(no subject)
for the first time.
Drinking our cheap bottles of wine / Sit talking up all night / Saying things we haven't for a while. Andy Murray/Novak Djokovic, PG-13.
Thanks so much to mimsicality for the beta! General disclaimer here. Title and subtitle taken from the song For The First Time by The Script.
It's late and they should be asleep, but they're more awake than they've ever been. The grass is damp underneath them; it's soft, like they're on one of those camping trips that fill up normal summers, but freshly mowed, painted with white lines. The net's down: no one will use this court until tomorrow when it'll be swept and the fifteen thousand empty seats will be cleaned so that, when the sun rises, everything gleams, spotless. Tomorrow, the stadium will be filled by effervescent fans, wanting to be awed - waiting for the first serve, streaking across the sky, and the golden trophy, raised up by their 2002 champion. For now, the calm before the chaos, everything is silent: it's just them, lying across the grass in the near-darkness.
Novak had nicked the keys to Centre Court that morning and, as he swung the keys in front of Andy's face, he bragged: "Easy. The lady could no resist me, Andy. Look how adorable I am." He gestures at himself in huge, completely unnecessary motions, cocksure and annoyingly right. Andy rolls his eyes in response, retorts that Novak was probably just so skinny that the guards didn't see him at all, but he's grinning as he says it. "You're a complete wanker," he tells Novak, eyes shining all the while with glee, "If you get caught, don't expect me to come bail you out of jail." Andy's perfectly aware, though, that if Novak ever did get put in jail, he'd probably be the first one there (with the bail money that Andy's already collecting in his mind, just in case). Novak laughs at him, knows what he's thinking, and walks away, throwing over his shoulder: "9:30, Andy! When practice is over, we go, yes?" He doesn't look back to see if Andy nods, but it was never much of a question in the first place.
That's how they end up in the middle of the most famous stadium in the world with nothing but their tennis gear, three chocolate bars, and a Gatorade, all of which Andy supplied. Judy had told him to pack a sleeping bag when he asked to spend the night at Novak's, but he'd brushed her off completely and now the chill of the court is starting to creep through their clothing and into their skin. The only extra thing that Novak had brought was a mysterious paper bag, which, knowing Novak, could contain anything from jellybeans to a live turtle. But, as Novak grips the top of the bag tighter, it looks distinctly bottle-shaped and Andy glances at it wearily because only Novak would be obvious enough to bring alcohol in such a ridiculous American cliche.
As it turns out, it's a water bottle, filled with vodka, that Novak had stolen from his father and they pass it, clinking softly, between them. Andy's never done this before and his first sip almost comes right back out, but he forces it down his throat, grimacing. The vodka tastes like shit, but Andy figures that he’ll stop noticing eventually. Novak chokes a bit when he drinks it too, wrinkling up his face, but, all bravado, he tries desperately to act like he's done this a million times and that it doesn't bother him in the least. Andy grins over at him because he knows that this is just Novak being Novak.
They drink and they start talking between themselves, uncensored. Their words begin clear but they become increasingly mumbled as the night goes on, until they're somewhere near incoherence; but they can understand each other perfectly because they're both young and they’re both euphoric and they’re both the same (in all the ways that matter) - so it doesn't matter if Novak mumbles in Serbian from time to time.
They talk about Wimbledons of the future, about making it into the top hundred or the top twenty or the top five. "Can you imagine?" they breathe together. They talk about the next time they'll be out here, lifting the trophy themselves. They talk about the rivalry that they'll build - "as great as Agassi and Sampras," they say; "better," they say; "everyone will know our names," they say. It’s late into the night and they talk about all of their dreams and their wishes and the things that they can just allow themselves to believe, drunk and delirious in the darkness: "We'll be the best the world has ever seen, you and me."
They run out of words eventually, or maybe they just run out of the ability to say them, and they're collapsed together, giggling. For a moment, they each think that this is as perfect as anything has ever been and Andy looks over at Novak. He can barely make out Novak's features from the starlight, but he can see Novak's jawline; his nose; his eyes, as he looks over towards Andy, grinning and with rumpled hair. It's strange and just a little miraculous. Andy leans over like he's never done before; raises his hand to position Novak's head and almost-sloppily places his lips over Novak's. He doesn't really know what makes him do it (except he does: it's because he's thought about this too many times and because Novak looks stunning and because right now, somehow, he can pretend that this might be all that there is). Andy kisses Novak and it tastes like shared vodka and Wimbledon strawberries and the mint gum that Novak has always favored (and that Andy will never give up after this). They're warm, fevered by the alcohol, and Andy wonders if this is how you're supposed to kiss; if Novak's lips, chapped and rough, are supposed to be smooth like a girl's (if they're supposed to feel this good even though they're not).
Andy is just starting to wonder why Novak hasn't pushed him away yet when Andy feels a hand reaching up to his shoulder, holding him in place; a body willing, pushing forward; a mouth that kisses back. Andy reaches up and holds Novak closer and doesn't know what to do next because this is so much more than he's ever dreamed he could have (but now Andy can't help wanting more). "Novak," he gasps, "Novak, Novak." There aren't any other words for Andy except this one, looping over again in his head like he could think only this one word for a lifetime and would never get tired of it (of him). They're collapsed on top of each other and their bodies aren't supposed to twist like this, but it's all worth it because Andy's half-lying on top of Novak and his hand is curled around Novak's hip and sliding under his shirt, up his ribcage.
But then, suddenly, Novak's not kissing him anymore; he's pulled away, just slightly, and his face is buried underneath Andy's jaw. "No," he says brokenly, breathing against Andy's neck, and Andy doesn't understand because the only word in his own mind is "yes". Andy doesn't know what to say but he tilts his head towards Novak's again because he must have misheard: Novak can't be saying "no". But Novak pulls away again -- just enough so that his lips are millimeters from Andy's neck. He's mumbling but he says: "No, Andy. Andy, we can't." He says those words but Andy understands all the ones that Novak means to come after those, the ones that Novak's repeating in his head and that he'll repeat again, aloud, if Andy needs to be reminded: "You know we can't do this. You know we can't be this and be tennis players. We can't be stars, or grand slams champions, or anyone if we're this." For a moment, fleeting, irrational, angry, Andy wants to throw away everything because why does anything else matter? How could winning a trophy feel better than the last few hours, than the two of them together? "Novak," he almost says, "Novak, I don't care. I don't care about anything else."
But he doesn't say those things because he's not that out of his mind even now; he knows that he could never give up tennis for anything, not even this. He thinks about trophies and cheering fans and the title "Wimbledon champion" and the feeling of hitting the little, yellow ball across the net and he pulls away from Novak instead of pulling him closer. He thinks that he understands just as well as Novak does: that he'll learn to be normal like everyone wants him to be and it'll lead to a nice life, a content life, with girlfriends and dogs and tennis, but that he'll never have this.
They pull apart slowly, like roots that have been entwined together for centuries, and they lie there together in the quiet: not together, but they can hear each others' breathing, feel the rise and fall of the other's chest. They lie there and know that they can't do this, but they can't move away either (at least not for tonight). Novak tries to reach for Andy, tries to grab his hand and push their fingers together, but Andy pulls away (he's not bitter, he tells himself) (if he starts, he'll never stop, he knows). They lie there and pretend it won't be different after tonight: that they'll watch the final together the next morning and Dijana will make them breakfast and they'll practice together, replaying the points from the final and arguing over the tactics that Nalbandian should have used. They'll be friends: normal, not-anything-else, just friends.
They know that's not what's going to happen.
They'll drift apart more than they break apart until they're barely speaking anymore, going out of their way to avoid each other. Everyone will notice but they'll play it off as a teenage fight and everyone will believe them because they're fifteen years old and, "How close could they have been anyway? They're so young." Everyone will forget that they were ever that close (like brothers, someone had said, though that wasn't quite it), but Judy will notice more than others, will glance at them and know that it's not what they tell everyone. She'll watch Andy as he gets even more focused, as he starts talking to girls, as he tries to be less sarcastic, and as too many things of the boy she knows disappear. Judy might never figure out exactly what happened, but she'll frown at Andy as he turns down alcohol time and time again, never drinks more than a sip or two out of courtesy, and when he lies that it just isn't for him.
At the end of the night, when they've hit the blackest part and they can't see anything anymore, not even each other, not even the net posts or the exit doors or the stars, they get up and it's like they're not different, but they both are. They'll both wake the next morning and watch the final separately and practice separately and grow apart because they can't be together.
Drinking our cheap bottles of wine / Sit talking up all night / Saying things we haven't for a while. Andy Murray/Novak Djokovic, PG-13.
Thanks so much to mimsicality for the beta! General disclaimer here. Title and subtitle taken from the song For The First Time by The Script.
It's late and they should be asleep, but they're more awake than they've ever been. The grass is damp underneath them; it's soft, like they're on one of those camping trips that fill up normal summers, but freshly mowed, painted with white lines. The net's down: no one will use this court until tomorrow when it'll be swept and the fifteen thousand empty seats will be cleaned so that, when the sun rises, everything gleams, spotless. Tomorrow, the stadium will be filled by effervescent fans, wanting to be awed - waiting for the first serve, streaking across the sky, and the golden trophy, raised up by their 2002 champion. For now, the calm before the chaos, everything is silent: it's just them, lying across the grass in the near-darkness.
Novak had nicked the keys to Centre Court that morning and, as he swung the keys in front of Andy's face, he bragged: "Easy. The lady could no resist me, Andy. Look how adorable I am." He gestures at himself in huge, completely unnecessary motions, cocksure and annoyingly right. Andy rolls his eyes in response, retorts that Novak was probably just so skinny that the guards didn't see him at all, but he's grinning as he says it. "You're a complete wanker," he tells Novak, eyes shining all the while with glee, "If you get caught, don't expect me to come bail you out of jail." Andy's perfectly aware, though, that if Novak ever did get put in jail, he'd probably be the first one there (with the bail money that Andy's already collecting in his mind, just in case). Novak laughs at him, knows what he's thinking, and walks away, throwing over his shoulder: "9:30, Andy! When practice is over, we go, yes?" He doesn't look back to see if Andy nods, but it was never much of a question in the first place.
That's how they end up in the middle of the most famous stadium in the world with nothing but their tennis gear, three chocolate bars, and a Gatorade, all of which Andy supplied. Judy had told him to pack a sleeping bag when he asked to spend the night at Novak's, but he'd brushed her off completely and now the chill of the court is starting to creep through their clothing and into their skin. The only extra thing that Novak had brought was a mysterious paper bag, which, knowing Novak, could contain anything from jellybeans to a live turtle. But, as Novak grips the top of the bag tighter, it looks distinctly bottle-shaped and Andy glances at it wearily because only Novak would be obvious enough to bring alcohol in such a ridiculous American cliche.
As it turns out, it's a water bottle, filled with vodka, that Novak had stolen from his father and they pass it, clinking softly, between them. Andy's never done this before and his first sip almost comes right back out, but he forces it down his throat, grimacing. The vodka tastes like shit, but Andy figures that he’ll stop noticing eventually. Novak chokes a bit when he drinks it too, wrinkling up his face, but, all bravado, he tries desperately to act like he's done this a million times and that it doesn't bother him in the least. Andy grins over at him because he knows that this is just Novak being Novak.
They drink and they start talking between themselves, uncensored. Their words begin clear but they become increasingly mumbled as the night goes on, until they're somewhere near incoherence; but they can understand each other perfectly because they're both young and they’re both euphoric and they’re both the same (in all the ways that matter) - so it doesn't matter if Novak mumbles in Serbian from time to time.
They talk about Wimbledons of the future, about making it into the top hundred or the top twenty or the top five. "Can you imagine?" they breathe together. They talk about the next time they'll be out here, lifting the trophy themselves. They talk about the rivalry that they'll build - "as great as Agassi and Sampras," they say; "better," they say; "everyone will know our names," they say. It’s late into the night and they talk about all of their dreams and their wishes and the things that they can just allow themselves to believe, drunk and delirious in the darkness: "We'll be the best the world has ever seen, you and me."
They run out of words eventually, or maybe they just run out of the ability to say them, and they're collapsed together, giggling. For a moment, they each think that this is as perfect as anything has ever been and Andy looks over at Novak. He can barely make out Novak's features from the starlight, but he can see Novak's jawline; his nose; his eyes, as he looks over towards Andy, grinning and with rumpled hair. It's strange and just a little miraculous. Andy leans over like he's never done before; raises his hand to position Novak's head and almost-sloppily places his lips over Novak's. He doesn't really know what makes him do it (except he does: it's because he's thought about this too many times and because Novak looks stunning and because right now, somehow, he can pretend that this might be all that there is). Andy kisses Novak and it tastes like shared vodka and Wimbledon strawberries and the mint gum that Novak has always favored (and that Andy will never give up after this). They're warm, fevered by the alcohol, and Andy wonders if this is how you're supposed to kiss; if Novak's lips, chapped and rough, are supposed to be smooth like a girl's (if they're supposed to feel this good even though they're not).
Andy is just starting to wonder why Novak hasn't pushed him away yet when Andy feels a hand reaching up to his shoulder, holding him in place; a body willing, pushing forward; a mouth that kisses back. Andy reaches up and holds Novak closer and doesn't know what to do next because this is so much more than he's ever dreamed he could have (but now Andy can't help wanting more). "Novak," he gasps, "Novak, Novak." There aren't any other words for Andy except this one, looping over again in his head like he could think only this one word for a lifetime and would never get tired of it (of him). They're collapsed on top of each other and their bodies aren't supposed to twist like this, but it's all worth it because Andy's half-lying on top of Novak and his hand is curled around Novak's hip and sliding under his shirt, up his ribcage.
But then, suddenly, Novak's not kissing him anymore; he's pulled away, just slightly, and his face is buried underneath Andy's jaw. "No," he says brokenly, breathing against Andy's neck, and Andy doesn't understand because the only word in his own mind is "yes". Andy doesn't know what to say but he tilts his head towards Novak's again because he must have misheard: Novak can't be saying "no". But Novak pulls away again -- just enough so that his lips are millimeters from Andy's neck. He's mumbling but he says: "No, Andy. Andy, we can't." He says those words but Andy understands all the ones that Novak means to come after those, the ones that Novak's repeating in his head and that he'll repeat again, aloud, if Andy needs to be reminded: "You know we can't do this. You know we can't be this and be tennis players. We can't be stars, or grand slams champions, or anyone if we're this." For a moment, fleeting, irrational, angry, Andy wants to throw away everything because why does anything else matter? How could winning a trophy feel better than the last few hours, than the two of them together? "Novak," he almost says, "Novak, I don't care. I don't care about anything else."
But he doesn't say those things because he's not that out of his mind even now; he knows that he could never give up tennis for anything, not even this. He thinks about trophies and cheering fans and the title "Wimbledon champion" and the feeling of hitting the little, yellow ball across the net and he pulls away from Novak instead of pulling him closer. He thinks that he understands just as well as Novak does: that he'll learn to be normal like everyone wants him to be and it'll lead to a nice life, a content life, with girlfriends and dogs and tennis, but that he'll never have this.
They pull apart slowly, like roots that have been entwined together for centuries, and they lie there together in the quiet: not together, but they can hear each others' breathing, feel the rise and fall of the other's chest. They lie there and know that they can't do this, but they can't move away either (at least not for tonight). Novak tries to reach for Andy, tries to grab his hand and push their fingers together, but Andy pulls away (he's not bitter, he tells himself) (if he starts, he'll never stop, he knows). They lie there and pretend it won't be different after tonight: that they'll watch the final together the next morning and Dijana will make them breakfast and they'll practice together, replaying the points from the final and arguing over the tactics that Nalbandian should have used. They'll be friends: normal, not-anything-else, just friends.
They know that's not what's going to happen.
They'll drift apart more than they break apart until they're barely speaking anymore, going out of their way to avoid each other. Everyone will notice but they'll play it off as a teenage fight and everyone will believe them because they're fifteen years old and, "How close could they have been anyway? They're so young." Everyone will forget that they were ever that close (like brothers, someone had said, though that wasn't quite it), but Judy will notice more than others, will glance at them and know that it's not what they tell everyone. She'll watch Andy as he gets even more focused, as he starts talking to girls, as he tries to be less sarcastic, and as too many things of the boy she knows disappear. Judy might never figure out exactly what happened, but she'll frown at Andy as he turns down alcohol time and time again, never drinks more than a sip or two out of courtesy, and when he lies that it just isn't for him.
At the end of the night, when they've hit the blackest part and they can't see anything anymore, not even each other, not even the net posts or the exit doors or the stars, they get up and it's like they're not different, but they both are. They'll both wake the next morning and watch the final separately and practice separately and grow apart because they can't be together.