fic: among some talk of you and me (roger/rafa)
title: among some talk of you and me
fandom: tennis rps
pairing: roger federer/rafael nadal, mentions of novak djokovic/rafael nadal, fernando verdasco/feliciano lopez
rating: pg
word count: 5500
summary: Rafa is the last man standing of his generation on the ATP tour, and he isn't dealing with it all that well.
author's notes: my deep gratitude to crazier-elf and aramley, beta superstars. you guys are amazing. title and cut-text are from T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
this is for aramley. it's totally all your fault.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”-
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
Madrid, 2012
It had somehow never occurred to Rafa when he joined the tour that being the youngest player he knew might mean he would be the last one of his friends left in the end. He certainly never expected it during his long enforced breaks from the game, staring resentfully at his foot or his knees or whatever part of his body had broken down this time, praying that his career wasn't over just yet. But he was only twenty-five, and the tour was dissolving like sand under his feet, familiar faces disappearing and new, younger ones rushing in to replace them.
If he looked all the way back, it probably started when Marat got bored and wandered off to pursue his new and exciting career in whatever it was Marat did now: reading existentialist novels and having sex with a lot of blondes, probably. It hadn't bothered Rafa, particularly; he liked Marat, of course, but they weren't really friends. He hadn't thought much about the fact that Marat was a good three years younger than Carlos, and the same age as Juanqui. He was only a year older than Feli. He was only a year older than Roger.
Carlos was the first of his real friends to leave, and it maybe wasn't a surprise when he told them all that he wasn't coming back, right before Roland Garros, but it was still upsetting. It helped that things had sort of stabilized after the mess of the previous year, though, and he was healthy and winning the matches he was supposed to, and he adjusted to the idea that Carlos was going to be a phone call rather than a hotel room away.
Then they won the Davis Cup again, and Feli announced, just sort of in passing at the afterparty, that he was retiring. They were all stunned, but Rafa had been looking right at Fer, and he'd looked like someone had kicked him in the stomach, which Rafa took to mean that Feli really was just being a dick about the whole thing, and hadn't told anyone. So Feli went off to to hang around Madrid doing something with fashion, and Fernando promptly descended into an unforeseen and precipitous downward spiral, the highlights of which included a humiliating second-round loss in Australia and a spectacular four-set implosion in the opening rubber of their first Davis Cup tie of the year, culminating in his cornering Rafa during the team party - thank God David and Tommy had managed to pull off the doubles rubber, because Rafa had no idea what they would have done if it had come down to a live fifth - to drunkenly ramble about how much he missed Feli, and finally throwing up all over Rafa's shoes.
Rafa felt that this pretty much encapsulated his relationship with Feli: Feli got a lot of presumably mind-blowing sex, and Rafa got vomited on. Sometimes he wondered why they were even friends.
Sometimes he had no doubt at all. "I hear Roger is getting better," Feli said casually, not even looking away from the television screen, like it was nothing important.
"Oh," Rafa said, and pretended as hard as he could that the Real match they were watching was the reason he was hanging out at Feli's Madrid apartment before his tournament, instead of the conversation they were both doing their best to talk around.
"He'll be walking without the brace soon, Marat says," Feli added.
Rafa didn't even want to try to understand Feli's friendship with Marat, which so far as he could tell was solely predicated on their mutual interest in getting drunk, looking pretty and having sex with as many willing and attractive partners as possible. Between the two of them, though, they were pretty much guaranteed to know all the really interesting gossip on tour. They probably should have been out of the loop after being retired for over a year, but apparently being freed of the burdens of practicing and actually playing matches had just given them more time to do things they really liked. Like gossip.
Marat did still show up occasionally, usually when he was least expected, and he came to his sister's matches every once in a while. He'd been there when she won Roland Garros, Rafa remembered. He'd been distracted that year; Andy Roddick had pulled him aside in the locker room, after he'd been knocked out in the fourth round, to tell him that Roger probably wasn't going to come back. Somehow he'd ended up watching the end of the women's final in the players' lounge: Safina and Jankovic, he thought, because he'd watched with Novak, and Novak was cheering for Jelena. That was before the US Open, too, so they'd all been teasing Andy Murray that one of the women's Slamless number ones was going to get there before him.
The trophy ceremony was nice, though. Nobody had known Marat was there until Safina went climbing up into the stands to get to him; he hadn't been sitting in her box. She wouldn't let go of him long enough to go back down and get her trophy, so he came with her, and she spent most of the ceremony with his arm around her, hiding her face in his shoulder. She was still crying when she had to give her speech. Rafa didn't know why that moment stuck in his memory; he couldn't remember what she'd said.
"Are you doing okay now?" Feli asked, apparently having decided that the silence had gone on too long.
"Have to be, no?" Rafa said wryly.
"Don't be a brat," Feli said, and swatted him across the head. "You were awful in Australia."
"Yeah, well, everyone was awful in Australia," Rafa pointed out. "But I have to get better. Toni keeps telling me, I'm not nineteen anymore, I have to learn to win like a grown-up."
"You will," Feli said. He flashed the smile that had made pretty much everyone on tour forgive him for pretty much anything, and added, "If anybody can do what you're trying to, Rafa, it's you."
"I hope so," Rafa muttered. Feli looked like he wanted to say something else, but they were interrupted by Fernando coming back with takeout (he apparently had his own set of keys, which told Rafa exactly how much credence to put in his claim that he was living in a different apartment), and they never did finish their conversation before Rafa left Madrid.
New York, 2013
Rafa was still in the locker room packing up when the Andys finished their semi - he'd forgotten some things in his locker, and in the midst of all the annoying post-loss errands, he hadn't had a chance to go back until now. Andy Roddick's slumped shoulders told him how it had ended without having to ask. "Good match," Rafa offered in consolation. He'd only seen bits and pieces of the first two sets, but so far as he knew it was true.
"Thanks," Andy said, and smacked him on the shoulder. After ten full years on tour, Rafa still didn't understand why the Americans all hit each other instead of hugging like normal people. "You too, man. Seriously, though, you've got to break this Novak curse you've got going in New York. What's this, four straight times he's beat you in the semis?"
"Final, once," Rafa corrected, and shrugged. "He likes it here, no? Always he plays better in New York. Is his favorite, I think. He always says Wimbledon, but he's lying, he likes US Open best."
Andy laughed, as Rafa'd meant for him to, but he looked a little uncertain. "Hey, look, I mean, there's never really a good way to ask this, but... what's the deal with you and Novak?"
"Eh?" Rafa frowned. "I don't know this word, what it means."
"What's the deal? Um, like, what's going on with you, what's the story - I mean, your relationship, I guess."
"We are friends, no? Well, we are very good friends, I think. You are our friend, too, no?" he added, puzzled.
"Friends who fuck each other?" Andy asked. One of his eyebrows shot up towards his receding hairline.
"Si!" Rafa agreed, pleased that he understood so easily. "Friends, and also fucking. Is good, no? Not so much, um, lonely, I think."
"Yeah," Andy said, his face clouding. "I get that. Being lonely sucks." He sat down and started to take off his shoes. "Hey, Raf," he said, before Rafa could get back to the serious task of putting his bag in order.
"Hmm?" Rafa looked over at him again.
"Do you think you would have won here if Roger were still playing?"
Rafa blinked. "I lose to Novak four years in a row, I don't think I'm gonna beat Roger, Andy."
"I don't know. You always played better for him."
"Maybe," Rafa said. He thought about getting to play Roger in a final in New York, and felt wistful in a way he really hadn't that afternoon, when Novak beat him. That, more than anything, made him wonder why he still kept coming to New York. Toni always said he couldn't win if he didn't want to, and he did, but still... He kind of hated the US Open. It was more Novak's kind of tournament. Novak's, and Roger's. "I wish - well. Silly, no? We all wish Roger is here."
"Most of us, anyway," Andy said. "You know they're separating? Roger and Mirka, I mean."
"What? No, I don't - what about the twins?" Rafa felt the same instinctive dismay whenever he found out that people he knew were getting divorced, rooted in the helpless panic of finding out that his own parents had decided they couldn't be married anymore. This time, though, there was something else underneath that, some other emotion that he refused to examine. Only a very horrible person would be happy that his friend's marriage was breaking up - and even if he and Roger hadn't spoken in years, he was still Rafa's friend.
"I guess he bought the house next door or down the street or something, so he can be there, but not, like, there-there. And the twins are too young to know the difference, really."
"I guess," Rafa said noncommittally, and decided to change the subject. "You still gonna use that crazy rock song next year, you think?"
"Hey, don't knock Journey, that song is classic, it totally helped me win last year!" Andy protested, grinning, and then added, more seriously, "I don't think I'll be here next year."
It took a moment for Rafa to process that statement. "You gonna retire?"
"Yeah, I mean, dude, I'm thirty-one. I could probably play a few more years, but... I don't really want to, you know? I'm glad I got another one, but I don't want to stick around just to try for a third. And, I mean..." He looked down at the floor, but not before Rafa could see him flushing under the brim of his cap. "Brook's pregnant. I want to be there for that, you know? I want to be there for my kid, not flying all around the world to play tennis."
"Congratulations for you both," Rafa told him sincerely. "That's wonderful! But - you gotta have a last tour, no? Why didn't you say this is your last year?"
"God, no!" Andy laughed. "Shit, I remember Marat's - the endless vale of tears, Jesus. No, I'll just announce it after the Masters Cup. Y'know, good night and good luck."
"We're gonna miss you," Rafa said. "I'm gonna miss you, no? But for sure, good luck." There was the sound of a door slamming as Andy Murray finally came into the locker room. Rafa slung his bag over his shoulder, patted Andy on the shoulder instead of offering him a hug - he could be culturally sensitive, okay, he was sick of Benito telling him not everywhere was like Mallorca - and went to tell the other Andy congratulations before he left. He had a lot to think about on the flight home.
London, 2014
Rafa was pretty sure that if someone had told him when he was twenty-two that by the time he was twenty-five his best friend on tour, and possibly in the world, was going to be Novak Djokovic, he would have laughed in their face, and then found Carlos and Feli and David so they could laugh some more. It was true, though: Nole really was maybe the best friend he'd ever had.
They'd always more or less gotten along, but they weren't especially close until 2009, which Rafa not-so-secretly thought was decisively the worst year of his life. Novak and the Davis Cup were probably the only good thing that had come out of it. He didn't remember when exactly - sometime during the clay court season, he thought. It had been pretty universally horrible: his parents were getting divorced, his knees would not stop fucking hurting, Carlos was injured, Roger was going through some sort of bizarre sporting midlife crisis and having a baby and also getting married, and Rafa was giving serious thought to asking Xisca if they could get engaged, just so he could have a guarantee that one person at least wasn't about to leave him.
Nole had been unbelievably nice to him throughout the whole thing. He figured out later that Novak was kind of weird about family, and parents, and probably would have gone out of his way to be kind to Robin Soderling if he'd known his parents were getting divorced, but at the time all he'd cared about was that he could be blatantly unhappy around Novak and be treated sympathetically, instead of getting yelled at by Toni or worrying that the press was going to find out. It was easy to be quiet with Nole; he could talk enough for three people, if Rafa needed noise, or just sit with him if he didn't. They'd ended up falling into bed together after the final in Rome, or maybe Monte Carlo, and it was all so easy. Rafa had desperately needed something to be easy that year.
The strange and amazing thing was that it never got difficult. Nole was pretty high-strung at nineteen, but he'd mellowed a lot by twenty-two, and he got calmer with every birthday. He didn't sulk when he lost anymore or gloat when he won, which was good, considering how many matches they'd played against each other over the years. Benito, once he'd gotten over his heart attack about the scandal if it ever came out in the press, was really clever about making travel arrangements and setting up publicity events so they could see each other before tournaments, too. And Novak, who had some kind of freakish gift for languages, eventually picked up enough Spanish that when Rafa was feeling lazy, he didn't have to bother speaking in English. It was easy. It was good.
"Hey, sorry I took so long," Novak called as the door to Rafa's hotel room swung open and shut. Rafa was stretched out in his bedroom, watching football highlights; he waved when Novak ducked his head in the doorway, but didn't bother to say anything. Barca was losing, and he wanted to savor the moment.
A few moments later, Novak dropped down beside him, freshly changed into a T-shirt and boxers. "What is this, Barca highlights?" he asked, squinting at the screen. "Can't we watch Milan's match instead? I think they're playing tonight."
"My TV, my football," Rafa said absently. It was a familiar argument, the outcome long since pre-determined. Nole sighed and settled back to watch, his head resting casually on Rafa's shoulder.
Once the highlights were over and Barca righteously defeated, Rafa clicked off the television set and turned to kiss Nole's cheek. "Everything is okay? Long time for a shower."
"Yeah, no, Djole called, that's all." Novak shrugged a little. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you wait."
"I have football, it's okay," Rafa said, amused. "How is Djordje?"
"Good, I think. Still pretty mad that he had to miss the championships because of the ankle, but it's getting better. He's in Monte Carlo with Marko and Jelena, they're planning to get our parents there for Christmas. It's a surprise for me," he added, smiling. "So of course I know, but don't tell him, okay?"
"For sure," Rafa agreed. He probably never would have realized how edgy it made Nole to be away from his family, except that when Djordje's ranking got high enough that they were playing the same tournaments, he just - relaxed, all of a sudden. "Jelena is doing well?"
"Yeah, I mean, except for my mom coming to visit, I think. I - " He hesitated, then sat back a little. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"We're talking now," Rafa pointed out.
"You know what I mean. I, um." Nole bit his lip, and then blurted out, "I asked Jelena to marry me."
There was a long pause. "Did she say yes?" Rafa asked at last.
"Would I be telling you if she said no?" Novak demanded in exasperation.
"I don't know, maybe?"
"Yes, she said yes. Love of God." Rafa didn't have to turn to look at him; he could practically hear him rolling his eyes. "I just, I don't, I wanted to tell you, you know, but I didn't..."
"Nole, that's great!" Rafa said, determinedly delighted. "She's gonna make you really happy, she's amazing girl. When you gonna have the wedding?"
"After Wimbledon, I think. I want - Rafa, I really want you to come, but only if you want to come, you know?"
"Of course I want to come, don't be stupid. I like Jelena a lot, no? And I'm happy for you."
"No, I mean - oh, for fuck's sake," Nole said, and thumped his forehead repeatedly against Rafa's shoulder. "This is the most awkward conversation I have ever had with you. I can't cheat on Jelena once we're married, okay, you get that. It's not... I can't."
"I don't want you to cheat on Jelena," Rafa said firmly. "It's okay, Nole."
"Rafa, would you just - would you just listen for a minute? I love you, you know I love you, okay, I would wait for you. I would wait for you, but it's been four years and you're still not over him, and I don't think - I don't think you ever will be. It's not fair to Jelena, or to me, and maybe it isn't fair to you. I want you to be happy, okay? I really want you to be happy. And you're not. Don't start," he added, when Rafa opened his mouth. "I know you're not. Maybe you're not miserable, but you're bored and you're lonely and you miss him every time we play a Slam final, and you're not happy. I don't know if you've been happy since he retired. So, you know," he concluded, and deflated a little. "Try a little harder to get what you want this time."
Rafa sighed, and pulled Novak in close so he could press his face into the crook of his neck. He smelled clean and comforting and familiar, probably more familiar than anyone else in the world, but Novak was right: this wasn't what he really wanted. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, I gonna try."
Basel, 2014
Rafa glanced around at the quiet street very carefully before getting out of his rented car. He was definitely in the right place; he'd checked the map and the GPS and the directions multiple times. Getting the address from Andy Roddick had been one of the most embarrassing conversations of his life - up there with the time Toni had walked in on him with Xisca when he was nineteen, and only just barely lower than the time Toni had walked in on him with Novak when he was twenty-four, and he was pretty sure Toni had been trying to humiliate him then. Still, he'd gotten what he was after: that was Roger's house in front of him. All he had to do was work up the nerve to walk up and knock on the door.
This is ridiculous, he thought to himself, when he realized he'd spent five whole minutes fidgeting beside the car without taking a single step. He'd played Grand Slam finals. He'd won Grand Slam finals. This should not have been more frightening than that.
It was, of course. But he hadn't gotten anywhere by being afraid. Just do it, he reminded himself, smiling a little at the old marketing tagline. And then he made himself walk up to Roger's house and knock on the door.
There were some muffled noises from inside, and then the door swung open. Roger was saying something in German until he looked up, and fell silent.
"Hi," said Rafa.
Roger stared. "Rafa?"
"Yes," Rafa agreed. "Um, sorry if I am not who you expect."
"What? God, no, Rafa, hi! I wasn't - " Roger stopped himself, made a weird, scrunched-up face, and tried again. "Hi, Rafa," he said, much more dignified. "It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too," Rafa said, and tried to conceal how disappointed he was to see the confused, stammering Roger vanish underneath his usual poise. He'd always liked Roger best when he wasn't being perfect; most people didn't get to see that. It felt like that Roger was just for him. Roger held out his hand, like they were strangers or just acquaintances, and Rafa took it for a moment before he gave up on cultural sensitivity or etiquette or whatever and pulled Roger into a hug. If Roger was going to shut him out, that was fine, but he was going to have to try harder than that.
Roger felt stiff in his arms, but eventually he loosened up and put his hands on Rafa's shoulderblades, so he could hug him back. "What are you even doing here?" Roger asked. "Not that I'm not happy to see you!" he added quickly. "I am, I really am."
"I wanted to see you," Rafa said, and shrugged. He could have made something up about a promotional event or meeting in the area, he supposed, but he was too much his father's son and his uncle's protege to lie about something like this. "I missed you, no?"
"Oh," Roger said, in a funny, stunned little voice. Rafa kind of wished they weren't still hugging, so he could see Roger's face. "I mean, I missed you too."
"Really? You never call," Rafa teased.
"Neither do you," Roger replied. He spoke quietly, but there was an edge to his voice. Before Rafa could answer him - Roger had expected him to call? What the hell would he have said, "sorry that your body broke down and mine didn't and I ended up winning all your Wimbledon titles"? - they were interrupted by a childishly high-pitched voice calling, "Papa, papa!" from behind Rafa. They immediately broke apart, and Rafa looked down to see one of Roger's daughters for the first time since they were tiny babies, perpetually wrapped in pink.
"Sweetheart, you know you're not supposed to go out without your mother," Roger chided. She ignored him in favor of staring at Rafa.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Hello," Rafa said with a smile, and crouched down so they could see each other eye-to-eye. "I'm Rafa Nadal. Are you Myla or Charlene?"
"You talk funny," she announced.
"Charlie!" Roger sounded appalled, and launched into a lecture in German, which was still total gibberish to Rafa. His English was much better, thankfully, and he could understand French if he concentrated, but German and Russian remained utterly beyond him.
"Rogi, it's okay," he said, laughing. "I do talk funny. That's because I didn't learn English until I was much older than you," he added to Charlene. "It's a very hard language, no? You are very lucky that you have your papa to teach you." She moved a little closer, and he automatically lifted her into his arms and stood back up, settling her onto his hip. It wasn't until he noticed how utterly still she was that he realized what he'd done. Roger's daughter wasn't like Emilio or Carlos' kids, who had been raised since birth to believe that the primary purpose of a tennis player was to be crawled on and supply treats. Hitting a ball over the net ranked a far distant third. "Sorry," he apologized awkwardly. "Should I give her to you?"
He was already starting to hold Charlene out to Roger when he realized Roger was shaking his head. "I can't," Roger said. "My back."
"Sorry!" Rafa repeated, horrified. "I didn't mean - " Charlene leaned out to grab a fistful of his hair, and he shifted his grip to hold her closer.
"It's okay," Roger said. "I don't - I'm used to it. I don't mind, really."
Rafa stared: he couldn't imagine ever not minding not being able to pick up his own daughter. "Ow," he said at last. Charlene was yanking pretty hard on his hair.
"Mirka," Roger said suddenly, a strange mix of relief and trepidation on his face, and Rafa turned, still holding Charlene, to see her walking towards them, holding Myla by the hand. She looked tired, as Rafa thought that all parents with young children must be tired, and beautiful. He'd always liked Mirka; she was real, in a way that some of the women who floated on the periphery of player parties weren't.
"Hello, Rafa," she said, and smiled at him. "Brooklyn called and said you might be coming. I'm glad you did."
"It's nice to see you," Rafa replied, a little bashfully, and kissed her cheek. Charlene, caught between them, immediately reached out to her mother, and petulantly scrunched up her face when she wasn't picked up. Rafa, who was no stranger to the vagaries of small spoiled children, tried to avert the incipient tantrum by bouncing her up and down, but to no avail: nothing but her mother would do. "Sorry," he said ruefully, and handed her over before she could start screaming in earnest.
"Not at all," she said, and then to Roger, "I'll get the girls settled inside. I'm going to the store later; would you like me to pick anything up for you?"
"I don't think so," Roger said, a little blankly. Mirka sailed past him into the house, Charlene in the lead and Myla trailing behind her with her thumb in her mouth. She cast a shyly curious look at Rafa as she walked past him.
"They're so much bigger than last time I saw them," Rafa commented.
"That's because you haven't seen them in four years," Roger said harshly. "Look, Rafa, I'm happy to see you, but - what are you doing here? Really."
Rafa looked at Roger's face, and then away. "I wasn't lying, no? I come to see you."
"Why now?"
"Oh. Well, um, I don't know if you - Novak is getting married, no?"
"Oh, Rafa, I'm so sorry," Roger said immediately.
"After Wimbledon, so - wait, what? Sorry for why?"
"I thought - aren't you and Novak - Lopez still talks to Marat, you know." Roger looked embarrassed, but Rafa felt a tiny pang of hope. If Roger still cared enough to ask after him, then maybe -
"For sure I know, how you think I hear about you?" he asked, smiling wryly. "Novak is a good friend, no? But married is not - I'm happy for him. Jelena is a really good girl, they're gonna be really happy together." He took a deep breath, and continued. "I came because - well, Novak wants the wedding in Monte Carlo, after Wimbledon, so his tour friends can come, no? He asked me to go, I'm gonna go. And I want - I thought, maybe you can come with me."
"Rafa," Roger said carefully, "are you asking me to go to Novak's wedding as your date?"
"No, I am asking you to go as my sister. Yes, of course as my date," he replied impatiently. He bit down his frustration at the sight of Roger's confused expression, and struggled to express all the things he needed Roger to understand. He hadn't gotten this far in the speeches he'd written in his head during the flight to Switzerland. "If you don't want, we don't gotta - we can be friends, no? For sure always we can be friends. But is no - I mean, is not a secret, what you are for me. Is four years now, and I miss you always, Rogi. I miss you like - like my hand, no? Like my heart. And I hope maybe is long enough, and you don't hate me no more."
"You lose your English when you're upset, you know that?" Roger asked, almost tenderly. Rafa could have exploded in vexation, except that Roger laid a hand on his arm, restraining him better than a straitjacket. "I barely recognized how you spoke, your English is so much better, but there's the Rafa I know."
"Four years we don't talk, I hope my English is better than last time," Rafa said. "Talk to me more, you don't be surprised."
Roger laughed, looking startled and bordering on some strange new emotion that Rafa was afraid to label as happiness. "You always surprise me. How could you think I hated you? Is that why you never - ?"
"Didn't you?" Rafa asked, challengingly.
"Of course not, don't be absurd." Rafa stared at him in silence, waiting. "Well, I mean, not really. Only for a little while. Not for years, Rafa. I couldn't hate you for years."
"I hated you when you won Roland Garros without me," Rafa said flatly. "I hated you when you won Wimbledon and I wasn't there. Just for a day, no? Well, maybe two days for Wimbledon. But I hated you, and I lo - I love you," he managed to get out, stuttering over words he'd never meant like this before. "If I could still - of course you hated me. I just - I hoped maybe not anymore."
"I don't hate you. Rafa, I don't. I swear to you, I don't." Roger stepped closer, so they were almost nose-to-nose, his hand still resting on Rafa's arm. The surreality of the situation suddenly hit home to Rafa: he was having maybe one of the most important conversations of his life on the front step of Roger's house in Basel. Anyone could walk by and see them; nobody seemed to care. He pressed his forehead against Roger's and helplessly started to giggle. After a moment, Roger let out a hiccuping sort of laugh in response. "I'm not - I can't promise anything, you know? I have the girls, and you're still on tour, and - "
"Roger, I'm not ask you to marry me," Rafa interrupted. He felt like his smile was going to break his face in half. "Come to Novak's wedding with me. You can always worry later, no?"
"Okay," Roger said. He drew in a breath, then let it out in a long whistling sigh. "Okay, I'll come."
"Okay," Rafa echoed, and while he hesitated - he hadn't really planned ahead to what he would do if Roger actually said yes - Roger swiftly leaned forward to close the last remaining inch between them in a kiss. Rafa let out a startled mmph!, and his hands flailed wildly for a moment before he regained the presence of mind to put them around Roger's waist.
Before they could settle into the kiss, there was a crash like glass or ceramic shattering from inside the house, followed by a child's wailing and Mirka yelling in German. Roger immediately stepped back. "Children," he said wryly. "Never a dull moment."
"Is okay," Rafa replied, and grinned. "I like the challenge."
Everything was going to be new and very strange. Certainly it would not be easy. But Rafa thought, as he followed Roger into his house, that he really might be happy.
Epilogue
Rafael Nadal never won the U.S. Open. But he did live happily ever after with Roger Federer, so it balanced out in the end.
fandom: tennis rps
pairing: roger federer/rafael nadal, mentions of novak djokovic/rafael nadal, fernando verdasco/feliciano lopez
rating: pg
word count: 5500
summary: Rafa is the last man standing of his generation on the ATP tour, and he isn't dealing with it all that well.
author's notes: my deep gratitude to crazier-elf and aramley, beta superstars. you guys are amazing. title and cut-text are from T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
this is for aramley. it's totally all your fault.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”-
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
Madrid, 2012
It had somehow never occurred to Rafa when he joined the tour that being the youngest player he knew might mean he would be the last one of his friends left in the end. He certainly never expected it during his long enforced breaks from the game, staring resentfully at his foot or his knees or whatever part of his body had broken down this time, praying that his career wasn't over just yet. But he was only twenty-five, and the tour was dissolving like sand under his feet, familiar faces disappearing and new, younger ones rushing in to replace them.
If he looked all the way back, it probably started when Marat got bored and wandered off to pursue his new and exciting career in whatever it was Marat did now: reading existentialist novels and having sex with a lot of blondes, probably. It hadn't bothered Rafa, particularly; he liked Marat, of course, but they weren't really friends. He hadn't thought much about the fact that Marat was a good three years younger than Carlos, and the same age as Juanqui. He was only a year older than Feli. He was only a year older than Roger.
Carlos was the first of his real friends to leave, and it maybe wasn't a surprise when he told them all that he wasn't coming back, right before Roland Garros, but it was still upsetting. It helped that things had sort of stabilized after the mess of the previous year, though, and he was healthy and winning the matches he was supposed to, and he adjusted to the idea that Carlos was going to be a phone call rather than a hotel room away.
Then they won the Davis Cup again, and Feli announced, just sort of in passing at the afterparty, that he was retiring. They were all stunned, but Rafa had been looking right at Fer, and he'd looked like someone had kicked him in the stomach, which Rafa took to mean that Feli really was just being a dick about the whole thing, and hadn't told anyone. So Feli went off to to hang around Madrid doing something with fashion, and Fernando promptly descended into an unforeseen and precipitous downward spiral, the highlights of which included a humiliating second-round loss in Australia and a spectacular four-set implosion in the opening rubber of their first Davis Cup tie of the year, culminating in his cornering Rafa during the team party - thank God David and Tommy had managed to pull off the doubles rubber, because Rafa had no idea what they would have done if it had come down to a live fifth - to drunkenly ramble about how much he missed Feli, and finally throwing up all over Rafa's shoes.
Rafa felt that this pretty much encapsulated his relationship with Feli: Feli got a lot of presumably mind-blowing sex, and Rafa got vomited on. Sometimes he wondered why they were even friends.
Sometimes he had no doubt at all. "I hear Roger is getting better," Feli said casually, not even looking away from the television screen, like it was nothing important.
"Oh," Rafa said, and pretended as hard as he could that the Real match they were watching was the reason he was hanging out at Feli's Madrid apartment before his tournament, instead of the conversation they were both doing their best to talk around.
"He'll be walking without the brace soon, Marat says," Feli added.
Rafa didn't even want to try to understand Feli's friendship with Marat, which so far as he could tell was solely predicated on their mutual interest in getting drunk, looking pretty and having sex with as many willing and attractive partners as possible. Between the two of them, though, they were pretty much guaranteed to know all the really interesting gossip on tour. They probably should have been out of the loop after being retired for over a year, but apparently being freed of the burdens of practicing and actually playing matches had just given them more time to do things they really liked. Like gossip.
Marat did still show up occasionally, usually when he was least expected, and he came to his sister's matches every once in a while. He'd been there when she won Roland Garros, Rafa remembered. He'd been distracted that year; Andy Roddick had pulled him aside in the locker room, after he'd been knocked out in the fourth round, to tell him that Roger probably wasn't going to come back. Somehow he'd ended up watching the end of the women's final in the players' lounge: Safina and Jankovic, he thought, because he'd watched with Novak, and Novak was cheering for Jelena. That was before the US Open, too, so they'd all been teasing Andy Murray that one of the women's Slamless number ones was going to get there before him.
The trophy ceremony was nice, though. Nobody had known Marat was there until Safina went climbing up into the stands to get to him; he hadn't been sitting in her box. She wouldn't let go of him long enough to go back down and get her trophy, so he came with her, and she spent most of the ceremony with his arm around her, hiding her face in his shoulder. She was still crying when she had to give her speech. Rafa didn't know why that moment stuck in his memory; he couldn't remember what she'd said.
"Are you doing okay now?" Feli asked, apparently having decided that the silence had gone on too long.
"Have to be, no?" Rafa said wryly.
"Don't be a brat," Feli said, and swatted him across the head. "You were awful in Australia."
"Yeah, well, everyone was awful in Australia," Rafa pointed out. "But I have to get better. Toni keeps telling me, I'm not nineteen anymore, I have to learn to win like a grown-up."
"You will," Feli said. He flashed the smile that had made pretty much everyone on tour forgive him for pretty much anything, and added, "If anybody can do what you're trying to, Rafa, it's you."
"I hope so," Rafa muttered. Feli looked like he wanted to say something else, but they were interrupted by Fernando coming back with takeout (he apparently had his own set of keys, which told Rafa exactly how much credence to put in his claim that he was living in a different apartment), and they never did finish their conversation before Rafa left Madrid.
New York, 2013
Rafa was still in the locker room packing up when the Andys finished their semi - he'd forgotten some things in his locker, and in the midst of all the annoying post-loss errands, he hadn't had a chance to go back until now. Andy Roddick's slumped shoulders told him how it had ended without having to ask. "Good match," Rafa offered in consolation. He'd only seen bits and pieces of the first two sets, but so far as he knew it was true.
"Thanks," Andy said, and smacked him on the shoulder. After ten full years on tour, Rafa still didn't understand why the Americans all hit each other instead of hugging like normal people. "You too, man. Seriously, though, you've got to break this Novak curse you've got going in New York. What's this, four straight times he's beat you in the semis?"
"Final, once," Rafa corrected, and shrugged. "He likes it here, no? Always he plays better in New York. Is his favorite, I think. He always says Wimbledon, but he's lying, he likes US Open best."
Andy laughed, as Rafa'd meant for him to, but he looked a little uncertain. "Hey, look, I mean, there's never really a good way to ask this, but... what's the deal with you and Novak?"
"Eh?" Rafa frowned. "I don't know this word, what it means."
"What's the deal? Um, like, what's going on with you, what's the story - I mean, your relationship, I guess."
"We are friends, no? Well, we are very good friends, I think. You are our friend, too, no?" he added, puzzled.
"Friends who fuck each other?" Andy asked. One of his eyebrows shot up towards his receding hairline.
"Si!" Rafa agreed, pleased that he understood so easily. "Friends, and also fucking. Is good, no? Not so much, um, lonely, I think."
"Yeah," Andy said, his face clouding. "I get that. Being lonely sucks." He sat down and started to take off his shoes. "Hey, Raf," he said, before Rafa could get back to the serious task of putting his bag in order.
"Hmm?" Rafa looked over at him again.
"Do you think you would have won here if Roger were still playing?"
Rafa blinked. "I lose to Novak four years in a row, I don't think I'm gonna beat Roger, Andy."
"I don't know. You always played better for him."
"Maybe," Rafa said. He thought about getting to play Roger in a final in New York, and felt wistful in a way he really hadn't that afternoon, when Novak beat him. That, more than anything, made him wonder why he still kept coming to New York. Toni always said he couldn't win if he didn't want to, and he did, but still... He kind of hated the US Open. It was more Novak's kind of tournament. Novak's, and Roger's. "I wish - well. Silly, no? We all wish Roger is here."
"Most of us, anyway," Andy said. "You know they're separating? Roger and Mirka, I mean."
"What? No, I don't - what about the twins?" Rafa felt the same instinctive dismay whenever he found out that people he knew were getting divorced, rooted in the helpless panic of finding out that his own parents had decided they couldn't be married anymore. This time, though, there was something else underneath that, some other emotion that he refused to examine. Only a very horrible person would be happy that his friend's marriage was breaking up - and even if he and Roger hadn't spoken in years, he was still Rafa's friend.
"I guess he bought the house next door or down the street or something, so he can be there, but not, like, there-there. And the twins are too young to know the difference, really."
"I guess," Rafa said noncommittally, and decided to change the subject. "You still gonna use that crazy rock song next year, you think?"
"Hey, don't knock Journey, that song is classic, it totally helped me win last year!" Andy protested, grinning, and then added, more seriously, "I don't think I'll be here next year."
It took a moment for Rafa to process that statement. "You gonna retire?"
"Yeah, I mean, dude, I'm thirty-one. I could probably play a few more years, but... I don't really want to, you know? I'm glad I got another one, but I don't want to stick around just to try for a third. And, I mean..." He looked down at the floor, but not before Rafa could see him flushing under the brim of his cap. "Brook's pregnant. I want to be there for that, you know? I want to be there for my kid, not flying all around the world to play tennis."
"Congratulations for you both," Rafa told him sincerely. "That's wonderful! But - you gotta have a last tour, no? Why didn't you say this is your last year?"
"God, no!" Andy laughed. "Shit, I remember Marat's - the endless vale of tears, Jesus. No, I'll just announce it after the Masters Cup. Y'know, good night and good luck."
"We're gonna miss you," Rafa said. "I'm gonna miss you, no? But for sure, good luck." There was the sound of a door slamming as Andy Murray finally came into the locker room. Rafa slung his bag over his shoulder, patted Andy on the shoulder instead of offering him a hug - he could be culturally sensitive, okay, he was sick of Benito telling him not everywhere was like Mallorca - and went to tell the other Andy congratulations before he left. He had a lot to think about on the flight home.
London, 2014
Rafa was pretty sure that if someone had told him when he was twenty-two that by the time he was twenty-five his best friend on tour, and possibly in the world, was going to be Novak Djokovic, he would have laughed in their face, and then found Carlos and Feli and David so they could laugh some more. It was true, though: Nole really was maybe the best friend he'd ever had.
They'd always more or less gotten along, but they weren't especially close until 2009, which Rafa not-so-secretly thought was decisively the worst year of his life. Novak and the Davis Cup were probably the only good thing that had come out of it. He didn't remember when exactly - sometime during the clay court season, he thought. It had been pretty universally horrible: his parents were getting divorced, his knees would not stop fucking hurting, Carlos was injured, Roger was going through some sort of bizarre sporting midlife crisis and having a baby and also getting married, and Rafa was giving serious thought to asking Xisca if they could get engaged, just so he could have a guarantee that one person at least wasn't about to leave him.
Nole had been unbelievably nice to him throughout the whole thing. He figured out later that Novak was kind of weird about family, and parents, and probably would have gone out of his way to be kind to Robin Soderling if he'd known his parents were getting divorced, but at the time all he'd cared about was that he could be blatantly unhappy around Novak and be treated sympathetically, instead of getting yelled at by Toni or worrying that the press was going to find out. It was easy to be quiet with Nole; he could talk enough for three people, if Rafa needed noise, or just sit with him if he didn't. They'd ended up falling into bed together after the final in Rome, or maybe Monte Carlo, and it was all so easy. Rafa had desperately needed something to be easy that year.
The strange and amazing thing was that it never got difficult. Nole was pretty high-strung at nineteen, but he'd mellowed a lot by twenty-two, and he got calmer with every birthday. He didn't sulk when he lost anymore or gloat when he won, which was good, considering how many matches they'd played against each other over the years. Benito, once he'd gotten over his heart attack about the scandal if it ever came out in the press, was really clever about making travel arrangements and setting up publicity events so they could see each other before tournaments, too. And Novak, who had some kind of freakish gift for languages, eventually picked up enough Spanish that when Rafa was feeling lazy, he didn't have to bother speaking in English. It was easy. It was good.
"Hey, sorry I took so long," Novak called as the door to Rafa's hotel room swung open and shut. Rafa was stretched out in his bedroom, watching football highlights; he waved when Novak ducked his head in the doorway, but didn't bother to say anything. Barca was losing, and he wanted to savor the moment.
A few moments later, Novak dropped down beside him, freshly changed into a T-shirt and boxers. "What is this, Barca highlights?" he asked, squinting at the screen. "Can't we watch Milan's match instead? I think they're playing tonight."
"My TV, my football," Rafa said absently. It was a familiar argument, the outcome long since pre-determined. Nole sighed and settled back to watch, his head resting casually on Rafa's shoulder.
Once the highlights were over and Barca righteously defeated, Rafa clicked off the television set and turned to kiss Nole's cheek. "Everything is okay? Long time for a shower."
"Yeah, no, Djole called, that's all." Novak shrugged a little. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you wait."
"I have football, it's okay," Rafa said, amused. "How is Djordje?"
"Good, I think. Still pretty mad that he had to miss the championships because of the ankle, but it's getting better. He's in Monte Carlo with Marko and Jelena, they're planning to get our parents there for Christmas. It's a surprise for me," he added, smiling. "So of course I know, but don't tell him, okay?"
"For sure," Rafa agreed. He probably never would have realized how edgy it made Nole to be away from his family, except that when Djordje's ranking got high enough that they were playing the same tournaments, he just - relaxed, all of a sudden. "Jelena is doing well?"
"Yeah, I mean, except for my mom coming to visit, I think. I - " He hesitated, then sat back a little. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"We're talking now," Rafa pointed out.
"You know what I mean. I, um." Nole bit his lip, and then blurted out, "I asked Jelena to marry me."
There was a long pause. "Did she say yes?" Rafa asked at last.
"Would I be telling you if she said no?" Novak demanded in exasperation.
"I don't know, maybe?"
"Yes, she said yes. Love of God." Rafa didn't have to turn to look at him; he could practically hear him rolling his eyes. "I just, I don't, I wanted to tell you, you know, but I didn't..."
"Nole, that's great!" Rafa said, determinedly delighted. "She's gonna make you really happy, she's amazing girl. When you gonna have the wedding?"
"After Wimbledon, I think. I want - Rafa, I really want you to come, but only if you want to come, you know?"
"Of course I want to come, don't be stupid. I like Jelena a lot, no? And I'm happy for you."
"No, I mean - oh, for fuck's sake," Nole said, and thumped his forehead repeatedly against Rafa's shoulder. "This is the most awkward conversation I have ever had with you. I can't cheat on Jelena once we're married, okay, you get that. It's not... I can't."
"I don't want you to cheat on Jelena," Rafa said firmly. "It's okay, Nole."
"Rafa, would you just - would you just listen for a minute? I love you, you know I love you, okay, I would wait for you. I would wait for you, but it's been four years and you're still not over him, and I don't think - I don't think you ever will be. It's not fair to Jelena, or to me, and maybe it isn't fair to you. I want you to be happy, okay? I really want you to be happy. And you're not. Don't start," he added, when Rafa opened his mouth. "I know you're not. Maybe you're not miserable, but you're bored and you're lonely and you miss him every time we play a Slam final, and you're not happy. I don't know if you've been happy since he retired. So, you know," he concluded, and deflated a little. "Try a little harder to get what you want this time."
Rafa sighed, and pulled Novak in close so he could press his face into the crook of his neck. He smelled clean and comforting and familiar, probably more familiar than anyone else in the world, but Novak was right: this wasn't what he really wanted. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, I gonna try."
Basel, 2014
Rafa glanced around at the quiet street very carefully before getting out of his rented car. He was definitely in the right place; he'd checked the map and the GPS and the directions multiple times. Getting the address from Andy Roddick had been one of the most embarrassing conversations of his life - up there with the time Toni had walked in on him with Xisca when he was nineteen, and only just barely lower than the time Toni had walked in on him with Novak when he was twenty-four, and he was pretty sure Toni had been trying to humiliate him then. Still, he'd gotten what he was after: that was Roger's house in front of him. All he had to do was work up the nerve to walk up and knock on the door.
This is ridiculous, he thought to himself, when he realized he'd spent five whole minutes fidgeting beside the car without taking a single step. He'd played Grand Slam finals. He'd won Grand Slam finals. This should not have been more frightening than that.
It was, of course. But he hadn't gotten anywhere by being afraid. Just do it, he reminded himself, smiling a little at the old marketing tagline. And then he made himself walk up to Roger's house and knock on the door.
There were some muffled noises from inside, and then the door swung open. Roger was saying something in German until he looked up, and fell silent.
"Hi," said Rafa.
Roger stared. "Rafa?"
"Yes," Rafa agreed. "Um, sorry if I am not who you expect."
"What? God, no, Rafa, hi! I wasn't - " Roger stopped himself, made a weird, scrunched-up face, and tried again. "Hi, Rafa," he said, much more dignified. "It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too," Rafa said, and tried to conceal how disappointed he was to see the confused, stammering Roger vanish underneath his usual poise. He'd always liked Roger best when he wasn't being perfect; most people didn't get to see that. It felt like that Roger was just for him. Roger held out his hand, like they were strangers or just acquaintances, and Rafa took it for a moment before he gave up on cultural sensitivity or etiquette or whatever and pulled Roger into a hug. If Roger was going to shut him out, that was fine, but he was going to have to try harder than that.
Roger felt stiff in his arms, but eventually he loosened up and put his hands on Rafa's shoulderblades, so he could hug him back. "What are you even doing here?" Roger asked. "Not that I'm not happy to see you!" he added quickly. "I am, I really am."
"I wanted to see you," Rafa said, and shrugged. He could have made something up about a promotional event or meeting in the area, he supposed, but he was too much his father's son and his uncle's protege to lie about something like this. "I missed you, no?"
"Oh," Roger said, in a funny, stunned little voice. Rafa kind of wished they weren't still hugging, so he could see Roger's face. "I mean, I missed you too."
"Really? You never call," Rafa teased.
"Neither do you," Roger replied. He spoke quietly, but there was an edge to his voice. Before Rafa could answer him - Roger had expected him to call? What the hell would he have said, "sorry that your body broke down and mine didn't and I ended up winning all your Wimbledon titles"? - they were interrupted by a childishly high-pitched voice calling, "Papa, papa!" from behind Rafa. They immediately broke apart, and Rafa looked down to see one of Roger's daughters for the first time since they were tiny babies, perpetually wrapped in pink.
"Sweetheart, you know you're not supposed to go out without your mother," Roger chided. She ignored him in favor of staring at Rafa.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Hello," Rafa said with a smile, and crouched down so they could see each other eye-to-eye. "I'm Rafa Nadal. Are you Myla or Charlene?"
"You talk funny," she announced.
"Charlie!" Roger sounded appalled, and launched into a lecture in German, which was still total gibberish to Rafa. His English was much better, thankfully, and he could understand French if he concentrated, but German and Russian remained utterly beyond him.
"Rogi, it's okay," he said, laughing. "I do talk funny. That's because I didn't learn English until I was much older than you," he added to Charlene. "It's a very hard language, no? You are very lucky that you have your papa to teach you." She moved a little closer, and he automatically lifted her into his arms and stood back up, settling her onto his hip. It wasn't until he noticed how utterly still she was that he realized what he'd done. Roger's daughter wasn't like Emilio or Carlos' kids, who had been raised since birth to believe that the primary purpose of a tennis player was to be crawled on and supply treats. Hitting a ball over the net ranked a far distant third. "Sorry," he apologized awkwardly. "Should I give her to you?"
He was already starting to hold Charlene out to Roger when he realized Roger was shaking his head. "I can't," Roger said. "My back."
"Sorry!" Rafa repeated, horrified. "I didn't mean - " Charlene leaned out to grab a fistful of his hair, and he shifted his grip to hold her closer.
"It's okay," Roger said. "I don't - I'm used to it. I don't mind, really."
Rafa stared: he couldn't imagine ever not minding not being able to pick up his own daughter. "Ow," he said at last. Charlene was yanking pretty hard on his hair.
"Mirka," Roger said suddenly, a strange mix of relief and trepidation on his face, and Rafa turned, still holding Charlene, to see her walking towards them, holding Myla by the hand. She looked tired, as Rafa thought that all parents with young children must be tired, and beautiful. He'd always liked Mirka; she was real, in a way that some of the women who floated on the periphery of player parties weren't.
"Hello, Rafa," she said, and smiled at him. "Brooklyn called and said you might be coming. I'm glad you did."
"It's nice to see you," Rafa replied, a little bashfully, and kissed her cheek. Charlene, caught between them, immediately reached out to her mother, and petulantly scrunched up her face when she wasn't picked up. Rafa, who was no stranger to the vagaries of small spoiled children, tried to avert the incipient tantrum by bouncing her up and down, but to no avail: nothing but her mother would do. "Sorry," he said ruefully, and handed her over before she could start screaming in earnest.
"Not at all," she said, and then to Roger, "I'll get the girls settled inside. I'm going to the store later; would you like me to pick anything up for you?"
"I don't think so," Roger said, a little blankly. Mirka sailed past him into the house, Charlene in the lead and Myla trailing behind her with her thumb in her mouth. She cast a shyly curious look at Rafa as she walked past him.
"They're so much bigger than last time I saw them," Rafa commented.
"That's because you haven't seen them in four years," Roger said harshly. "Look, Rafa, I'm happy to see you, but - what are you doing here? Really."
Rafa looked at Roger's face, and then away. "I wasn't lying, no? I come to see you."
"Why now?"
"Oh. Well, um, I don't know if you - Novak is getting married, no?"
"Oh, Rafa, I'm so sorry," Roger said immediately.
"After Wimbledon, so - wait, what? Sorry for why?"
"I thought - aren't you and Novak - Lopez still talks to Marat, you know." Roger looked embarrassed, but Rafa felt a tiny pang of hope. If Roger still cared enough to ask after him, then maybe -
"For sure I know, how you think I hear about you?" he asked, smiling wryly. "Novak is a good friend, no? But married is not - I'm happy for him. Jelena is a really good girl, they're gonna be really happy together." He took a deep breath, and continued. "I came because - well, Novak wants the wedding in Monte Carlo, after Wimbledon, so his tour friends can come, no? He asked me to go, I'm gonna go. And I want - I thought, maybe you can come with me."
"Rafa," Roger said carefully, "are you asking me to go to Novak's wedding as your date?"
"No, I am asking you to go as my sister. Yes, of course as my date," he replied impatiently. He bit down his frustration at the sight of Roger's confused expression, and struggled to express all the things he needed Roger to understand. He hadn't gotten this far in the speeches he'd written in his head during the flight to Switzerland. "If you don't want, we don't gotta - we can be friends, no? For sure always we can be friends. But is no - I mean, is not a secret, what you are for me. Is four years now, and I miss you always, Rogi. I miss you like - like my hand, no? Like my heart. And I hope maybe is long enough, and you don't hate me no more."
"You lose your English when you're upset, you know that?" Roger asked, almost tenderly. Rafa could have exploded in vexation, except that Roger laid a hand on his arm, restraining him better than a straitjacket. "I barely recognized how you spoke, your English is so much better, but there's the Rafa I know."
"Four years we don't talk, I hope my English is better than last time," Rafa said. "Talk to me more, you don't be surprised."
Roger laughed, looking startled and bordering on some strange new emotion that Rafa was afraid to label as happiness. "You always surprise me. How could you think I hated you? Is that why you never - ?"
"Didn't you?" Rafa asked, challengingly.
"Of course not, don't be absurd." Rafa stared at him in silence, waiting. "Well, I mean, not really. Only for a little while. Not for years, Rafa. I couldn't hate you for years."
"I hated you when you won Roland Garros without me," Rafa said flatly. "I hated you when you won Wimbledon and I wasn't there. Just for a day, no? Well, maybe two days for Wimbledon. But I hated you, and I lo - I love you," he managed to get out, stuttering over words he'd never meant like this before. "If I could still - of course you hated me. I just - I hoped maybe not anymore."
"I don't hate you. Rafa, I don't. I swear to you, I don't." Roger stepped closer, so they were almost nose-to-nose, his hand still resting on Rafa's arm. The surreality of the situation suddenly hit home to Rafa: he was having maybe one of the most important conversations of his life on the front step of Roger's house in Basel. Anyone could walk by and see them; nobody seemed to care. He pressed his forehead against Roger's and helplessly started to giggle. After a moment, Roger let out a hiccuping sort of laugh in response. "I'm not - I can't promise anything, you know? I have the girls, and you're still on tour, and - "
"Roger, I'm not ask you to marry me," Rafa interrupted. He felt like his smile was going to break his face in half. "Come to Novak's wedding with me. You can always worry later, no?"
"Okay," Roger said. He drew in a breath, then let it out in a long whistling sigh. "Okay, I'll come."
"Okay," Rafa echoed, and while he hesitated - he hadn't really planned ahead to what he would do if Roger actually said yes - Roger swiftly leaned forward to close the last remaining inch between them in a kiss. Rafa let out a startled mmph!, and his hands flailed wildly for a moment before he regained the presence of mind to put them around Roger's waist.
Before they could settle into the kiss, there was a crash like glass or ceramic shattering from inside the house, followed by a child's wailing and Mirka yelling in German. Roger immediately stepped back. "Children," he said wryly. "Never a dull moment."
"Is okay," Rafa replied, and grinned. "I like the challenge."
Everything was going to be new and very strange. Certainly it would not be easy. But Rafa thought, as he followed Roger into his house, that he really might be happy.
Epilogue
Rafael Nadal never won the U.S. Open. But he did live happily ever after with Roger Federer, so it balanced out in the end.