ficlet: please don't let me be misunderstood (tennis rps)
aramley and I have been egging each other on with this post-AO-horribleness hurt/comfort fest. she totally started it by writing this adorable ficlet of Rafa/Nole! so, basically, BLAME HER.
title: please don't let me be misunderstood
fandom: tennis rps
pairing: andy murray/rafael nadal
rating: g
word count: 500
summary: Ibero-Caledonian relations post-quarterfinal.
notes: for dearest darlingest aramley, my mad partner in crime with regard to this strange fascination with Andy Murray's childhood crush on Rafael Nadal. we are sick, sick bastards. takes place immediately after Rafa was forced to retire from his AO '10 quarterfinal against Mandy. title (obviously) from the song originally recorded by Nina Simone. I don't speak Spanish (thanks, babelfish!) but since Mandy isn't supposed to be fluent let's pretend the poor idiom is intentional.
Rafa was still sitting on a bench in the locker room, his team nowhere in sight, when Andy finally escaped from his interview. The excitement roiling in his stomach took a sudden turn for nausea when he saw Rafa's face, the unhappy stare directed at his own knees. "Rafa," Andy blurted. "Are you - "
"Oh, Andy," Rafa said, and smiled up at him, a little tiredly. "You gonna want to talk with your team. Sorry, I go shower now." He started to gather himself to rise to his feet.
"No, don't!" Rafa gave him a strange look but obediently settled back again. "I, I just, I didn't want - are you going to be okay?"
The noise Rafa made, caught halfway between a snort and a laugh, almost made Andy smile. "Don't know, no? Gotta see what the doctor gonna say. Anyways, always the knees, no? We know what we gotta do."
"Okay." Andy bit his lip, then went on, the speed of his words progressively increasing until he was nearly babbling, "Because, I mean, I really hope you'll be back soon, and I don't want - I didn't want to win like this, I mean, of course I wanted to win, but I just, I really, really like you and I hate it when you're hurt, you're like my favorite player ever and I've always really, really - " He suddenly realized what he was saying, and shut his mouth in a hurry.
Rafa was frowning, his eyebrows knitted together in thought. Andy braced himself for the forthcoming rejection as Rafa tilted his head back to look him in the eye and said, "Andy, you know I can't understand nothing you say, no?"
Andy blinked, silent.
"Is your accent, very difficult for me, no? Sorry. So, you say again, more slow, please, and I try to listen better." Rafa smiled at him encouragingly. Andy looked away, trying to pull himself together.
"Yo no soy como Roger," he said at last, in the stumbling, ungrammatical, badly-accented Spanish that he never used on tour, because it made most of the Spaniards and all of the Argentineans laugh until they cried. "Yo no soy como tú. Cuando jugamos, es muy difícil para mí, porque - porque tú - porque te quiero. Sé bien, okay? Por favor sé bien."
Andy was staring steadfastly at a locker several feet to Rafa's left, but he heard him get up. He was still surprised when Rafa came right up to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body and smell the reek of unwashed post-match athlete - God, Andy hadn't showered yet either, he probably smelled disgusting - and folded his arms around Andy's body in a hug. "Está bien," Rafa said gently. "Andy, todo está bien."
Andy buried his face in Rafa's shoulder, too grateful to really be embarrassed, though he knew he would be as soon as he calmed down. He felt something press lightly on the top of his head, like when he was very small and his mother had sometimes kissed his hair before sending him off to school, and Rafa patted his back patiently and repeated, this time in English, "Everything's gonna be okay."
title: please don't let me be misunderstood
fandom: tennis rps
pairing: andy murray/rafael nadal
rating: g
word count: 500
summary: Ibero-Caledonian relations post-quarterfinal.
notes: for dearest darlingest aramley, my mad partner in crime with regard to this strange fascination with Andy Murray's childhood crush on Rafael Nadal. we are sick, sick bastards. takes place immediately after Rafa was forced to retire from his AO '10 quarterfinal against Mandy. title (obviously) from the song originally recorded by Nina Simone. I don't speak Spanish (thanks, babelfish!) but since Mandy isn't supposed to be fluent let's pretend the poor idiom is intentional.
Rafa was still sitting on a bench in the locker room, his team nowhere in sight, when Andy finally escaped from his interview. The excitement roiling in his stomach took a sudden turn for nausea when he saw Rafa's face, the unhappy stare directed at his own knees. "Rafa," Andy blurted. "Are you - "
"Oh, Andy," Rafa said, and smiled up at him, a little tiredly. "You gonna want to talk with your team. Sorry, I go shower now." He started to gather himself to rise to his feet.
"No, don't!" Rafa gave him a strange look but obediently settled back again. "I, I just, I didn't want - are you going to be okay?"
The noise Rafa made, caught halfway between a snort and a laugh, almost made Andy smile. "Don't know, no? Gotta see what the doctor gonna say. Anyways, always the knees, no? We know what we gotta do."
"Okay." Andy bit his lip, then went on, the speed of his words progressively increasing until he was nearly babbling, "Because, I mean, I really hope you'll be back soon, and I don't want - I didn't want to win like this, I mean, of course I wanted to win, but I just, I really, really like you and I hate it when you're hurt, you're like my favorite player ever and I've always really, really - " He suddenly realized what he was saying, and shut his mouth in a hurry.
Rafa was frowning, his eyebrows knitted together in thought. Andy braced himself for the forthcoming rejection as Rafa tilted his head back to look him in the eye and said, "Andy, you know I can't understand nothing you say, no?"
Andy blinked, silent.
"Is your accent, very difficult for me, no? Sorry. So, you say again, more slow, please, and I try to listen better." Rafa smiled at him encouragingly. Andy looked away, trying to pull himself together.
"Yo no soy como Roger," he said at last, in the stumbling, ungrammatical, badly-accented Spanish that he never used on tour, because it made most of the Spaniards and all of the Argentineans laugh until they cried. "Yo no soy como tú. Cuando jugamos, es muy difícil para mí, porque - porque tú - porque te quiero. Sé bien, okay? Por favor sé bien."
Andy was staring steadfastly at a locker several feet to Rafa's left, but he heard him get up. He was still surprised when Rafa came right up to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body and smell the reek of unwashed post-match athlete - God, Andy hadn't showered yet either, he probably smelled disgusting - and folded his arms around Andy's body in a hug. "Está bien," Rafa said gently. "Andy, todo está bien."
Andy buried his face in Rafa's shoulder, too grateful to really be embarrassed, though he knew he would be as soon as he calmed down. He felt something press lightly on the top of his head, like when he was very small and his mother had sometimes kissed his hair before sending him off to school, and Rafa patted his back patiently and repeated, this time in English, "Everything's gonna be okay."