Mirka’s quiet beside him, in the car on the way back to their apartment.
She hadn’t asked why he’d run or what was wrong, just looked at him with the searching expression he’s so familiar with by now, before asking in the most neutral of tones if he was okay. He’d murmured a yes which came out sounding more like no and he’d been kicking himself for the lack of confidence behind the answer, almost before Mirka’s eyes narrowed, but she’d let it pass, not so much as referring to his panicked rush for freedom for the rest of the night. Only a few people had noticed him leaving or at least, most of them were too polite to ask about it. It seemed that, as Mirka had assured him every time he tripped when dancing, people hadn’t been staring at him after all.
It didn’t make him feel any less like a specimen on display. That people weren’t looking directly only meant they felt uncomfortable looking at all. Don’t want to be caught staring at the freak, Roger had found himself thinking bitterly, more than once and he’d never been so glad to crawl into the courtesy Bentley at the end of the night. The thoughtfully tinted windows closed him in, opaque glass hiding him from the intrusive eyes he was leaving behind and he let himself sink into expensive leather with relief that was almost palpable, drawing a thoughtful glance from Mirka.
She didn’t comment though and, long after the lights of the Savoy have faded behind them, she’s still quiet so Roger risks a glance sideways. The back seat of the Bentley feels like it was designed for five more than two, a yawning expanse of champagne-pale leather between him and her, eyes turned to the rain-spattered window so Roger is met only with the back of a blond head. Guilt has him turning away, staring out his own window as the sign for Wimbledon village flashes past.
He thinks she’d fight to stop him going, even if he explained. Perhaps especially if he explained, not that he blames her. His throat is already tight at the thought of the lies he might have to tell and if he didn’t want this so much, didn’t need it to stop himself jumping out the plane on the way home –- out of sheer desperation, the overpowering need to get away -- then he might be reconsidering. Her mute, confused hurt has been a constant for the last two weeks, but it’s worse when he knows he’s about to do something to deserve it.
By the time anyone speaks, they’re turning onto their street and Mirka has finally looked away from the window, staring down at her hands instead. Her voice is soft when she speaks, laced with the false cheerfulness of someone grasping helplessly for something, anything to say.
“They seemed to have made more of an effort this year.”
They had? Roger hadn’t noticed.
“Yes, they had.” A lightening quick glance shot his way, suspicion in her eyes and he gives a mental sigh. She knows him too well, catching the non-committal tone. “It was very nice?” he ventures and it comes out a question instead of a statement, looking for her approval.
Tony snorts with laughter from the front seat and Roger flinches in surprise, having forgotten his coach was in the car. “Not exactly what you’d call exciting, was it?” the Australian remarks, the faintest hint of slur to his tone and only someone who’d known Mirka as long as Roger had would notice her go tense. “They get fatter on their own importance every year. Amazing they can move with those poles rammed up their asses eh?”
Mirka’s tenses more, to the point where she’s almost trembling. Roger reaches out, touching her wrist warningly as she opens her mouth.
“He’s drunk too much,” he whispers as she pins him with a glare. “Don’t waste your breath.”
There’s a bare relaxing of tension but she’s still annoyed, anger in the set of her mouth and stiff tone. “They were only trying to be nice.”
“I know,” Roger lies because he can’t fight this battle, not when he has another one to fight any minute now and he swallows against the sickening anxiety as the car pulls in outside their house. He’s got about ten seconds to think of an excuse for leaving that Mirka will believe and his mind seems frozen, running in helpless circles, she doesn’t deserve this. He forces the mental voice into quiet, not without effort. “But there’s no point arguing with him like this.”
Her silent anger lasts a moment longer; then she relaxes into her seat, tilting her head back and closing her eyes with a sigh. Roger slides his hand down her wrist to squeeze her fingers lightly, a wordless reassurance that does nothing to soothe his own guilt, because the grateful look she gives him in return reminds him he’s acting, that he never told her about the hell he’s been going through these past two weeks and probably - no matter what happens once he leaves the safety of the Bentley - never will. Faced with her smile, he almost changes his mind.
Almost. For the part of him that is insisting he’ll be happy if he just follows Mirka into the house, helps his tipsy coach to bed and goes home tomorrow pretending everything is okay, there’s a larger part reminding him that he’s been through this, more times than he can count. The same argument, the head-in-the-sand approach of ignore it and it’ll go away which he knows doesn’t work and the confusion, the urge to break things and to run as fast as he can, it’ll never stop unless he does something about it now. He’s out the car and shivering in the rain before he can talk himself out of it and, glancing across the car roof, he sees Mirka staring at him. His mouth is open before he’s thought of any words to say and his tongue feels dry, stumbling over the only excuse he can find.
“I- I nee- I’m going to go, for… for a walk if…”
“No.” Mirka slams her car door shut with a sound that echoes round the silent street, glaring at him across the car. “Don’t you dare disappear again Roger.” The words are flat, her frown unchanging but there’s just the faintest trace of desperation underlying the anger and Roger bites his tongue. “You’ve done it to me once tonight and I let you, because I thought… please, just tell me what’s wrong--“
“I can’t!” Roger has to look away, fixing his stare on a nearby streetlight and the falling rain it’s illuminating, silvery drops that are thicker now, falling faster. He’s already soaked. “I can’t,” he repeats, quieter. “I’m sorry.”
He sees her move out the corner of his eye and before he can turn she’s in front of him, wet curls of blond framing an expression filled with misery. She’s frowning like she’s trying not to cry and when she goes on tiptoe to hug him, Roger’s startled into forgetting to return it, just long enough for her to let go, stepping back. When he tries to follow, she puts out a hand to stop him, shaking her head.
“We’re due at the T.V. studio at half five,” she says softly. “Don’t forget.”
She’s not arguing. Shocked, Roger stares at her for an endless second before she breaks the eye contact, looking down. “Mirka, I-“
“Rog.” She glances back up at him and then turns away, pausing with one hand braced against the car. Roger’s frozen in place, anything he could say caught under the tightness in his chest, the numb disbelief that will turn to tears if he lets it, if he thinks too hard about what he’s doing. “Roger, I…”
There’s a loud bang - accompanied by some inventive swearing -, from the passenger door as Tony opens it too fast, slamming it into the railings separating their apartment from the pavement. Both of them glance over and whatever Mirka was about to say is forgotten as she hurries around the car to help the Australian, without looking back to watch Roger turn and walk away.
Which he does, because if he waited a second longer he’d have talked himself out of it and he can’t, not again, not when he’s actually taken a step towards working out the mess in his head. Only a step though; he still has to find the right house and talk Andy into not killing him for waking the American up at – he glances at his watch – twenty past one in the morning, and now he thinks about this, he realises… well, he hadn’t really thought about it. Not really. He’s just walked away from a beautiful, perfect girlfriend to find out if a vaguely confused attraction - to the man he’d effectively humiliated just hours ago, no less – is reciprocated and if, on some crazy, outside chance it is, that it’ll stop him feeling like he has been for the last few weeks or months. Like everyone is watching him with barely veiled fear, like he could happily lock himself in his room and never come out if it would make everything - the press, the people, the whole tour – leave him alone. Even thinking about it is enough to make him walk faster, head bowed against the rain and hands clenched into fists in the pockets of his suit.
I'm not going home until I know, he reminds himself of the decision he made at the Savoy. I have to know what he, what I... to know something. Knowing anything at this point would help and he speeds up, shoes thudding softly against the wet pavement as he jogs up the hill towards the main village. Andy's staying in a house on Belvedere Avenue, which Roger knows for sure because he heard the American being reminded of it by Dean in the first week, when Andy was joking about getting lost. Roger's stayed the street next to it a few years ago and he only hesitates at a crossroads once before he finds it, the tree-lined length quiet and peaceful in the one a.m. darkness. He stares down it for almost a minute, his heart sinking because it has to be the longest street in the entire damn village.
"Andy?" he begs under his breath. "Turn a light on. Open a window. Please. Something."
The street remains stubbornly silent. Roger rarely swears but he does now, at great length in Swiss German as he starts walking. Maybe he'd be lucky, he reasons, if he walked the entire street. Andy could have left some sign of his presence, a car Roger recognises or a racquet forgotten on the porch or...
... Or a giant sign across the front door saying "ANDY WOZ 'ERE" Roger thinks bitterly, mocking his own optimism as he walks. Maybe he could stand in the middle of the street, screaming for Andy until someone took notice because getting arrested here, getting declared insane back in Switzerland, there's really no difference. He'd be doing the rest of the tour a favour -- he knows it can't be fun, playing a sport where the number one spot seems forever out of reach and, after what he did today he can't see himself losing it anytime soon. Unless he finally cracks under the pressure, and hadn't he said before that a tennis match was won mentally as much as it was out on court? Yet he'd been only a few whispers too many from the edge of crazy today - and he'd played an inhumanly flawless match.
Perhaps it was time to rethink his views on the mental aspects of tennis. He can do it in his padded room, once Andy's refused to speak to him or slammed the door in his face or, worse, stayed safely asleep so Roger is left wandering the street in the rain until he gets arrested or maybe dies of exposure, if that's even possible on a British July night and--
"Roger?"
- and now he's moved on to hearing voices because he could have sworn Andy just said his name from somewhere nearby. Roger keeps walking because if he stops, if he looks then he'll be listening to the voices and he's still sane enough to know that's bad.
"Roger?! What, are you ignoring me now?"
"No," Roger snaps without looking round and dammit, he's talking to them and he may as well look, because there's probably no going back from here anyway. He turns, fully expecting to be met with an empty street because he's had Andy in his mind for the last two weeks, Andy's smiles, the teasingly friendly tone in the American's voice when he joked, Andy fucking Marat in the showers playing on a loop and why shouldn't he think he's actually hearing Andy's voice now, when it must be just his mind playing tricks...
... Except Andy, a wet and dripping Andy in soaked sweatpants and t-shirt, is staring at him, one hand on the garden wall he must have just leapt over and Roger realises the open-mouthed disbelief on Andy's face must be reflected on his, both of them standing silent and uncomfortable in the rain. Andy looks like he's been outside for hours, water dripping from his chin and flattening his hair to his head, pale under the brightly fluorescent streetlights. Roger's mouth goes suddenly dry.
He's faced with the one thing he's been thinking about, dreaming about, fantasising to the point of obsession about for the last two weeks - and he can't think of a single thing to say.
"Um. Hi," Andy says tentatively.
Roger unglues his tongue from the roof of his mouth just enough to mumble "Hello." What had he been thinking? That he'd just find Andy and the American would know exactly what to say, would fuck Roger - and that's enough of a shock to render him speechless, that he's even able to put that subconscious desire into words - like he'd fucked Marat, no questions asked and he'd be fixed, fine. Normal.
There's optimism and there's stupidity, Roger thinks and he knows which one he'd use to describe his train of thought in the last few hours. Even now, he's still not sure what he wants - because he'd wanted Andy and here, unbelievably, was the American only...
...only now Roger's found him, he's not exactly sure what he thought would happen if he did.
"Hi," Andy says again, a little more confidently. His hand leaves the wall to rub self-consciously through his wet hair, leaving a smudge of dirt across his forehead that Roger longs to wipe away, just to see if Andy would let him. "This is- um. Unexpected?" It's not a statement, but a question that Andy doesn't wait to hear the answer to, smiling at Roger in a slightly bemused way. "What're you doing outside my house?"
As if I have to justify-- ! Brief, inexplicable anger at the amused - vaguely condescending - tone to the American's voice and Roger's snapping back before he can help himself, It has been a long night and people have been patronising him for most of it, but he still regrets the words as soon as he's snarled them.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realise the pavement was a restricted area."
The hint of a smile vanishes from Andy's face. His step back is barely a shuffle - barely worth noticing - but Roger does, because now Andy's looking at him like a freak too, not that Roger blames him. He tries to say something, maybe to take back his hissed words but his voice refuses to work around the lump in his throat that could turn to tears at any second.
Because he's ruined it all. Scared Andy away like everyone else, and if the American doesn't stop looking at him like he's grown a second head, Roger knows he's going to scream, or maybe cry. He knows which one he'd prefer.
Please don't cry. Not in front of Andy, not again.
"Um, okay... Ouch," Andy says softly, more confusion than hurt in the words. "You okay Rog?"
"I-" Voice faltering again because 'yes' would be a lie, but 'no' involves explanations he isn't sure he has words for, explanations that will inevitably lead to confusion and embarrassment and oh god, how is supposed to explain what he wants - explain any of this - to Andy? "I- I don't-"
Andy's making no move to prompt him, watching Roger struggle with a faintly worried expression The Swiss feels a fresh surge of anger because Andy's supposed to be helping. He can barely keeping his voice level as he mumbles "I don't know."
"You don't know? Roger... what's wrong?" Andy sounds worried and confused and it's too much for Roger. The tight knot in his chest - everything he's kept locked up for weeks and months, pushing it all down out of sight so he wouldn't have to think about it - starts to unravel and he turns away with his hands pressed tightly to his face, tears escaping through his fingers to mix with the rain that's still pouring down. Humiliation makes him press his hand harder into his mouth to stifle his sobs but before he can do more than think about walking away, to save at least the shreds of his dignity - not that he has much, or any, left by now - arms slide around his waist from behind and there's a softly distressed whisper by his ear, begging him not to cry.
"Rog, please..." Andy's arms tighten around him and he's warm despite being soaking, breath hot on Roger's wet neck as he rests his head on the Swiss's shoulder. "Please don't cry." A note of desperation enters the pleading tone and Roger tries to stop sobbing, because Andy sounds almost scared. It's useless; if anything the tears fall faster. "I don't know what's wrong but we'll fix it. I promise we will."
"Can't." The word is a soggy mumble between his fingers, gasped out between shuddering breaths. "I'm a freak Andy. Everyone looks at me like... like I'm wrong and I can't do it anymore." He has to stop to catch his breath, sobs still shaking through him and it hurts to say, more than he thought it would. "I... I'm going crazy."
A pause and Roger can almost feel the shock rocking Andy back a little before the fierce hug loosens, just enough for Roger to be very gently turned around. Despite his resistance, his hands are eased away from his face and something - almost too wet itself to be much use, which means it must be Andy's t-shirt - carefully wipes away the tears.
"Roger." Andy, sounding firm rather than annoyed, which Roger realises after the initial flash of panic fades. "Roger, look at me."
I don't want to. Andy'll only be looking at him with the same mix of fear and pity that everyone else has directed at him, for longer than Roger can, or wants, to remember. The emotionless cool of earlier had been bad enough; he can't see that look in Andy's eyes too. He keeps his own eyes, still stinging from tears, tightly shut.
"Roger." Andy's tone demands obedience. "Roger Federer, you look at me right now."
No one's spoken to him like that for months and, stunned, Roger opens his eyes without thinking. There's no fear in the hazel eyes that are narrowed at him, only worry and a faint edge of impatience.
It's better than the fear and with a deep breath, Roger blinks the last few tears away.
"What's this about you being a freak?" Andy asks, still demanding. "And who the hell put a stupid idea like that in your head?!"
"No one. It's the way they all look at me." Roger looks away again and he hadn't expected this from Andy, disbelief with a hint of irritation. It's different but it hurts, just a little, when he'd expected understanding. "No one talks to me anymore, except you. Not the tour, not the interviewers. It's as if I'm dangerous and they don't want to get too close."
Andy's staring at him again, wearing a tiny frown. "Rog, it's your imagination. People are bound to be a little wary because you're good, today proved that but that doesn't make you a freak."
"You don't understand." There's a catch of tears in his voice again and he pushes at Andy's shoulders, trying to get some space. He should've known even Andy wouldn't get it, not when it's impossible to explain. "This was a mistake, I'm sorry. Let me go."
"Roger-" Andy tightens his grip. "Roger, listen. You're not a freak."
"Let go." Roger struggles harder and with an impatient growl, Andy lets his arms fall. Too suddenly; balance gone, Roger stumbles backwards, trips and Andy's startled grab for him isn't fast enough to save him from a hard, painful meeting with the pavement. He lands on his ass and hands with a cry that's more surprise than pain, Andy instantly dropping down beside him.
"Roger! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-" A shake of Roger's head cuts him off, the Swiss avoiding looking at him by lifting a hand to examine his grazed palm. "Let me see."
"It's fine," Roger starts to insist but Andy's taken the hand anyway, gently brushing away the gravel and dirt stuck to the torn skin. Roger can't help a hiss of pain and the fingertips pause, curling away slightly.
"Sorry."
"I'm fine," Roger repeats without acknowledging the apology, pulling at the American's loose grip and Andy lets him take his hand away, to curl it defensively against his chest. For a long few seconds they're silent, Roger sitting, Andy kneeling on the wet pavement and the Swiss can feel Andy watching him. He keeps his eyes on his hands, refusing to turn and meet the stare.
"You're not a freak."
It's a flat statement, quiet and assured. Roger closes his eyes, wraps his arms tighter around himself against the cold and this time, he barely whispers the words. "You don't understand."
"So tell me." Why they're whispering Roger has no idea; the street is deserted and the sound of raindrops falling makes it hard to hear. There's just something about the moment, the conversation that seems to demand whispers. "You've been miserable for the last two weeks Roger. I thought it… it thought it might be 'cause you lost Australia and the French but it's not, is it?"
"No." His hands are bleeding a little, a crisscross pattern of crimson pinpricks scattered between racquet calluses. He rubs his thumb over them and the symmetry of dots smear into a meaningless blur. "It's everything. I can't care about winning anymore but I can't stop crying when I lose. No one talks to me like they used to. Mirka looks at me like I might shatter at any second." Pressing his palms together, making the grazes sting, he stares fixedly at them to avoid looking at Andy. "And I ran out the Ball tonight because I couldn't stand everyone staring at me. Even though I don't think they were."
Andy's silent, seemingly to absorb what Roger's said. "Roger, I hate to say this, given that it sounds useless and clichéd but... have you gone to a doctor? I suck at this and they could help more, give you counselling or something-"
"No. No doctors!" Roger's fierce insistence surprises himself, as does his abrupt flinch and Andy's hand is quickly on his shoulder, comfortingly steady. "I- I hate them. I've tried it before and I hate them. But you've been talking to me and you..." You flirt with me, you make me feel normal. "You've made me feel better just by being there and after today I had to know... I had to see if I'd scared you, like I scared everyone else." Desperation finally has him looking up, Andy's surprise plain in the wide, hazel eyes. "You didn't talk to me or look at me and I thought maybe I'd-"
"Whoa, Roger." Andy interrupts gently. One of his hands is still on Roger's shoulder and he rests the other on the Swiss's knee, squeezing lightly. It's comforting, to be so casually touched and Roger has to force himself not to lean into the American's grip. "Today was nothing to do with you. I thought- I knew I probably wasn't going to win, but if I'd said good luck and smiled at you , acted like it was just another match I couldn't have... I had to cut you off today so I could play against you. Because that's what we do right?" If possible, his voice softens more. "I'm sorry I scared you. I never thought you wouldn't know I didn't mean it."
"I didn't think," Roger whispers. Relief is like fresh air, washing over him after a day of - what felt like - trying to breathe underwater, because there's nothing but sincerity in the American's words. "So you don't hate me?"
The breath Andy takes is practically a hiss it's so fast, and his words tumble over themselves as if he can't get them out quickly enough. "No, I don't. Roger you're smart and funny. You don't take shit from anyone, except apparently yourself. You play the best tennis I've ever seen and you're beautiful, especially when you smile." He pauses, maybe to enjoy Roger's blush. "I could never hate you.” Softer still, barely breathed aloud under the sound of the rain. “I don't know how anyone could hate you."
There's a moment when Roger almost believes him; Andy sounds utterly convinced, nothing but truth in the whispered words and when the familiar doubts fight back, they're weaker. "But people do. They avoid me, or don't talk to me or-"
"Do you think everyone loves me?" Andy demands, abruptly enough to startle the Swiss into a flinch. The hand on his shoulder swiftly slides around him into a comforting half-hug and Andy doesn't continue until Roger's relaxed into it, leaning into the American's warmth. "We can't please everyone Roger. Guys on tour say crap about me, fans say crap about me but it doesn't mean anything. It's just words. Do you honestly care what someone you've never said more than 'hello' to thinks about you?"
"Yes." Roger pauses, bites his lip. "No. I mean... I try not too but it's hard."
"And it's their problem, not to mention their loss. Your friends like you. Mirka likes you." Andy's smile is quick, hesitant as if he doesn't want to risk upsetting Roger again. "I like you."
"Promise?" It isn't until he's said the word that Roger realises how childish it sounded, naive and pleading, but Andy's answering chuckle is soft enough not to sting.
"Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a sausage in my eye promise."
"I was serious!" Roger protests but there's a smile trying to surface under the mild indignation. It's the first time he's genuinely felt happy enough to smile in weeks and he savours the half-forgotten feeling, warm and bubbly and everything he wanted, that he thought Andy could remind him of if anyone could. "Stop laughing at me."
"I'm not," Andy replies, a picture of wide-eyed innocence. "I was serious too, about the sausage thing."
Genuinely laughing is even stranger than the smiling, but at the same time it's better, though Roger's chuckle is still shakier than Andy's. A second after the Swiss starts laughing, he's enveloped in a hug, gleeful in its spontaneity but tight with relief at the same time, wet, spiky hair against his cheek as Andy rests his forehead against Roger's shoulder.
"That's better than crying," he says in a tone of such satisfaction that Roger has to smile. "Does this mean you're over the self-pity now?"
"You were doing well with the comforting right up until that point," the Swiss comments dryly, having caught the teasing tone and knowing not to take it seriously, though it would have hurt his feelings only half an hour ago. Andy doesn't need to lift his head for Roger to 'hear' the grin in his voice.
"Told you I suck at this. You want a comforting American, you should've gone to Mardy."
"You're only telling me this now? Where is he? I'm sure I can get a flight no problem, if you-" He's teasing back Roger realises with a mild pang of shock as Andy interrupts with a wordlessly indignant sound, relaxed enough to do it without worrying that the other man will take offence. There's a millisecond of panic when Andy sits back but it fades when he sees the American's smile.
"There's the Roger we know and love. Better now?"
Am I? Roger cautiously tests his feelings and comes up with mainly relief, though the worry is still there underneath, somewhat quieter and easier to control now. "A little, yes." He pauses before adding - slightly sheepishly - "Sorry I cried all over you."
"And I'm sorry I scared you today." Andy looks abashed for a second, then his face lights up with a grin, edged with suggestion and a hope that makes Roger's breath catch. "Want to come inside to dry off? I have coffee. Or tea, Dean's gone all native and bought a truckload of the stuff. I might even be able to dig up some chocolate cake. Please?"
"I hope the digging it up is just a figure of speech," Roger murmurs, but Andy's sounding so conspiratorial about something as mundane as chocolate cake - not to mention that something in the smile, the faintest trace of the look he'd seen in the showers two weeks ago, sending shivers running through him - that he can't stop his smile widening. "If you're sure we won't be disturbing anyone-"
"Nah, they all went to bed insanely early. You're lucky I decided to sit outside for a while or I wouldn't have seen you."
"Why were you outside?" Roger asks curiously as Andy helps him stand, keeping a light touch on Roger's back as they climb over the low wall into Andy's garden. The Swiss winces at the squelch of mud beneath the dress shoes Mirka had rushed out to buy only hours ago when they realised he'd left his at home, still waiting for Andy to reply. The American seems to be thinking carefully over what to say as they cross the grass to the house. When he does answer, he keeps his face - hidden in the shadows away from the streetlights - down, avoiding Roger's eyes.
"I wanted some space, just to think. Because I lost, so..."
"Oh." Roger bites his lip, guilt making him fall back, so Andy's hand slips from his waist. "I'm sorry."
"Why?" Andy asks and the friendly teasing is back in his voice as he reaches back, hugging the Swiss against him with one arm while he opens the door. "What were you supposed to do, lose? Though if you want to go and tell everyone that there's been a mistake and you want to give me the trophy instead, I wouldn't say no."