barely acquaintances with Novak, spoken to him a few times but nothing more than asking how his match was or a quiet hello in the corridor. Magnus had seen his interview earlier, laughed and then teased him over being called ‘Sir Robin' and becoming the knight in shining armour for Novak but he'd thought nothing of the comment, just something lost in translation, something he knows all too well.
Other than causing him permanent bodily harm before tomorrow - no, later today, he corrects himself because it's late and he doesn't have time for this right now - he sees no reason for Novak to be here.
"Can I come in?" he quietly slurs, the smell of alcohol on his breath, and suddenly it's obvious that Novak is on the wrong side of drunk. Whole body pressed into wood like it's his only support, skin flushed, eyes unfocussed, darting around the semi-dark room until they come to settle on him.
No way to say no to Novak without hurting his feelings, and besides, he's seen Novak get what he wants no matter that the situation and in one case, the consequences, so he nods, opening the door a little wider and Novak almost-stumbles into the room, the loss of support all too obvious. Two more steps before he stumbles sideways, one hand reaching out for the wall as he weaves his way towards the bed, a beer in his other hand and Robin doesn't remember seeing that when Novak was in the hallway, doesn't want to know where it came from either because all Novak's wearing is a t-shirt and jeans and to hide a bottle in that takes some skill.
Step one, get the bottle off him, because he doesn't want to explain to housekeeping why there's a drunken Novak Djokovic in his hotel room and probably on his bed. It's not a story he wants splashed across the newspapers here, especially not before one of the biggest matches of his career, because he'd heard about them through the tour grapevine long before he'd seen the fallout during Wimbledon when one of the Brits lose. Neither of them are Andy Murray, but it would be a scandal and as long as there's a story, even if it's untrue, the media are hounds.
Swiftly he takes the bottle from Novak's outstretched hand and he doesn't realise it's gone until he goes to take a drink and finds his hand empty. Green eyes turn on him, a slur of words that he doesn't understand but understands the tone pleading with him, please Robin, I want it back. He holds it out of reach and Novak tries one last grab, unable to keep his balance and all six-foot-plus of him crashes into him, pinning them both against the wall, the bottle still firmly out of reach and a very warm and now giggling Novak Djokovic plastered against his chest.
Maybe those reporters will turn up yet, he begins to think, because someone's bound to have heard that despite the time.
"Beer," Novak manages to spit out, reaching for the bottle again and there's a second where he almost gives in, where he really meets Novak's eyes and finds them completely unguarded, and maybe that's his secret to always getting what he wants, but reality hits him again when a cold hand grabs at his wrist, trying to pull it closer and he just shakes his head, gently pushing Novak away as he darts into the bathroom.
The deep brown liquid swirls around the plughole, and when he's sure the bottle's empty he looks up to see Novak standing at the doorway, face crumpling as he mumbles something that sounds a lot like swearing. Whatever it is, it's in a language he doesn't speak, but the meaning is clear, you took away my alcohol, you bastard, and instead of a reply he turns the tap, letting a glass fill with cool water before he offers it to Novak.
"Drink this. It will help."
Novak looks more than mildly offended but he takes it anyway, clutched in the hand that's not holding him upright. His second thought is maybe he shouldn't have given someone who can't walk in a straight line a nearly full glass but it's only water. It's not a catastrophe if there's a puddle on the carpet at the end of the night.
Two steps behind Novak at all times as they walk slowly to the bed, not wanting to actually help because he fears he'll get at best, a glare, and at worst, some cutting remark in a mix of two languages that he may not be able to translate but he'll understand anyway. There have still been no answers to why Novak's here, other than he's drunk, which really isn't a reason. There are plenty of other people he could choose to annoy, the most obvious of those would be Federer because whenever they've been in a room together in the last week the tension has been obvious. No real explanations for that either other than one day they were friendly (not friends, the difference on tour is always obvious) and the next they were barely speaking. The fact that he's been here without punching him so far crosses the bodily harm option off the list, which also means he's out of ideas.
The glass is carefully placed on the table before Novak wearily climbs into the unmade bed, pulling the covers around him until only his head is peeking out of the top. He's resting against the headboard, eyes shut, looking entirely too comfortable in a bed that's not his, a bed that Robin would like to get some sleep in tonight if he wants any chance at being rested for tomorrow. Or today. Whichever.
"Why are you here, Novak?" he finally asks, because he can't exactly drag a drunk man out of any bed, even his own. He's been there, after the joy of reaching a grand slam final had worn off he'd felt horrible and Paris had been full of alcohol and girls and though they didn't take away the sting completely they took the edge off it until the morning when he'd woken up with a headache and a blonde in his bed. The blonde hadn't been a problem but the headache had been and at least he might be able to spare someone else the same misery.
Especially someone like Novak who wears his heart on his sleeve; Novak had turned outwards as a child, had become everyone's friend and everyone's clown, and Robin had turned inwards, had been his own friend and no one's clown, and it doesn't make sense that Novak had picked him tonight, not when he has better friends and better enemies here, not when-
"You lost, Robin," he begins, accent thicker than usual but Robin can't blame him because drunk and on the verge of crying he isn't sure he'd be able to translate to speak English, but Novak does, forming each word carefully so he knows that Robin will understand, "and now I go home."
He knew, he knew before Novak spoke but it's the words that finally hit him, that Novak's hopes were resting on him. The twinge of guilt starts in his stomach, because he's never been responsible for someone else's happiness before and though sometimes it hurts when you've broken someone's dream after you've won, there's always the win there to cover it up.
This is different; this actually hurts because he isn't sure that him losing a match has ever made someone look like their whole world has crashed around them.
"You lost," Novak starts again and this time the emphasis is on the you, except it's not his fault, it can't be, because he didn't ask Novak to give up in their match, he didn't ask Davydenko to beat him and he didn't ask to stop caring about fighting today. It just happened and it's no one's fault, except maybe Novak's because if he'd played better in their match two days ago, maybe he wouldn't be going home.
Green eyes tell him otherwise and he feels something close to a betrayal, he'd heard about Novak's begging on court for him to win, heard about him being called ‘Sir Robin' and apparently, none of that counts after he's failed. Tennis is a selfish sport and Novak is more selfish than some, but to blame someone else for your own failings is probably a new low even for him.
"Sorry, I not mean it like that, but when you win and lose it is tough, you know?"
He doesn't, but he nods anyway and takes it as an apology or sorts, at least enough to climb onto the bed with Novak, sitting shoulder to shoulder because the only thing that really helps in situations like this is human comfort. Nothing he can do or say can magically heal the pain, all disappointments take time to heal and the harder it hits, the longer it takes. Better if there's someone who understands or so he hears, but he's never dated a tennis player. Now doesn't seem like the time to start either, but he still tentatively reaches out for Novak's hand, curls his own around it and braces himself for the punch.
It doesn't come, Novak half smiles and inches closer, shuffling in the bed as fingers clasp his tightly, holding on as though he's the only thing keeping Novak afloat. In this moment, as Novak presses a chaste and yet too affectionate kiss to his cheek, he thinks he might be.
When he wakes the next morning, his back is sore and Novak is gone. It's not surprising, the thought of facing a rival after appearing so vulnerable is something than any player would want to avoid, especially those who pride themselves on being so mentally strong.
The note resting on his pillow is a surprise though, and he rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he holds it up to the light streaming through the crack in the curtains.
Each letter is perfectly thought out and Robin realises this isn't a quick scribble as his coach drags him away (he's left a few of those before, promises to call when he really had no intention); Novak's thought about this, written exactly what he wanted or at least the closest translation he could manage. He briefly wonders what Novak owing him will entail but dismisses the ideas for being risky, obscene or just illegal.
The note, however, is not dismissed; it's carefully folded and slipped into the side of his bag. Because he fully intends on Novak keeping his promise.
And otherwise, there's always blackmail.
Pairings: Novak Djokovic/Robin Soderling
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "he fears he'll get at best, a glare, and at worst, some cutting remark in a mix of two languages that he may not be able to translate but he'll understand anyway"
Notes: Takes place after Davydenko beat Soderling at the WTF in London. Mostly inspired by Djokovic's begging for 'Sir Robin' to beat Davydenko, which would have assured him a place in the semi-finals. For clo, who put up with me fangirling Mark Petchey for two days straight.
these wars; they can't be won
At first the knock at the door is so quiet Robin just assumes it's coming from the television that's turned to low in the background, half watching it from possibly the most comfortable bed he's ever slept it, all the time wishing that he could just switch his brain off and get some sleep. It's only when the knock becomes louder, more insistent, that he slips from beneath the thick covers and pads his way to the door, feet sinking into the plush hotel carpet.
Only a few people would be knocking at this time and he's certain that all of them would have something useful to say. It's most likely to be Magnus; he's gotten used to the all-hours visits from his coach with either a tip about his game or one about the opponent, which to his coach is far too important to wait until the morning. His parents are not too far behind, they know he needs his rest but they also know he's only too happy to see them, something that life on the tour doesn't allow as much as he'd like. Which is why he doesn't bother to look through the peephole, a joke about something more enjoyable his coach could be spending the night doing on the tip of his tongue, and as the first word slips out of his mouth he stops, stunned into silence by the sight of Novak Djokovic leaning against his doorframe.
Maybe stunned isn't quite a strong enough word, the Serb's close to the last person he expected to be standing out his hotel room at close to two am. Not the least expected person (Nadal would definitely take that spot) but he's barely acquaintances with Novak, spoken to him a few times but nothing more than asking how his match was or a quiet hello in the corridor. Magnus had seen his interview earlier, laughed and then teased him over being called ‘Sir Robin' and becoming the knight in shining armour for Novak but he'd thought nothing of the comment, just something lost in translation, something he knows all too well.
Other than causing him permanent bodily harm before tomorrow - no, later today, he corrects himself because it's late and he doesn't have time for this right now - he sees no reason for Novak to be here.
"Can I come in?" he quietly slurs, the smell of alcohol on his breath, and suddenly it's obvious that Novak is on the wrong side of drunk. Whole body pressed into wood like it's his only support, skin flushed, eyes unfocussed, darting around the semi-dark room until they come to settle on him.
No way to say no to Novak without hurting his feelings, and besides, he's seen Novak get what he wants no matter that the situation and in one case, the consequences, so he nods, opening the door a little wider and Novak almost-stumbles into the room, the loss of support all too obvious. Two more steps before he stumbles sideways, one hand reaching out for the wall as he weaves his way towards the bed, a beer in his other hand and Robin doesn't remember seeing that when Novak was in the hallway, doesn't want to know where it came from either because all Novak's wearing is a t-shirt and jeans and to hide a bottle in that takes some skill.
Step one, get the bottle off him, because he doesn't want to explain to housekeeping why there's a drunken Novak Djokovic in his hotel room and probably on his bed. It's not a story he wants splashed across the newspapers here, especially not before one of the biggest matches of his career, because he'd heard about them through the tour grapevine long before he'd seen the fallout during Wimbledon when one of the Brits lose. Neither of them are Andy Murray, but it would be a scandal and as long as there's a story, even if it's untrue, the media are hounds.
Swiftly he takes the bottle from Novak's outstretched hand and he doesn't realise it's gone until he goes to take a drink and finds his hand empty. Green eyes turn on him, a slur of words that he doesn't understand but understands the tone pleading with him, please Robin, I want it back. He holds it out of reach and Novak tries one last grab, unable to keep his balance and all six-foot-plus of him crashes into him, pinning them both against the wall, the bottle still firmly out of reach and a very warm and now giggling Novak Djokovic plastered against his chest.
Maybe those reporters will turn up yet, he begins to think, because someone's bound to have heard that despite the time.
"Beer," Novak manages to spit out, reaching for the bottle again and there's a second where he almost gives in, where he really meets Novak's eyes and finds them completely unguarded, and maybe that's his secret to always getting what he wants, but reality hits him again when a cold hand grabs at his wrist, trying to pull it closer and he just shakes his head, gently pushing Novak away as he darts into the bathroom.
The deep brown liquid swirls around the plughole, and when he's sure the bottle's empty he looks up to see Novak standing at the doorway, face crumpling as he mumbles something that sounds a lot like swearing. Whatever it is, it's in a language he doesn't speak, but the meaning is clear, you took away my alcohol, you bastard, and instead of a reply he turns the tap, letting a glass fill with cool water before he offers it to Novak.
"Drink this. It will help."
Novak looks more than mildly offended but he takes it anyway, clutched in the hand that's not holding him upright. His second thought is maybe he shouldn't have given someone who can't walk in a straight line a nearly full glass but it's only water. It's not a catastrophe if there's a puddle on the carpet at the end of the night.
Two steps behind Novak at all times as they walk slowly to the bed, not wanting to actually help because he fears he'll get at best, a glare, and at worst, some cutting remark in a mix of two languages that he may not be able to translate but he'll understand anyway. There have still been no answers to why Novak's here, other than he's drunk, which really isn't a reason. There are plenty of other people he could choose to annoy, the most obvious of those would be Federer because whenever they've been in a room together in the last week the tension has been obvious. No real explanations for that either other than one day they were friendly (not friends, the difference on tour is always obvious) and the next they were barely speaking. The fact that he's been here without punching him so far crosses the bodily harm option off the list, which also means he's out of ideas.
The glass is carefully placed on the table before Novak wearily climbs into the unmade bed, pulling the covers around him until only his head is peeking out of the top. He's resting against the headboard, eyes shut, looking entirely too comfortable in a bed that's not his, a bed that Robin would like to get some sleep in tonight if he wants any chance at being rested for tomorrow. Or today. Whichever.
"Why are you here, Novak?" he finally asks, because he can't exactly drag a drunk man out of any bed, even his own. He's been there, after the joy of reaching a grand slam final had worn off he'd felt horrible and Paris had been full of alcohol and girls and though they didn't take away the sting completely they took the edge off it until the morning when he'd woken up with a headache and a blonde in his bed. The blonde hadn't been a problem but the headache had been and at least he might be able to spare someone else the same misery.
Especially someone like Novak who wears his heart on his sleeve; Novak had turned outwards as a child, had become everyone's friend and everyone's clown, and Robin had turned inwards, had been his own friend and no one's clown, and it doesn't make sense that Novak had picked him tonight, not when he has better friends and better enemies here, not when-
"You lost, Robin," he begins, accent thicker than usual but Robin can't blame him because drunk and on the verge of crying he isn't sure he'd be able to translate to speak English, but Novak does, forming each word carefully so he knows that Robin will understand, "and now I go home."
He knew, he knew before Novak spoke but it's the words that finally hit him, that Novak's hopes were resting on him. The twinge of guilt starts in his stomach, because he's never been responsible for someone else's happiness before and though sometimes it hurts when you've broken someone's dream after you've won, there's always the win there to cover it up.
This is different; this actually hurts because he isn't sure that him losing a match has ever made someone look like their whole world has crashed around them.
"You lost," Novak starts again and this time the emphasis is on the you, except it's not his fault, it can't be, because he didn't ask Novak to give up in their match, he didn't ask Davydenko to beat him and he didn't ask to stop caring about fighting today. It just happened and it's no one's fault, except maybe Novak's because if he'd played better in their match two days ago, maybe he wouldn't be going home.
Green eyes tell him otherwise and he feels something close to a betrayal, he'd heard about Novak's begging on court for him to win, heard about him being called ‘Sir Robin' and apparently, none of that counts after he's failed. Tennis is a selfish sport and Novak is more selfish than some, but to blame someone else for your own failings is probably a new low even for him.
"Sorry, I not mean it like that, but when you win and lose it is tough, you know?"
He doesn't, but he nods anyway and takes it as an apology or sorts, at least enough to climb onto the bed with Novak, sitting shoulder to shoulder because the only thing that really helps in situations like this is human comfort. Nothing he can do or say can magically heal the pain, all disappointments take time to heal and the harder it hits, the longer it takes. Better if there's someone who understands or so he hears, but he's never dated a tennis player. Now doesn't seem like the time to start either, but he still tentatively reaches out for Novak's hand, curls his own around it and braces himself for the punch.
It doesn't come, Novak half smiles and inches closer, shuffling in the bed as fingers clasp his tightly, holding on as though he's the only thing keeping Novak afloat. In this moment, as Novak presses a chaste and yet too affectionate kiss to his cheek, he thinks he might be.
When he wakes the next morning, his back is sore and Novak is gone. It's not surprising, the thought of facing a rival after appearing so vulnerable is something than any player would want to avoid, especially those who pride themselves on being so mentally strong.
The note resting on his pillow is a surprise though, and he rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he holds it up to the light streaming through the crack in the curtains.
Each letter is perfectly thought out and Robin realises this isn't a quick scribble as his coach drags him away (he's left a few of those before, promises to call when he really had no intention); Novak's thought about this, written exactly what he wanted or at least the closest translation he could manage. He briefly wonders what Novak owing him will entail but dismisses the ideas for being risky, obscene or just illegal.
The note, however, is not dismissed; it's carefully folded and slipped into the side of his bag. Because he fully intends on Novak keeping his promise.
And otherwise, there's always blackmail.