fic: sneaky bastard
title: sneaky bastard
pairing: marat safin/juan carlos ferrero
rating: pg13
disclaimer: fiction
summary: marat's things go missing.
The first time he had noticed it was in Paris. After they both had disappointingly crashed out of the grand slam early, Marat and Juan Carlos parted in separate directions; the Russian headed home before flying to London where as the Spaniard decided to play at the Queen’s Club. When Marat was double-checking his bags just before departing for the airport, he noticed that one of shirts he had practiced in days before was no longer amongst his things. It wasn’t a particularly special shirt of any kind. The only reason Marat even remembers it is because Juan Carlos had mentioned how he liked the yellow lettering against the grey material, how it warmed the colour of Marat’s skin. But Marat didn’t think about it again, just tossed the rest of his things into his bag, headed for the airport and tried not to dwell on how his final year on tour was turning out.
The second time had occurred after his first round loss at Wimbledon. He didn’t even bother saying his farewell to Juan Carlos, instead choosing to get the fuck out of London before he shoved a microphone down some stupid interviewer’s throat. When he got home in Russia, Marat couldn’t find his cologne. He had dumped up every single one of his luggage, seeking a little bottle of his favourite scent he could only purchase from a random shop in Dubai. Of course, he could get it ordered in whenever he wanted to (the shopkeeper had a bit of a crush on him) but in that moment, Marat couldn’t find it and thought he was slowly losing his mind. After all, he was getting old.
In Cincinnati, his favourite black dress shirt disappeared. He started asking the members of his team if they had it, or if they had seen it. Marat had even called up Dinara, who just laughed at him for being a forgetful fool. It was his favourite shirt. He got a lot of action in that shirt. Plus, Juan Carlos always complemented him in that shirt. Juan Carlos however was on person he did not question, never even thought to.
When his pair of eggplant coloured silk boxers were not in his suitcase after leaving New York however, Marat had started becoming a little wary. Juan Carlos had laughed him for buying the purple underwear but could never hide the moan that would escape from his lips when Marat would rub up against him while wearing them. He always insisted Marat pack them to every tournament they played together. However, despite being suspicious of his lover, Marat still didn’t believe that Juan Carlos would take his things besides the boxers.
{*}
After shuffling into their hotel room in Beijing, Marat immediately dropped his bag that was weighing down his already heavy shoulders to the ground. It was a good win for him, but one that left him tired despite it only being the first round. The lumpy figure on the bed however made him smile and he dragged himself over. Undressing was quick, and seconds later Marat was spooning Juan Carlos quite comfortably. When Juan Carlos shifted over so his head was resting on his chest, Marat knew he wasn’t asleep. Fingers found their way on his chest as well, trailing up his pectorals, past his taut nipples and settle on his collarbone, playing with the necklace there.
“Marat?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I have one of these?” Juan Carlos asked in a whisper, tugging on one of the rings on the chain adorning Marat’s neck.
“Only if I can get my boxers back,” he replied nonchalantly, cracking an eye open to witness his lover’s reaction.
Juan Carlos buried his head further into Marat’s body, a blush staining his cheeks in embarrassment. “Ohyouwere’tsupposedtoknow.”
Marat’s body shook with laughter, jostling the head on his chest. He sat up, dragging Juan Carlos with him. “Juanqui,” Marat whispered as he turned Juan Carlos’ head to look at him. “Have you been taking my stuff?”
He dropped his gaze, focusing on his fingers. “Maybe?” When fingers on his chin force him to look up, Juan Carlos smiled weakly. “Yeah, okay. I took them.”
“Why?”
“Because... You’re not going to be with me during the tournaments next year and I wanted something of yours to keep me- oh that’s it! Stop laughing at me.” He gave a rather pathetic push to Marat’s body when the other man began chuckling. But it was futile because seconds later he was back in Marat’s arms.
“Oh Juanqui,” Marat hid his smile into the smaller man’s hair. “My boxers, really?” When that earned him a harder shove, he laughed a little louder, his body shaking. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. Which one do you want?”
After grudgingly settling back against Marat, Juan Carlos shrugged. “Anyone you’re willing to give.”
Marat leaned forward, his arms reaching behind him as he unfastened the necklace. He slipped off the gold one, opting to leave the silver ring on the chain before putting back around his neck. “This one I got when I was 17 from my mother. It was my great grandfather’s, my mother’s grandfather. He told her to give it to her son, if she ever had one. I want you to have this one.” He grasped Juan Carlos’ hands between his own before he could protest and slipped the ring onto his middle finger, only it was too big. “Hmm. Looks like you have to get a chain too. Your fingers are too small.”
Looking up at him with nothing but love and adoration, Juan Carlos shook his head. He took off the ring and replaced it on his thumb. It wasn’t snug as it could be but he decided that it wasn’t going to fall off, so on the thumb it would stay. He leaned in for kiss, a bright smile on his lips.
“Fits fine here. Thanks, love.”
Marat shuffled so they were once again lying on the bed together, legs twined, the comforter wrapped around them. After a few minutes Marat spoke up. “So can I have my stuff back then?”
Juan Carlos answered with a snore.
{*}
When the Masters in Paris came and went, the two men parted only after promising to see each other soon. Juan Carlos hoped to play for Spain and Marat was more than happy to go home, Russia first to see his family. When Juan Carlos arrived back home in Villena, he decided to unpack first before resting, knowing it was the smart thing to do. He rummaged through his suitcase, worrying as he didn’t see his favourite white zip-up hoody. Not caring about the mess, he upturned the luggage, frowning when a piece of paper floated to the ground. A smile curled the frown on lips.
It’ll keep me company until we see each other next :)
pairing: marat safin/juan carlos ferrero
rating: pg13
disclaimer: fiction
summary: marat's things go missing.
The first time he had noticed it was in Paris. After they both had disappointingly crashed out of the grand slam early, Marat and Juan Carlos parted in separate directions; the Russian headed home before flying to London where as the Spaniard decided to play at the Queen’s Club. When Marat was double-checking his bags just before departing for the airport, he noticed that one of shirts he had practiced in days before was no longer amongst his things. It wasn’t a particularly special shirt of any kind. The only reason Marat even remembers it is because Juan Carlos had mentioned how he liked the yellow lettering against the grey material, how it warmed the colour of Marat’s skin. But Marat didn’t think about it again, just tossed the rest of his things into his bag, headed for the airport and tried not to dwell on how his final year on tour was turning out.
The second time had occurred after his first round loss at Wimbledon. He didn’t even bother saying his farewell to Juan Carlos, instead choosing to get the fuck out of London before he shoved a microphone down some stupid interviewer’s throat. When he got home in Russia, Marat couldn’t find his cologne. He had dumped up every single one of his luggage, seeking a little bottle of his favourite scent he could only purchase from a random shop in Dubai. Of course, he could get it ordered in whenever he wanted to (the shopkeeper had a bit of a crush on him) but in that moment, Marat couldn’t find it and thought he was slowly losing his mind. After all, he was getting old.
In Cincinnati, his favourite black dress shirt disappeared. He started asking the members of his team if they had it, or if they had seen it. Marat had even called up Dinara, who just laughed at him for being a forgetful fool. It was his favourite shirt. He got a lot of action in that shirt. Plus, Juan Carlos always complemented him in that shirt. Juan Carlos however was on person he did not question, never even thought to.
When his pair of eggplant coloured silk boxers were not in his suitcase after leaving New York however, Marat had started becoming a little wary. Juan Carlos had laughed him for buying the purple underwear but could never hide the moan that would escape from his lips when Marat would rub up against him while wearing them. He always insisted Marat pack them to every tournament they played together. However, despite being suspicious of his lover, Marat still didn’t believe that Juan Carlos would take his things besides the boxers.
{*}
After shuffling into their hotel room in Beijing, Marat immediately dropped his bag that was weighing down his already heavy shoulders to the ground. It was a good win for him, but one that left him tired despite it only being the first round. The lumpy figure on the bed however made him smile and he dragged himself over. Undressing was quick, and seconds later Marat was spooning Juan Carlos quite comfortably. When Juan Carlos shifted over so his head was resting on his chest, Marat knew he wasn’t asleep. Fingers found their way on his chest as well, trailing up his pectorals, past his taut nipples and settle on his collarbone, playing with the necklace there.
“Marat?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I have one of these?” Juan Carlos asked in a whisper, tugging on one of the rings on the chain adorning Marat’s neck.
“Only if I can get my boxers back,” he replied nonchalantly, cracking an eye open to witness his lover’s reaction.
Juan Carlos buried his head further into Marat’s body, a blush staining his cheeks in embarrassment. “Ohyouwere’tsupposedtoknow.”
Marat’s body shook with laughter, jostling the head on his chest. He sat up, dragging Juan Carlos with him. “Juanqui,” Marat whispered as he turned Juan Carlos’ head to look at him. “Have you been taking my stuff?”
He dropped his gaze, focusing on his fingers. “Maybe?” When fingers on his chin force him to look up, Juan Carlos smiled weakly. “Yeah, okay. I took them.”
“Why?”
“Because... You’re not going to be with me during the tournaments next year and I wanted something of yours to keep me- oh that’s it! Stop laughing at me.” He gave a rather pathetic push to Marat’s body when the other man began chuckling. But it was futile because seconds later he was back in Marat’s arms.
“Oh Juanqui,” Marat hid his smile into the smaller man’s hair. “My boxers, really?” When that earned him a harder shove, he laughed a little louder, his body shaking. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. Which one do you want?”
After grudgingly settling back against Marat, Juan Carlos shrugged. “Anyone you’re willing to give.”
Marat leaned forward, his arms reaching behind him as he unfastened the necklace. He slipped off the gold one, opting to leave the silver ring on the chain before putting back around his neck. “This one I got when I was 17 from my mother. It was my great grandfather’s, my mother’s grandfather. He told her to give it to her son, if she ever had one. I want you to have this one.” He grasped Juan Carlos’ hands between his own before he could protest and slipped the ring onto his middle finger, only it was too big. “Hmm. Looks like you have to get a chain too. Your fingers are too small.”
Looking up at him with nothing but love and adoration, Juan Carlos shook his head. He took off the ring and replaced it on his thumb. It wasn’t snug as it could be but he decided that it wasn’t going to fall off, so on the thumb it would stay. He leaned in for kiss, a bright smile on his lips.
“Fits fine here. Thanks, love.”
Marat shuffled so they were once again lying on the bed together, legs twined, the comforter wrapped around them. After a few minutes Marat spoke up. “So can I have my stuff back then?”
Juan Carlos answered with a snore.
{*}
When the Masters in Paris came and went, the two men parted only after promising to see each other soon. Juan Carlos hoped to play for Spain and Marat was more than happy to go home, Russia first to see his family. When Juan Carlos arrived back home in Villena, he decided to unpack first before resting, knowing it was the smart thing to do. He rummaged through his suitcase, worrying as he didn’t see his favourite white zip-up hoody. Not caring about the mess, he upturned the luggage, frowning when a piece of paper floated to the ground. A smile curled the frown on lips.
It’ll keep me company until we see each other next :)