Fic: A bruise you thought had healed
Title: A bruise you thought had healed
Pairing: Rafa Nadal/Roger Federer RPS
Rating: R - for fun sexy slashy times.
Word Count: 2076
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No slander intended.
Author’s Notes: Thank you to those who leant their eyes to look at this piece: nixwilliams, sajee and rhosyndu. Crossposted to fedal-slash and tennisslash. Comments and feedback, as always, much appreciated.
Summary: There was another day in Melbourne and the heat didn’t bother Rafa. He could feel his knees, untaped, complaining slightly beneath his jeans. His body hadn’t had a chance to recover yet. He felt like an elastic pulled tight and it felt brilliant. The weight of the trophy was familiar now in his hands, though he still couldn’t stop looking at it.
He was in a lift, after the event. Showered and clean, in fresh clothes, and vaguely aware that he should start to feel tired soon. But his body was itching with adrenaline.
Rafa’s mind was on the trophy. Silver and shiny, at the forefront of his brain. He wanted to see it again, to touch it. His trophy. He wondered if perhaps he’d been a bird in a past life, compelled with frantic energy to collect brilliant shiny things as he was now. He almost laughed. It seemed right; thrashing against gravity, and speed becoming like flight. He believed it, for a moment.
And then he though of the runners-up plate, also shiny and silver and beautiful, but somehow not enough. And with the thought came the memory of Roger’s mask slipping in front of all those people, his breath hitching and shaky and making something inside Rafa ache. The feel of his own forehead pressed against Roger’s, sweat and heat and words murmured into Roger’s hair to stop him from scattering. He wasn’t sure who did it in the end, who drew Roger back together. He thought he knew something about Roger’s willpower, something about willpower in general.
But it all happened too fast and there was still something twanging in Rafa’s veins. Something more than the hot, humid night and the new physical memory he collected tonight: the weight of the trophy in his arms, the light glittering off it, the feel of it between his teeth as his cheeks ached from helpless grinning. It was all of that and something else as well.
He thought Roger had already left, but just as the lift doors were about to close, there he was: a hand holding the door open as he slipped into the lift and stood next to Rafa. He didn’t say anything, his eyes forward, but their arms were touching. The skin on Roger’s arm was smooth and warm, a steady pressure against Rafa.
Rafa was trying to get his brain to connect with his mouth when the lift lurched into its descent. He thought for half a second and then gripped Roger’s arm with his hand. He had to tell him, it was urgent. “Roger?” He leant towards him, his brain not quick enough to translate.
Roger was poised, listening, and Rafa scrambled for what it was exactly he had to say.
“Roger. I am sorry, I-” He squeezed Roger’s arm. “For - you know, tonight. No?”
Roger’s eyes slid towards him. “I know,” he said quietly, and for a second Roger’s hand was over Rafa’s - a large, warm pressure. And then it was gone. The doors of the lift opened and Roger stepped out into the crowd of people waiting in the foyer.
Tony was off to one side, looking at the trophy - Rafa’s trophy - which was resting on a table. Rafa was aware that he was sweating again. He could do with another shower, or a nice chilled beer, or both. Everyone was beaming and talking at him. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think.
Roger was gone.
There was another day in Melbourne and the heat didn’t bother him. He could feel his knees, untaped, complaining slightly beneath his jeans. His body hadn’t had a chance to recover yet. He felt like an elastic pulled tight and it felt brilliant. The weight of the trophy was familiar now in his hands, though he still couldn’t stop looking at it. He was photographed with it on the bank of the big, brown river that the city leant against.
He could get used to this place: all the smiling people who seemed to love him even though he beat their favourite, who wore minimal clothing, who rode in hot air balloons in the early morning. He’d caught sight of six balloons hanging in the clear dawn sky that morning, somewhere between his hotel window and the horizon. He was still filled with restless energy and couldn’t sleep. He’d got up to look at the trophy again and the balloons had distracted him for a moment. He’d resolved to take a ride in one next time he was here. Next year, when he came back to defend his title.
And then his mind went back on the shiny and he just had to touch it, with one finger. Just to check it was real. Again.
It was a while before he saw Roger again. He’d adjusted to the win, his trophy now on a shelf with the others, in a room in his house in Majorca, where he could go and look at it whenever he felt like it. He was already thinking forward to his next tournament.
He saw Roger at a charity fund-raising dinner in London and it was like knocking a bruise you thought had already healed. Roger looked in place at these kinds of things, all 007 in black and white, his hair done and his eyes brown and shining. Rafa didn’t know what he was doing there and he panicked for a second and thought about running. But then Roger spotted him and made his way towards him, smiling, and Rafa was a teenager again, not a world-class tennis pro, Number 1 in fact. He was about to trip over his own feet.
Roger reached him, placed his hand on Rafa’s elbow, and they embraced.
“Rafa,” Roger said. His hand was still on Rafa’s elbow when they drew apart.
“Roger,” said Rafa. “Hello.”
Roger looked at him, examined his face and smiled.
“How are you?” said Roger.
“I am good, Roger,” replied Rafa.
“I can see that,” said Roger, almost too quietly for Rafa to hear. He was about to ask how Roger was, but then people noticed them together and wanted to take photographs. Roger manoeuvred Rafa so that they were standing next to each other, facing the cameras, smiling into the flashes. He could feel Roger’s hand against the small of his back, the warmth of it radiated through his suit. He suddenly felt too hot, too unkempt even though he had gone to some effort to look alright for the night. He was desperate for fresh air.
The impromptu photo shoot became an interview and Rafa eventually managed to extract himself and escape out a side door. At the end of the corridor, he saw a balcony and worked his charm on the events manager to get her to unlock the door for him. He stepped outside, taking a breath of cool night air, and the door had hardly shut behind him before it opened again. He thought it might be someone coming to tell him off for being out there - he wasn’t sure his charm worked on everyone; he worried there’d be a time when his faltering English wasn’t cute anymore.
But it wasn’t someone coming to inform him something he didn’t want to hear. It was Roger, looking at him sheepishly as the door clicked shut behind him.
“Rogelio!” said Rafa.
Roger had one hand behind his back. “I’m sorry, I kind of…”
“Followed me out to here?” finished Rafa.
“Yes,” said Roger. He moved his hand from behind his back, holding out two bottles of beer. “Sorry,” he said, offering Rafa one of the bottles and a rueful smile. Rafa took the bottle and smiled back.
They leant next to each other against the wall and opened their beers. The view wasn’t much to look at, a London backstreet at night, streetlights, the backs of other buildings and a rectangle of blank sky. They looked at it for a moment before speaking.
“I was going to say to you, how are you?” Rafa said.
He heard Roger exhale. “I’m well, thanks Rafa,” Roger answered.
“Good, that is good,” said Rafa, sipping his beer. “Thanks for-” He waved the bottle in the air, nodding at it.
“You’re welcome,” said Roger.
Rafa snuck a glance at Roger and Roger was looking at him, smiling, catching him in the act. Rafa pulled a face and they both laughed. Roger drank from his beer and shifted his weight so that he was leaning gently against Rafa’s flank. Rafa held himself and pressed softly back into Roger. His fingers twitched around his beer bottle. He opened his mouth to speak.
There was an image in Rafa’s head. Roger pulling loose his bow tie and undoing the top buttons of his shirt, his neck exposed as he swallowed. Rafa couldn’t stop thinking of it, the way the tendons moved in Roger’s throat, the way the skin looked, sweat just forming.
He touched Roger’s neck again now, fingertips to hot skin, ducking his head to kiss it with an open mouth. He lost his rhythm, and there was nothing between Roger’s breathing and his brain, no space, no air. He licked Roger’s neck, from throat to jaw, then pulled back to look Roger in the eye. He could feel one of Roger’s ankles bumping somewhere near his waist and Roger’s fingers digging into his arm. Roger’s mouth was open. He wanted to kiss it, but he didn’t want to break eye contact. He began to move faster and, unable to stop, watched as Roger came undone. Roger’s eyes were locked fiercely on Rafa’s face, his teeth coming down to bite his own lip as he orgasmed onto their stomachs, clenching around Rafa, his breathing ragged and tears leaking from his eyes. Rafa came soon after and slowed, placing his forearms on either side of Roger’s head and pressing his face into Roger’s.
“Está bien,” he whispered. “It’s OK. It’s OK.”
They lay there, not moving, for a hundred scattered breaths. Roger’s hands skated over Rafa’s skin, distracted, and he shifted as though about to embrace him. Rafa waited, and when Roger did nothing, he nuzzled into Roger’s neck and felt him hum breathily into his ear. Rafa found Roger’s earlobe and took it gently between his teeth, pulling slightly, then licking and releasing it. He heard Roger exhale half a laugh and he pulled himself up to look at him. Their bodies unstuck from each other with an unpleasant sound. Rafa pulled a face and watched as Roger shifted from under him, wiping his stomach off with a tissue and swiping at Rafa’s belly too. Rafa couldn’t help but smile: Roger looked so serious about it. Roger only glanced at him, his eyes calm. He tossed the tissue away and curled on his side, smoothing down the space on the mattress in front of him. Rafa stared at his face for a moment longer and when Roger glanced at him again, he leant in quickly to kiss him once, savagely, on the mouth. Then he flopped down and nestled back into Roger.
He felt Roger’s arms moving to wrap around him from behind, Roger’s legs bending up to touch the back of his own. Roger moved his hands, slow and smooth, over the skin of Rafa’s legs and flank. He kissed the back of Rafa’s neck, which made Rafa hum and smile and reach his arm back to grab hold of Roger’s leg, just above the knee. Roger moved his hand up and down Rafa’s arm, curling around Rafa’s shoulder before heading lightly back to his wrist.
He spoke softly into Rafa’s ear. “I had a theory, about you,” he said. “About, well.” He paused. Rafa wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or just searching for the right words. “I thought perhaps you were wearing women’s underwear, the way you kept, you know. At Melbourne.” Roger’s hands were moving steadily over Rafa’s rump as he spoke.
Rafa laughed. “Good theory!” He tried to turn to look at Roger again - he wanted to see the expression on his face. But Roger wouldn’t let him shift backwards; he held his chest square against Rafa’s back. So Rafa moved to lie on his belly, face down into the mattress. He turned his head towards Roger and peeped at him. Roger met his half-concealed gaze with eyes soft and brown and unblinking. Rafa smiled, half at Roger, half into the mattress. He felt Roger’s hand moving to his hair, an arm resting across his back. Roger’s thumb traced the outline of his ear, his eyes fixed on Rafa’s face. Rafa looked back at him for a long moment.
Roger smiled - just a little - and Rafa thought perhaps Roger would then move in to kiss him. Rafa closed his eyes and waited.
Pairing: Rafa Nadal/Roger Federer RPS
Rating: R - for fun sexy slashy times.
Word Count: 2076
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No slander intended.
Author’s Notes: Thank you to those who leant their eyes to look at this piece: nixwilliams, sajee and rhosyndu. Crossposted to fedal-slash and tennisslash. Comments and feedback, as always, much appreciated.
Summary: There was another day in Melbourne and the heat didn’t bother Rafa. He could feel his knees, untaped, complaining slightly beneath his jeans. His body hadn’t had a chance to recover yet. He felt like an elastic pulled tight and it felt brilliant. The weight of the trophy was familiar now in his hands, though he still couldn’t stop looking at it.
He was in a lift, after the event. Showered and clean, in fresh clothes, and vaguely aware that he should start to feel tired soon. But his body was itching with adrenaline.
Rafa’s mind was on the trophy. Silver and shiny, at the forefront of his brain. He wanted to see it again, to touch it. His trophy. He wondered if perhaps he’d been a bird in a past life, compelled with frantic energy to collect brilliant shiny things as he was now. He almost laughed. It seemed right; thrashing against gravity, and speed becoming like flight. He believed it, for a moment.
And then he though of the runners-up plate, also shiny and silver and beautiful, but somehow not enough. And with the thought came the memory of Roger’s mask slipping in front of all those people, his breath hitching and shaky and making something inside Rafa ache. The feel of his own forehead pressed against Roger’s, sweat and heat and words murmured into Roger’s hair to stop him from scattering. He wasn’t sure who did it in the end, who drew Roger back together. He thought he knew something about Roger’s willpower, something about willpower in general.
But it all happened too fast and there was still something twanging in Rafa’s veins. Something more than the hot, humid night and the new physical memory he collected tonight: the weight of the trophy in his arms, the light glittering off it, the feel of it between his teeth as his cheeks ached from helpless grinning. It was all of that and something else as well.
He thought Roger had already left, but just as the lift doors were about to close, there he was: a hand holding the door open as he slipped into the lift and stood next to Rafa. He didn’t say anything, his eyes forward, but their arms were touching. The skin on Roger’s arm was smooth and warm, a steady pressure against Rafa.
Rafa was trying to get his brain to connect with his mouth when the lift lurched into its descent. He thought for half a second and then gripped Roger’s arm with his hand. He had to tell him, it was urgent. “Roger?” He leant towards him, his brain not quick enough to translate.
Roger was poised, listening, and Rafa scrambled for what it was exactly he had to say.
“Roger. I am sorry, I-” He squeezed Roger’s arm. “For - you know, tonight. No?”
Roger’s eyes slid towards him. “I know,” he said quietly, and for a second Roger’s hand was over Rafa’s - a large, warm pressure. And then it was gone. The doors of the lift opened and Roger stepped out into the crowd of people waiting in the foyer.
Tony was off to one side, looking at the trophy - Rafa’s trophy - which was resting on a table. Rafa was aware that he was sweating again. He could do with another shower, or a nice chilled beer, or both. Everyone was beaming and talking at him. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think.
Roger was gone.
There was another day in Melbourne and the heat didn’t bother him. He could feel his knees, untaped, complaining slightly beneath his jeans. His body hadn’t had a chance to recover yet. He felt like an elastic pulled tight and it felt brilliant. The weight of the trophy was familiar now in his hands, though he still couldn’t stop looking at it. He was photographed with it on the bank of the big, brown river that the city leant against.
He could get used to this place: all the smiling people who seemed to love him even though he beat their favourite, who wore minimal clothing, who rode in hot air balloons in the early morning. He’d caught sight of six balloons hanging in the clear dawn sky that morning, somewhere between his hotel window and the horizon. He was still filled with restless energy and couldn’t sleep. He’d got up to look at the trophy again and the balloons had distracted him for a moment. He’d resolved to take a ride in one next time he was here. Next year, when he came back to defend his title.
And then his mind went back on the shiny and he just had to touch it, with one finger. Just to check it was real. Again.
It was a while before he saw Roger again. He’d adjusted to the win, his trophy now on a shelf with the others, in a room in his house in Majorca, where he could go and look at it whenever he felt like it. He was already thinking forward to his next tournament.
He saw Roger at a charity fund-raising dinner in London and it was like knocking a bruise you thought had already healed. Roger looked in place at these kinds of things, all 007 in black and white, his hair done and his eyes brown and shining. Rafa didn’t know what he was doing there and he panicked for a second and thought about running. But then Roger spotted him and made his way towards him, smiling, and Rafa was a teenager again, not a world-class tennis pro, Number 1 in fact. He was about to trip over his own feet.
Roger reached him, placed his hand on Rafa’s elbow, and they embraced.
“Rafa,” Roger said. His hand was still on Rafa’s elbow when they drew apart.
“Roger,” said Rafa. “Hello.”
Roger looked at him, examined his face and smiled.
“How are you?” said Roger.
“I am good, Roger,” replied Rafa.
“I can see that,” said Roger, almost too quietly for Rafa to hear. He was about to ask how Roger was, but then people noticed them together and wanted to take photographs. Roger manoeuvred Rafa so that they were standing next to each other, facing the cameras, smiling into the flashes. He could feel Roger’s hand against the small of his back, the warmth of it radiated through his suit. He suddenly felt too hot, too unkempt even though he had gone to some effort to look alright for the night. He was desperate for fresh air.
The impromptu photo shoot became an interview and Rafa eventually managed to extract himself and escape out a side door. At the end of the corridor, he saw a balcony and worked his charm on the events manager to get her to unlock the door for him. He stepped outside, taking a breath of cool night air, and the door had hardly shut behind him before it opened again. He thought it might be someone coming to tell him off for being out there - he wasn’t sure his charm worked on everyone; he worried there’d be a time when his faltering English wasn’t cute anymore.
But it wasn’t someone coming to inform him something he didn’t want to hear. It was Roger, looking at him sheepishly as the door clicked shut behind him.
“Rogelio!” said Rafa.
Roger had one hand behind his back. “I’m sorry, I kind of…”
“Followed me out to here?” finished Rafa.
“Yes,” said Roger. He moved his hand from behind his back, holding out two bottles of beer. “Sorry,” he said, offering Rafa one of the bottles and a rueful smile. Rafa took the bottle and smiled back.
They leant next to each other against the wall and opened their beers. The view wasn’t much to look at, a London backstreet at night, streetlights, the backs of other buildings and a rectangle of blank sky. They looked at it for a moment before speaking.
“I was going to say to you, how are you?” Rafa said.
He heard Roger exhale. “I’m well, thanks Rafa,” Roger answered.
“Good, that is good,” said Rafa, sipping his beer. “Thanks for-” He waved the bottle in the air, nodding at it.
“You’re welcome,” said Roger.
Rafa snuck a glance at Roger and Roger was looking at him, smiling, catching him in the act. Rafa pulled a face and they both laughed. Roger drank from his beer and shifted his weight so that he was leaning gently against Rafa’s flank. Rafa held himself and pressed softly back into Roger. His fingers twitched around his beer bottle. He opened his mouth to speak.
There was an image in Rafa’s head. Roger pulling loose his bow tie and undoing the top buttons of his shirt, his neck exposed as he swallowed. Rafa couldn’t stop thinking of it, the way the tendons moved in Roger’s throat, the way the skin looked, sweat just forming.
He touched Roger’s neck again now, fingertips to hot skin, ducking his head to kiss it with an open mouth. He lost his rhythm, and there was nothing between Roger’s breathing and his brain, no space, no air. He licked Roger’s neck, from throat to jaw, then pulled back to look Roger in the eye. He could feel one of Roger’s ankles bumping somewhere near his waist and Roger’s fingers digging into his arm. Roger’s mouth was open. He wanted to kiss it, but he didn’t want to break eye contact. He began to move faster and, unable to stop, watched as Roger came undone. Roger’s eyes were locked fiercely on Rafa’s face, his teeth coming down to bite his own lip as he orgasmed onto their stomachs, clenching around Rafa, his breathing ragged and tears leaking from his eyes. Rafa came soon after and slowed, placing his forearms on either side of Roger’s head and pressing his face into Roger’s.
“Está bien,” he whispered. “It’s OK. It’s OK.”
They lay there, not moving, for a hundred scattered breaths. Roger’s hands skated over Rafa’s skin, distracted, and he shifted as though about to embrace him. Rafa waited, and when Roger did nothing, he nuzzled into Roger’s neck and felt him hum breathily into his ear. Rafa found Roger’s earlobe and took it gently between his teeth, pulling slightly, then licking and releasing it. He heard Roger exhale half a laugh and he pulled himself up to look at him. Their bodies unstuck from each other with an unpleasant sound. Rafa pulled a face and watched as Roger shifted from under him, wiping his stomach off with a tissue and swiping at Rafa’s belly too. Rafa couldn’t help but smile: Roger looked so serious about it. Roger only glanced at him, his eyes calm. He tossed the tissue away and curled on his side, smoothing down the space on the mattress in front of him. Rafa stared at his face for a moment longer and when Roger glanced at him again, he leant in quickly to kiss him once, savagely, on the mouth. Then he flopped down and nestled back into Roger.
He felt Roger’s arms moving to wrap around him from behind, Roger’s legs bending up to touch the back of his own. Roger moved his hands, slow and smooth, over the skin of Rafa’s legs and flank. He kissed the back of Rafa’s neck, which made Rafa hum and smile and reach his arm back to grab hold of Roger’s leg, just above the knee. Roger moved his hand up and down Rafa’s arm, curling around Rafa’s shoulder before heading lightly back to his wrist.
He spoke softly into Rafa’s ear. “I had a theory, about you,” he said. “About, well.” He paused. Rafa wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or just searching for the right words. “I thought perhaps you were wearing women’s underwear, the way you kept, you know. At Melbourne.” Roger’s hands were moving steadily over Rafa’s rump as he spoke.
Rafa laughed. “Good theory!” He tried to turn to look at Roger again - he wanted to see the expression on his face. But Roger wouldn’t let him shift backwards; he held his chest square against Rafa’s back. So Rafa moved to lie on his belly, face down into the mattress. He turned his head towards Roger and peeped at him. Roger met his half-concealed gaze with eyes soft and brown and unblinking. Rafa smiled, half at Roger, half into the mattress. He felt Roger’s hand moving to his hair, an arm resting across his back. Roger’s thumb traced the outline of his ear, his eyes fixed on Rafa’s face. Rafa looked back at him for a long moment.
Roger smiled - just a little - and Rafa thought perhaps Roger would then move in to kiss him. Rafa closed his eyes and waited.