"Andy, really," Roger protests, leaning his elbows on the kitchen table as he watches Andy cut a chunk - not a slice; it definitely crosses the line into chunk - from a large cake on the counter. "It's too late- early... too something for cake."
"It's never too something for cake," Andy says firmly. The chunk of cake is loaded onto a plate and set into front of Roger, Andy going back across the kitchen to cut some for himself. "Besides, Mardy's sister taught me this. When someone is in distress, feed them chocolate cake."
"'In distress' makes me sound like some sort of princess trapped in a tower." Roger's torn between amusement and dismay as he picks at the cake, watching Andy eat crumbs off his fingers. The American's chuckle is almost a giggle as he jumps up to sit on the counter top instead of returning to the table with Roger.
What did you expect, him to sit on your knee? Roger makes himself concentrate on licking the icing from his fingers, focusing so intently on getting every smudge of chocolate that he doesn't notice Andy watching him until he glances up. The hazel eyes are fixed on his hands, an almost audible sigh of disappointment coming from him when Roger pauses in his licking.
"What?"
"I was wondering Rog… why me?" The hazel eyes, darker in the dimly-lit kitchen, flick up from Roger's hands to his face. "You've got Mirka, your dad, Tony. Why'd you pick my doorstep to show up on at two a.m.?"
"I told you." Roger lets a piece of mushed cake fall back to the plate, following it with his eyes so he can look down, hiding his blush from Andy. "You talk to me. The last two weeks-"
"Since you caught me and Marat in the showers."
That's more than enough to make Roger blush, shredding the remains of the cake suddenly far more interesting than meeting Andy's eyes. "Um. Yes."
"I saw the way you looked at me," Andy says quietly. The quick glance Roger risks in his direction shows the American sitting, head bowed, staring at his chocolate-smeared hands. "Some guys on tour would've walked out, most of them with a nasty comment. Some would've got a kick out of it, stayed to watch. I never realised - never thought - until I saw you standing there, that you weren't like that." He looks up and Roger looks hastily down, still blushing. "You looked kinda like you just got exactly what you wanted for Christmas, but also kinda like the world had ended without anyone telling you."
"That's a contradiction," Roger mutters, feeling numb. He doesn't t know where this conversation is going and isn't sure he wants to. He wants to believe Andy had talked to him because the American liked him, not because he'd been in search of a... a conquest. "I couldn't have been both."
"That's what I told myself. Couldn't decide which one it was, thought maybe that you hadn't been that interested after all. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it until I knew." Andy almost-smiles, Roger can hear it in his voice. "So, I talked to you."
"That's why you were talking to me?" Controlling the bitter disappointment is harder than Roger expected; he should've known Andy wouldn't be so nice to him without a reason. Taken in by jokes and chocolate cake when he should've remembered Andy's blank expression on court, the fear and coldness reminding him he's a freak and he turns on his chair, wondering desperately if he can make it out the door before Andy can move.
"Whoa Rog, that's not what I meant." Andy's crossed the room somehow while Roger was concentrating on trying not to cry again, crouching in front of the Swiss with his hands resting on Roger's knees. "I talked to you because I like talking to you. Yeah I was worried about what you thought of me after seeing me with Marat but, I would've talked to you anyway. What," he adds at Roger's startled look - he was worried? - "You thought you were the only one who thought someone didn't like them? Except for when you play tennis, you've been practically a statue for the whole tournament Roger! You've been flinching at sudden movements for two damn weeks, and I thought it must be my fault." The hands on the Swiss' knees squeeze gently, dragging Roger's gaze up from his hands to meet Andy's intent stare. "If seeing me and Marat freaked you out, tell me. I've been trying to apologise since without knowing if I had anything to apologise for."
Roger thinks he might have made a wordless sound of shock, disbelief making him dizzy enough to lean on the table to stay upright. Andy had thought he'd been upset by seeing the American with Marat? He's spent two weeks dreaming, thinking, fantasising about that moment, it might be all that's kept him going at times and Andy had thought--
"It didn't, did it?" Andy sounds a little surprised and more relieved, the light grip on Roger's knees tightening, just slightly. "Rog..."
"W- when no one wanted to talk to me." Roger stumbles over the words, not sure what he's saying or going to say, talking through the dizziness that's still blurring everything. The only real things are Andy's hands, warm through Roger's wet trousers, and the hazel eyes intent with listening. "When they looked at me like a freak when they thought I couldn't see, you... you didn't. And you always seemed to be there and it made them stop looking, or made it not matter, maybe because only you mattered." Part of Roger wonders what he's admitting but he can't stop, the words running into each other in their haste to be said. "I saw you with Marat and suddenly you were in my head and for the longest time, I couldn't decide why."
Andy hasn't so much as blinked since Roger started talking. Whether he's even breathed is questionable. When Roger hesitates, out of words for what he wants to say, something akin to desperation crosses the American's face.
"Have you decided now?" he asks, quietly. Seriously. Perhaps anxiously or that could be Roger's imagination. He shakes his head but it's for lack of words rather than meaning no, meaning he can't explain, or maybe that he doesn't understand his decision even though he's made it. Because as hard as it was, deciding that he couldn't stop thinking about Andy because he wants - needs? - the American, having decided it doesn't make it any easier to rationalise that decision to himself.
Andy seems to take it as no - why wouldn't he, idiot, Roger chides himself - and the American's face falls, his half-smile fading. Roger searches for the words to correct his mistake and finds only things he can't explain, even to himself. "It's complicated," he finally settles on whispering, looking down because he can't see the disappointment on Andy's face anymore -- even when part of him is wondering what it means.
There's a pause that could be endless, only oppressive, empty silence from the rest of the house and when Andy takes a deep breath, it almost seems to echo through the room. One hand leaves Roger's knee, leaving an imprint of warmth behind and he's concentrating so hard on memorising the feel of warm skin through wet wool, that the brush of Andy's fingertips along his cheek almost startles him into a flinch. The fingertips hesitate then slide down, almost possessive or maybe meant to be soothing and when they curl under his chin, Roger lets it be tilted up so he can see which it is from Andy's expression. He catches a bare glimpse of an anxious smile before the American leans up, bringing their faces within inches of touching and all he can see now is shadowed eyes, feeling Andy's warm breath on his mouth and hearing his own heart, racing in a quick thud-thud in his chest.
"What're you doing?" he asks - almost begs - in a nervous rush of breath. He thinks he sees the American smile again, though they're too close to be sure.
"Simplifying things," Andy murmurs and stretches up the final inch to bring their mouths together in a kiss.
It's slow, cautious at first. Wet lips and tongues sliding together, sharing the lingering sweetness of chocolate that might be the best thing Roger's ever tasted and he opens his mouth to it, though he's trembling with uncertainty, because this is Andy. Arguably the closest to a rival that he's got, which lends a whole new angle of weirdness to this; but nothing, not wanting or dreaming or imagining can compare to kissing the real thing and Roger doesn't care anymore, not when subconsciously chasing this has kept him sane throughout Wimbledon. Slides from his chair down to Andy's level without breaking the kiss and the wordless, desperate sound of need that vibrates along his lips could have come from either of them, Andy's mouth pressing harder to his and he's drowning in it, lack of air an issue to the point where he's dizzy. Doesn't care, following Andy's warm mouth as the American starts to pull back and this time he knows it's his moan when Andy pushes him gently away.
"Roger," he says through gasps for breath. Roger's no better, lungs screaming at him for the abuse and he opens his mouth to suck in air, gets Andy's tongue instead when the American takes it as an invitation. Oh is all Roger can think before he runs out of words, this kiss harder, now they're both sure the other won't pull away. It's the answer he was looking for when he came to find Andy -- confirmation of the American's flirting the last two weeks and confirmation too that this is what Roger wants, needs, because kissing Andy finally silences the whispers of freak at the back of his mind, eases the sickening, nervous tension that's had him shaking inside for weeks. The American doesn't understand; Roger knows that and he's not sure why he expected Andy to anyway. That he's here, kissing Roger between panting little gasps for air, is enough.
"Roger." It's almost a wordless hum of sound against Roger's lips, Andy's hands sliding up the Swiss' thighs to rest at his hips. "I..."
"Sssshhh." There's an odd note to the American's tone, a suggestion that something serious is about to be said and Roger doesn't want this moment to end before it has to, because it might be all he ever has. If he lets himself have this -- Andy, kisses, their harsh breathing echoing through the silence -- he'll have something tangible to cling to, that Andy didn't turn him away, not at first anyway, and it'll be enough. Especially when it's already more than he expected.
"Roger." A third time, filled with desperate hope, a faint trace of incredulity beneath and it's so exactly what Roger's feeling that he's too stunned to stop Andy leaning back. In the gloom of the kitchen, it's hard to read the finer nuances of the American's expression and Roger's tense to the point of trembling, only half aware he's chewing his lower lip hard enough to hurt.
"You didn't..." Andy starts and seems to change his mind mid-sentence. "What did - what do - you want Roger? Coming to find me?"
Comfort. Kissing. Sex. Roger couldn't have said for sure even ten minutes ago but he knows now; he wants everything. He wants something from the last two weeks that isn't crying in the showers after every match, that isn't the feeling of more eyes than he could count staring into him wherever he went. He wants to not feel like he's losing his mind - and for that he wants Andy like he saw the American in the showers, to erase the memory of cold, blank eyes staring at him across the net. Anything to make him forget how much it had hurt to beat Andy and to realise that, after everything, the win hadn't been what mattered at all. He wants Andy to fuck him, an admission he can still only make in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind.
He just can't ask it. The words refuse to leave his mouth, to even form.
"Do you even know what you want?" Andy's voice still has a hint of hope, though now it's laced with pleading. "Please Roger." Reaching up, tentative and slow, threading his fingers through Roger's hair and if his next words can't quite be called begging, they're close. "Just ask me."
"You might say no." Voice cracking on the words, Roger closing his eyes against Andy's hopeful expression. The fingers in his hair curl tighter, just slightly.
"You won't know unless you ask." Andy leans slowly in, his lips brushing the corner of Roger's mouth and he's close, so close that Roger's trembling. "I might say yes."
Might. Roger wonders if the not knowing is the point; until he asks, there's still the chance Andy won't refuse. Even as he thinks it, he knows it's pointless - he can't sit here all night after all - because he came here to know, not draw the uncertainty out and there's only so long he can keep doing this, literally. He's flying home in a matter of hours and he doesn't have time for might.
"I-" he starts uncertainly, immediately running out of words and again Andy's quiet, only this time Roger's grateful. Letting the American talk for him is the easy option that'll end in none of this working out the way Roger wants it to but if he can say the right thing, work out what Andy needs to hear... He becomes suddenly aware of the silence dragging on as Andy's eyes narrow, maybe a hint of impatience that could be Roger's imagination, or could not. Panic like an icy thrill racing through him, better than adrenaline or concentrating because it makes him babble out words, any words and the right ones must be in there somewhere.
Or he could just be babbling. It's hard to tell when panic makes it impossible to think straight.
"I want it." A rush of words, tripping over each other in his hurry to explain before the curiosity in Andy's eyes can form into a question. "I want what I saw in the showers, I want what you've been flirting around for two weeks. What you kissed me for. I want what-" The question is on Andy's lips now, mouth already open and Roger almost stops, almost lets him speak but there's a tiny voice, begging him not to let the American interrupt, because he might never be able to say it again. "Andy I-"
"I know Rog," Andy tells him gently. Roger shakes his head in frustration.
"No, you - I want you." A physical relief to say it,tension relaxing in a tiny sound that could be called a whimper, if he lets himself admit it. "I want you."
There's a breathless pause, Andy hovering bare inches away. Roger stares at the floor and makes himself count the tiles, just for something to keep himself from panicking, because the American isn't saying anything, or even breathing that Roger can hear. One, two, three...
"You really mean that?" Andy wants to believe, Roger can tell from the hitch of his breath and in the hand, trembling against his thigh. "You're sure?"
Seven. Eight. Roger's running out of visible tiles to count and he strains his eyes against the darkness, anything to keep him from thinking of all the ways this conversation could go wrong. Looking up is out of the question; it's hard enough to keep himself sitting here without seeing any trace of rejection in Andy's eyes. "I'm sure."
"Oh." A pause that's no more than space for a breath and then all the tension goes out of Andy as he laughs, softly. "Okay."
"O-" Looking up so fast he can't focus, bracing himself against the leg of the table and Roger barely catches the blur of movement before Andy's in his lap, warm weight and hard, demanding kisses that Roger can only helplessly open his mouth to, pressed rough and wet to his lips. Andy's everywhere; hands that grope awkwardly over clothes till they find bare skin, grinding down with his legs tucked around Roger's waist and the Swiss whimpers because it's not enough, too many layers between them and he begs wordlessly, rocking his hips under Andy. This is what he wants - mindless, frantic groping, Andy panting out needy little sounds into the kisses. They're tangled together, table leg hard against Roger's back as Andy leans into him harder and everything feels in focus for the first time in weeks, the impression of distance from everything gone with Andy real and solid under his hands. He clings tighter to the American and Andy makes a choked sound, leaning back an inch to speak.
"Rog, I love that you're here, I do. I'm not going anywhere."
The Swiss frowns, confused. "What?"
"I mean I promise I won't bolt if you stop trying to bury your fingers in my hips."
"Oh!" Roger snatches his hands back only to have them caught around the wrists, Andy gripping too gently to mark the skin. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Andy tells him firmly, transferring both Roger's wrists to one hand so he can run the other through the Swiss's hair, pushing it back from his face. They're pressed together but still now, Andy's weight pressing lightly down on Roger's half-hard cock through the layers of cotton separating them. Roger's finding it hard to keep his hips from jerking up for more, for any, friction, shivering with the effort. "My bed's upstairs, if you're sure."
"Ja. I'm sure." A whisper that sounds shakier than Roger feels and at Andy's questioning look he wants to explain that he's not having second thoughts but he's never done this before, and wanting and doing are very different things. "Upstairs?"
"Yeah."
Walking upstairs to Andy's room feels more like climbing Switzerland's highest mountain to Roger, stair after stair announcing their presence to everyone in the house - in the street? he wonders in despair - through a variety of tortured creaks and really, this is an expensive house, the staircase shouldn't sound on the verge of collapse. He expects Andy's entourage to stagger from their rooms at any moment, demanding to know what he thinks he's doing, not a question he wants to, or could, answer right now. Only Andy's solid warmth against his side keeps him moving, one of the American's arms looped casually - with a hint of possessiveness - around his waist, fingers stroking over Roger's hip. They tighten when the Swiss stumbles, pulling him closer to Andy until they're pressed together tight and Roger has to tangle a hand in Andy's t-shirt for balance.
"Relax." An amused murmur, damp lips brushing lightly against his ear. "Everyone's asleep."
"What if we wake them?" Roger blushes at the thought, cheeks burning hotly. If they wake up, they'll see him here and it'll be worse than the Wimbledon crowds, worse than the people at the Ball earlier -- because they'll see him, clinging to Andy in desperation with the marks of dried tears on his face and they'll know. He's kept everything he's been feeling, thinking, wanting from people for too long, hiding behind his walls; here, lips swollen with kisses and Andy's hands wandering over him, keeping up the act of normal would be impossible.
"They won't. I've bounced on their beds more than once - I was drunk!" he adds in a defensive tone, Roger unable to hide a smirk. "And then all they did is snore louder. We won't wake them."
"But-"
"Roger," Andy interrupts gently, turning the Swiss to face him which draws a pained creak from the stair they've paused on. "You said you were sure about this."
A shiver of fear, don't make him change his mind. "I am sure, I promise I am. Please-" Tilting his head to offer his mouth, leaning in so Andy has to either kiss him or lean back. "Please..."
There's a moment when Andy hesitates. Roger's tentative confidence instantly crumbles and he flinches away, anticipating the refusal, bitterly regretting pushing himself at the American when he should have known better. There's a growl, all impatience and Andy pulls him back into a kiss, hands raking down Roger's back to rest on his ass, holding the trembling Swiss still.
This time it's rough, messy, lips coming together too fast so they clash teeth and bump noses, but then Andy gets his tongue in Roger's mouth and Roger doesn't care. Andy rolls his hips forward, smiling against Roger's lips when the Swiss gasps and by the time the kiss breaks they're grinding against each other as if they could come just from this, clothes uncomfortably hot and tight but neither of them willing to stop long enough to strip. Stars dance behind Roger's eyelids as Andy rocks against him, lips still stinging from the kiss and how he's standing by the time Andy pauses, stilling the grind of their hips together, he has no idea. How he's even breathing is a miracle in itself, harsh little gasps that are echoed in the quick rise-fall of Andy's chest beneath his hands.
"Bedroom," Andy mutters, too dark to see his face but he sounds dazed. Roger imagines the hazel eyes half-lidded, red lips glistening and slightly parted. "Now?"
Roger makes a noise of agreement, moaned out on instinct and not even close to being words but Andy seems to understand, half-dragging the dazed Swiss up the last few stairs. Two steps down the hall and the dark shadow of Andy in front of him turns, hand around Roger's wrist tugging him into following. There's the sound of a door being shut which Roger barely hears, swaying where he stands -- then hands are guiding him across the dark room, closing over his hip and arm with the lightest of touches.
"Careful," Andy whispers, a second too late as Roger's knees hit the edge of the bed and he falls forward, landing with a surprised yelp on soft sheets. There's a chuckle and the bed dips as Andy sits beside him. A click, and a yellow glow illuminates his smile as he turns on the beside light. "Sorry," he says as Roger looks archly back at him, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Forgot where the bed was."
"Suddenly I'm wondering why I'm trusting you," Roger mutters but without really meaning it, letting himself smile as he shifts to sit up. The arousal from out on the stairs has faded to a quiet buzz, but it flares again when Andy rests a hand on his thigh, rubbing callused fingertips in small, teasing circles. "Andy-"
"Sssshhh." The hand trembles against his thigh and stills, Andy staring at him so fixedly that Roger bites his lip, going tense. If the American is having second thoughts now, Roger thinks he might start running and not stop till he's huddled in his own bed in Switzerland, TV interviews be damned. He's about to ask what's wrong when Andy presses a finger to his mouth. The calluses are scratchy, the touch lightly warm against Roger's lips.
"Stop thinking." A command but Andy's voice is soft, whether out of sympathy or the need not to wake everyone up, Roger can't tell. "Stop ripping yourself to pieces. I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm not-"
"Roger, I can see it in your face." The hand leaves Roger's thigh to reach up and cup his face, thumb rubbing gently over the dried tear marks down the Swiss' cheek. "You go all blank and distant on me. Right now you're here in my room okay? I don't want you off in Europe or wherever your mind was wandering to."
Roger can't hold Andy's eyes, a blush staining his cheeks as he looks down. "I'm sorry."
"Not that's not-" Andy breaks off to sigh, briefly closing his eyes. "That's not what I meant Rog. Just stop zoning out on me okay?" He slides his hand up over Roger's cheek, brushing wayward strands of hair from the Swiss's eyes. "I want you here for this."
"I'm here," Barely a whisper, Roger still unable make himself look up but it doesn't matter, Andy gently pushing his chin up for him as he slides closer and leans forward. With a wave of utter relief Roger opens his mouth to the kiss, so much easier than talking. There's still that little frisson of weirdness, kissing another man jarring some subconscious taboo he didn't even know he had but it's less strong now, quieter even than a minute ago. When Andy curls an arm around his waist to pull him closer, Roger goes willingly; pressed chest to chest, nothing but thin layers of cotton between them, he can feel the quick gasps of Andy's breathing when they part for air, mouths closing together again after each snatched breath.
Without lifting wet, warm lips from Roger's, Andy pushes the still-damp suit jacket off his shoulders -- tossing it aside as Roger wriggles his arms free, neither of them caring where it falls -- and takes a quick, gasped breath before fumbling with the Swiss's shirt buttons. They prove more difficult than the jacket and he's forced to lean back, flushed and breathing hard.
"You looked real nice in your tux by the way," he murmurs absently, focused on tugging at a stubborn button. A rush of pleasure at the compliment startles Roger into a shy smile, suddenly proud of the suit he'd hated putting on only hours ago.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Though it's only the truth." The tip of Andy's tongue slides out, caught between his teeth as he frees the last button and licking along his top lip as he trails slow, hesitant fingertips down the revealed strip of Roger's chest. It jumps under the touch, Roger's already uneven breath hitching.
"I never thought you'd let me do this." It's a quiet murmur, Andy almost talking to himself as he leans down, trailing light kisses down Roger's neck. The Swiss can't help a stifled giggle and he flinches from the ticklish brush of lips only for Andy to hang on, flicking the tip of his tongue gleefully over the ticklish spot. The resulting brief struggle - Roger attempting to half-heartedly fend the smirking American off - ends with him overbalancing, falling back and hitting the bed, pinned beneath a triumphant Andy. The American gets a knee between his thighs and pleasure sparks through Roger when they rub together, Andy arcing his back so everything is all warm pressure and the friction of sweat-damp cotton.
"I love that you're ticklish." Andy whispers, breathing slower now, bracing himself with a hand either side of Roger and leaning down until he's hovering, their faces a bare inch apart. Roger involuntarily licks his lips and Andy dips to catch his tongue, holding it lightly between his teeth and sucking at the tip until Roger whimpers, partly because god, it's good, and partly because he's lying on Andy's bed, letting the American kiss him. He'd wonder if he was dreaming if this, if Andy's lips on his and hips grinding together, wasn't more real than the last two weeks to him right now. He could believe he'd dreamed winning Wimbledon, or that he'd never run from the Champion's Ball in panic, but this is more real, more immediate and tangible, impossible to disbelieve. With a choked sound in his throat - want and pleasure and maybe Andy's name mixing into a wordless moan - he presses up into Andy's weight and rocks his hips, making it clear what he wants.
"Rog-" Andy can't even finish his name, eyes closed, red lips parted to gasp in air. "Oh god Rog, I- jesus." He arcs his back more, rocking their hips harder together and Roger can feel the American's cock, hard against his thigh. It's strangely familiar and terrifying and what he desperately wants all at the same time, shifting to get more friction and Andy's name is caught on his tongue in a babble of vowels, pleading.
"An... Andy, please-"
"Stop. Wait." The latter almost a hiss of a word, angry, commanding but it doesn't seem meant for Roger, Andy lifting himself away from the Swiss with a grunt of effort. "Wait," he repeats without opening his eyes and Roger can feel him trembling, even though they're not touching anymore. It's enough to make him obey through the fresh rush of panic, holding himself still.
"Andy?" he whispers and it's a tiny, desperate sound. "What?"
"Tell me you're absolutely sure about this Roger." Hazel eyes open slowly, half-lidded, casual, but Roger can read Andy crouched over him as easily as he can across the net and sees through the act. Andy's on edge, teeth trembling against his bottom lip. "Before I - we - do this, I need to know you're absolutely sure."
A tiny flash of impatience; he's answered this already but the concern is at least sweet, only making Roger more sure that he wants this to happen. He's starting to say exactly that when Andy shakes his head, shifting his weight to stay balanced as he presses a warmly damp hand over Roger's mouth.
"No, listen. Be sure, because nothing will be the same. With us and being on tour. With Mirka. She doesn't know you're here, does she?" He sees the answer in Roger's face without the Swiss having to speak and something goes blank behind his eyes, a wall coming down. "Think about telling her Rog. Think about every interview when they ask you what you think about me and you have to watch every word you say. I don't want to wake up in the morning, or ever, to you wishing this hadn't happened."
It's like he's trying to talk Roger out of this and anger -- maybe irrational, maybe not, Roger doesn't much care -- surges through him, bitter and desperate. Nothing is going to change his mind now, not after everything he's done tonight has seemed to lead to this point, lying on Andy's bed, fighting down an urge to yell that he won't break if Andy stops treating him like he's made of glass, for just a second. He's had the same treatment from Mirka for weeks; it's infuriating and all the pent up frustration he's been keeping back through Wimbledon has him moving, slamming up into Andy and turning them so they hit the bed with Roger on top, anger making him shake.
"You have no idea." Words panted out on the hot wave of frustration, Roger not really sure what to say to make it clear to Andy that he wants this, because he thought he'd found the words earlier and they clearly hadn't been enough. Beneath him, Andy bites his lip as the surprise from Roger's sudden move fades, replaced by a blank expression and Roger searches desperately for what to do to break through it, to prove his conviction. He needs this. "You keep asking, but you don't believe me," he whispers, a little ashamed of the plaintive note to his voice but seeing it work, Andy's stony blankness softening just slightly. "I thought you wanted me, I thought that's why you've been flirting all this time. What else do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say that you've thought this through." It's startling how calm Andy's voice is in the face of Roger's desperation, especially considering he's - from what Roger can feel against his thigh - achingly hard. Calm is a relief when he was expecting anger; Roger finds himself unwillingly relaxing. "I want you to tell me this won't make things weird between us. I l-" A catch in his breath, Andy swallowing hard before finishing, so softly that Roger has to lean closer to hear. "I like you Roger. I don't want this to ruin us being friends."
He still doesn't understand, Roger thinks, knowing with the bitter edge of frustration that Andy believes he came here tonight only because he was upset, or out of curiosity, having seen the American with Marat and wanting it for himself. And just maybe, Roger can see his point because Andy hasn't lived the last two weeks on the constant edge of cracking, every flinch, every wary pair of eyes, pushing him closer to falling. There's no way for him to understand how desperate Roger is for this, that part of him needs it to feel human again, because Roger can't explain anymore than he has. There's nothing else to say.
"I have thought this through," he promises after a brief silence, falling back on what he thinks Andy wants to hear and besides, it's not a lie. He's thought about this for two weeks; this is all he wants, and he can't lose it, not now. "I won't let it make things... weird."
"And if you can't stop it?" Andy asks, reluctantly, slowly. "If we wake up tomorrow and find-"
"Andy." There's only one place Roger can see this leading and it's not to sex, but if he's learnt anything from their conversations tonight, it's that kissing shuts Andy up. He dips his head, pressing his lips to the American's in warm, soft reassurance. Keeping any hint of panic from his tone is hard when he whispers into the kiss but he manages, even sounding confident. "I like you too much to let this ruin us."
Hands slide up his neck, curling into his hair and if Andy's smile against his lips has an edge of defeat, Roger doesn't care. At least it's a smile.
"I hate it when you sound that sure," the American murmurs. Roger frowns, biting his tongue on a rush of anxiety.
"Why?"
A half-stifled laugh, breathed hot into his mouth. "Because it makes me believe you."
Before Roger can decide if he should be offended, he finds himself on his back again, blinking away the snatched glimpse of the room blurring past. He focuses just enough to see Andy's smile widen and then they're kissing, more urgently now Andy seems to have decided to abandon his hesitation. His hands slide over hot skin, pushing under the waistband of Roger's trousers by slow, careful inches and Roger arcs his hips up with a muffled whimper for him to go faster, begging, wanting. There's a laugh into the kiss in response but Andy is relentless in his torturously slow advance, hips moving in a steady grind against Roger's and hands rubbing teasing, sweat-slick circles just above where Roger wants them. The Swiss writhes in desperation, a choked sound escaping through clenched teeth.
"Ssshh." Andy lifts his head, taking a hand from Roger's waist to brush damp curls of hair from the Swiss's forehead, trailing callus-rough fingertips through the beaded sweat. His smirk is wicked, amused, lingering at the corners of his mouth until Roger just has to kiss him again to feel it curving against his lips. It's a distraction enough that he hardly notices Andy's hands fumbling at his waistband, until the zipper of his trousers catches in a warning tug.
"Dammit." A hissed curse and Andy sits back on Roger's thighs, bracing himself with a hand on the Swiss's chest as he frowns over the snagged zip. The shift brings his weight closer to pressing against Roger's hard cock and if he pushes himself down, just slightly-- Heels dig into soft sheets and Roger slides down the bed a crucial inch, Andy's warmth and weight suddenly where he wants it and the American is cursing again, a whispered litany under his breath as he rocks his ass over Roger's cock. Pleasure is sparks of heat, jolting through his stomach and up his spine and if he's breathing, he can't feel it, can't feel anything except Andy, moving, pressing down. He doesn't even realise he's crying out until hand covers his open mouth.
"Don't wake them," Andy whispers, eyes half-shut in his flushed face. Roger wants to remind him that he'd said 'they' couldn't be woken, no matter how much noise he made but that would involve talking and, with a hand over his mouth, all that comes out is a meaningless string of mumbles. Clearly taking it for acquiescence, Andy takes his hand away with a flashed smile that could be an apology for putting it there in the first place. Before Roger can do more than gasp in air to speak, the American's hands are curling over his hips to lift him, tugging down his trousers and taking his underwear with them.
Oh. There's a brief, terrified moment when Roger feels on view with nowhere to hide, Andy's wide-eyed silence as he looks hurting in a way Roger didn't expect, because he's never been self-conscious about himself like that. It's worse somehow than stripping in the locker rooms because there no one looks -- at least not openly -- but Andy feels the instant he tenses and leans up to kiss him faster than Roger can think, all warm lips and wetly soft tongue.
"Relax Rog." A quiet laugh, vibrating against Roger's lips. "Trust me, you have nothing to worry about."
It's what Roger needs to hear and he lets out the breath he was holding because, for once, Andy knew exactly what to say. There's a pause as they stare at each other, Andy sitting back to resettle himself, still straddling Roger's hips. One hand plays a silent, nervous tune on Roger's bare thigh, the fingertips tapping a quick beat. The other rests on the Swiss's stomach above his hard cock, rubbing ticklishly light through the hair and Roger's suddenly aware that he's as good as naked while Andy's still fully dressed. Andy seems to realise it at the same time, because he takes his hands away to yank his t-shirt over his head. The revealed expanse of skin is sun-tanned gold in the soft light, almost hairless and Roger's breath catches in his throat as he reaches out to touch, awed that this is his for the night.
Fingers tangle through his outstretched ones, Andy pressing a damp kiss to the back of Roger's hand before letting go. "In a second," he promises, climbing off Roger and the bed. Frowning, Roger half-sits up to see where he's going and gets a smile that's mostly smirk, flashed over Andy's shoulder. He realises what the American's doing a second later as Andy slowly starts to push down his sweatpants, swaying his hips.
"Andy..." Roger's transfixed, watching the slow slide of cotton and elastic revealing inch by inch of pale skin. Andy's fingertips press hard over his hips, leaving fading white imprints behind and Roger wants it, wants to play at making patterns over the smooth skin to mark Andy as his. He hasn't been this fascinated by something since arriving in London -- except maybe seeing Andy with Marat but this is better, tangible. Allowed; he can touch Andy, if he wants, unlike being a spectator in the showers and the thought has him sliding to the edge of the bed, feet just touching the floor as Andy finally lets the pants fall and sways out of reach across the room.
Roger thinks he may have whimpered because Andy's laughing softly as he walks, naked, over to the dresser. His bare ass is white next to his golden tan and the lines would look vaguely silly except naked and Andy and this time, Roger definitely hears himself make a longing -- slightly pathetic but he pushes that thought away -- sound. There's a little pride in the amused look Andy casts back at him but he doesn't look away quickly enough for Roger to miss him blushing.
"You can close your mouth," he murmurs as he finds a wash bag amongst the mess on the dresser and turns back to Roger. His cock is still hard, swaying slightly as he walks and Roger doesn't realise he's staring until Andy pauses by the foot of the bed, clearing his throat uncomfortably.
"You could try to look a little less horrified," he says, obviously trying to tease but not quite succeeding at masking the edge of tension beneath it. With a rush of shame, Roger feels his face burning red as he hastily looks away .
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like- I mean I don't usually-"
"It's okay." Fingers curl under his chin, pushing it up and Andy rests his forehead against Roger's. His smile could be strained or it could just be out of focus, this close. "I was joking."
"And I wasn't horrified," Roger whispers honestly, hooking an arm over Andy's neck to pull the American down enough to kiss him. "You have nothing to worry about either."
It's clear how tense Andy was from the moment he relaxes, a relieved sigh breathed into Roger's mouth and hands come to rest on his shoulders, holding him steady. The bed beside Roger dips as the American braces himself with a foot, deepening the kiss and it's naked Andy, kissing him, every inch of Roger hyper-aware of the hard cock brushing his thigh. He knows he wanted -- wants he corrects himself, because he hasn't changed his mind -- this but right now, it's all unfamiliar and part of him is wondering slightly frantically why he'd never considered before how much it might hurt, having something that big-
"If you shake any harder, you'll be rocking the bed," Andy murmurs, interrupting his thoughts. "This is really your first time huh?"
"Yes." Roger swallows as Andy pushes him gently backwards until he's leaning against the pillows, the American kneeling between his thighs. The dress shirt that's tangled, half forgotten, around his shoulders is eased off in the movement and Andy tugs it free, tosses it aside to leave Roger finally naked. "At least with- I mean-"
"I know." Andy strokes his knee absently but most of his attention is focused on digging through the wash bag he brought over, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. "Relax. I'll go as slow as you want." He finds what he was looking for, dropping a few foil-wrapped condoms and a tube on the bed before leaning over to place the bag quietly on the floor. Roger's still shaking - can't make himself stop - as the American sits back up and Andy frowns, leaning in to rub a hand gently up the Swiss's chest.
"Roger," he says softly. "Don't freak -- oh." Mortification is clear in his tone as Roger flinches, hurt and panic kicking up a notch until Andy quickly stretches up to brush a kiss across the tip of his nose, almost losing his balance from moving too fast. "Shit, sorry. Bad choice of words."
"It's okay. I-" Roger starts to shrug off his hurt but the motion's forgotten when Andy's mouth moves down from his nose, sliding wetly across his top lip. There's nothing Roger wants more right now than to be kissed and a tiny, choked sound escapes as he opens his mouth to it, the hurt he was holding back whimpered out to vanish under Andy's confidently groping hands and demandingly warm tongue. One hand rubs with caution over his cock - half-soft by now but it hardens again in seconds under Andy's touch - everything around him ceasing to matter so long as Andy keeps moving his hand, like that and Roger bucks his hips up in a mute, desperate plea for more. Coherency, fear, hurt, everything forgotten and he's no longer sure what words he's babbling or even what language they're in as Andy's hand moves faster, harder. Breaking the kiss for air, chest heaving and Andy's mouth already moving down, leaving a wet trail as he licks over Roger's neck. He pauses to swirl the tip of his tongue around the hollow at the bottom and Roger's hand goes to his mouth to stifle his own moaning, biting down hard on his palm.
"Roger," Andy whispers into wet skin. His hand on the Swiss's cock stills, no no don't stop please, please, I want-- Cutting the plea off before he says it out loud is difficult but Roger does it, hand clamped over his mouth to keep the words back because he's not going to beg, not even if there's only Andy to hear him. He writhes beneath the American instead, rocking his hips and he'd be ashamed of his desperation if he could think, or if he cared about anything but making Andy not stop. There's a pause, barely a half-second and a sigh is breathed against his neck as whatever Andy was going to say is dismissed.
"How did you get so perfect?" he mutters instead, half-burying the words in Roger's chest. There's nothing Roger can say to that because the hand around his cock is moving again, lazily, thumb rubbing over the head and he's having trouble forming whimpers; words aren't even close anymore. Andy's licking him, wet tongue over Roger's nipples, the faintest scrape of teeth and Roger never knew he could make such interesting noises, strangled pleas caught in his throat. His free hand fists in the sheets as the American reaches his belly button, wet tongue teasing, circling, "Don'tstopdon'tstop," whimpered desperately into the palm pressed to his mouth.
"Please," he chokes into it, hips jerking up under the American's hands. "Andy, please-"
Mouth closing around his cock and breathing is a thing of the past because it's so perfect, Andy settling into a steady rhythm with a low hum in his throat and Roger can't think, can't move. Sweet tang of copper in his mouth from biting his lip, the sting of nails along one cheek as he drags his hand away to tangle in Andy's hair, none of it matters under the relentless, wet mouth sliding over his cock. Close, so close, pleasure a knot of heat tightening under Andy's lips and tongue and hands, bringing him so very close. Roger swears in German, losing his grip on Andy's hair as his hips buck up--
-- and Andy sits back, red lips swollen, mouth open as he gasps in air. Roger growls at him, mouth barely shaping the curse, simple desperation snarled through clenched teeth. "Bastard-"
"Hey!" Andy's frowning as he leans down, but there's a smile behind it, fighting against the mock-serious expression. He braces himself over Roger, rocking his hips so the tip of Roger's cock rubs along his stomach. "Just because there's no one to hear doesn't mean you can call me names."
"Pl-please." It's the only thing left that Roger can say, tone pleading, and he's stopped caring about pride; he'll beg if it means he can come. "Andy, please..."
Andy leans to kiss him, something like salt caught in the corner of his mouth and Roger shivers at his own taste. "You're su-"
Hissing, fury and disbelief escaping gritted teeth in a rush of breath and Roger arcs up, rubbing his cock hard along smooth, damp skin to make his point clear. Andy's cock pushing against his own stomach is a distraction and he almost forgets the words, has to make himself focus. "Don't you dare," he whispers, close to a snarl. "I'll leave if you ask me that one more time Andy, I swear I will."
A hot breath, tension sighed out against his lips. Andy eases himself down until he's sitting on Roger's thighs and the slow roll of his hips bumps their cocks together, their moans vibrating into the kiss.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Roger has to be sure. There's a laugh -- cracking from lust, but still a laugh -- pressed to his mouth and though he can't see Andy's nod, he feels it, lips sliding against his with the movement.
"I promise," Andy murmurs. "No more asking. Now do you want top or bottom?"
There's no question in Roger's mind; he wants what he saw in the showers, has for weeks, and there's only one way he's ever seen this going. No matter how terrified a part of him is that it's really going to hurt. "Bottom."
"Thought you'd say that." Hands run down his chest as Andy sits back, one playing with a nipple that Roger would swear has never been that sensitive before, bitten-ragged nails drawing shivery pleasure-pain as they scratch the nub. "I can't believe..." He trails off with a half-smile, shaking his head as he slides further back between Roger's thighs and the Swiss lets his head fall back on the pillows with a deep breath. Two weeks of wanting, of being flirted with, and he's finally here. No one watching, no one whispering and Andy wants him, is being careful with him, not like he might snap but--
But like he's precious. Worth cherishing.
It finally silences the last, vicious whispers in his mind, freak and unnatural. Andy, with his tongue sticking out as he opens a condom, flashing a smile when he notices Roger watching, Andy wants him. It's enough to make the rest of the world and the tour and the officials cease to matter, and Roger's so wrapped up in the unfamiliar feeling of contentment that the first, lube-slick fingers rubbing over his balls make him flinch.
"Sorry," Andy murmurs. Roger gets a quick smile, teasing and reassuring all at once before the first finger slides underneath him to press to his hole with the cold wetness of lube. A hiss is out before he has time to stifle it and the finger pauses.
"Don't stop." Roger swallows against the crack in his voice, Andy's eyes dark, watching him intently. "I want... Andy, please."
"I'm not going anywhere." Andy's smile is quick, vividly amused. It's the smile that can make Roger hesitate even down the length of a tennis court, genuine and bright and seen too rarely for Roger's liking because it's beautiful. All Andy would have to do to beat him is smile at him like that during points and nothing -- not even the promise of winning Wimbledon a fourth or eighth or tenth time -- could make Roger concentrate on his tennis. He's smiling back without realising and the press of the finger into his ass is almost forgotten when Andy leans down to kiss him, opening his mouth to let Andy's tongue meet his, all warm, wet lips and teeth. The fingertip pushes in and he couldn't care that it's new and different, more than a little strange, because it feels good, sending shivery, hot pleasure racing along nerves he didn't even know he had. Hips moving, rocking up into Andy as the finger thrusts and stars explode behind his eyelids.
"Oh... god, please don't stop." Gasped out into Andy's mouth without Roger thinking the words, pure instinct, any thought of not begging long gone. He has to break the kiss to thrust harder against Andy's hand, a flare of something hot, perfect spiking through him with every push of the finger and he couldn't care that it burns a little when a second finger slides in beside the first because the stretch feels better, heels sliding over tangled sheets as he bucks up harder, faster. Andy's laugh is hot breath, ghosting along his jaw from behind wet lips.
"So beautiful," Roger thinks he hears, whispered into sweat-damp skin. "You're so fucking beautiful."
"Not--" The words are lost in a moan as the fingers inside him scissor, stretching but gently, the pain barely enough to make him tense and Andy quickly soothes it away with his free hand on Roger's cock. "Not like..."
Faint exasperation in Andy's growled interruption; Roger can picture the American rolling his eyes. "Don't argue with compliments Rog." His fingers twist, making his point as they press hard to a spot that makes Roger writhe against the bed and he thinks he makes a frantic sound, too much to feel, too much everything; it hurts. The pressure lessens instantly, Andy sliding out to his fingertips.
"Whoa, sshh. Sorry."
"No... o- okay." Reduced to scattered words, bare monosyllables that are raspy in his dry mouth and he wonders if he screamed, because his throat hurts. Andy's fingertips are still barely pressing inside him and he rocks his hips, trying to say what he can't form the words for as the room comes back into focus, everything still tingling. "Good, please..."
There's a chuckle as the fingers slide back in, subtly different this time and it takes a moment for Roger to realise it's because there's three. He exhales slowly, letting himself adjust to the stretch before moving again, rocking into each thrust with tiny sounds of pleasure and want, of happiness that he's here, that this is happening. Andy's murmuring something quietly, too soft for Roger to make the effort to listen and he thinks maybe, given the chance, he could stay here forever. Dripping with sweat, sheets damp with it, sticking Andy's skin to his and it's perfect. Pleasure a white-heat, gathering under Andy's hand on his cock and he arcs up into it with a moan, tensing--
-- until the fingers slide out, leaving him quivering on the edge of orgasm and he makes a sound that can only be called petulant, Andy laughing at it as Roger glares at him. The smile stays even as the American lifts Roger's legs, shifting himself into a position where his cock presses, lightly, against the Swiss's ass.
"Okay?" he asks when he's settled, hands braced against Roger's legs to hold them up, and Roger wants to demand why he thinks he has to ask, after everything. Wants to but can't; words refusing to come so he can only nod, jerkily. Andy's smile widens, maybe with a hint of nerves and his eyes stay fixed on Roger's as he pushes in with slow, deliberate caution.
It's-- bigger than Roger was expecting, thicker than the fingers and he gasps, hips jerking up. Andy stops instantly.
"Roger?"
"No, I'm fine." Swallowing hard, muscles flexing around the new stretch and it takes a minute for him to adjust, breathing hard. Teeth sunk into his bottom lip, Andy watches him anxiously and Roger finds a smile to reassure him, through the burn that's already fading into something better. Voice stronger, he repeats it, "I'm fine. Don't stop." Pushes up into the American to make his point and Andy makes a noise Roger's never heard before, choked and desperate and something Roger wants to hear again to believe. He pushes harder and almost forgets to moan at the sudden thickness filling him -- heavier and longer and bigger, so much bigger than fingers -- because Andy makes the sound again, eyes fluttering shut.
"Fuck, you feel good," he gasps, entire body shuddering. His hips are already moving, drawing a whimper from Roger as they find a rhythm, rocking together, almost instinctive but a little uneven till they get it right. "Really..." Trails off, leaning down for a hard kiss and Roger tangles a hand in the short blond hair, grinding their mouths together with desperate want. Already so close to coming, too much build up; he can't breathe, can't think of anything other than Andy sliding into him, whimpering into his mouth with tiny, breathy sounds.
Better even than he'd imagined. Maybe worth two weeks - longer, months - of being miserable because this is what he'll remember, not lifting the Wimbledon trophy or the awed press or voice after voice, wishing him congratulations without really meaning it -- that all seems fake now, something he'd watched from a distance or half forgotten memories, dull, colourless. Andy, eyes half-lidded and dark with lust, lips red and puffy, glistening from both his tongue and Roger's, endless golden skin with a sheen of sweat beneath Roger's hands -- it's real, more than trophies and barely heard whispers. Andy inside him, hand curling over Roger's cock and it's too much. With a cry that starts as Andy's name and ends as wordless vowels, arcing up so fast it would hurt if he wasn't mid-orgasm, Roger comes, hot and wet and seemingly endless over Andy's hand.
"Roger, Rog... lov-" Words choked off and Andy goes tense. His hips rock one final time and Roger opens his eyes to watch him come, mouth open, head tilted back in bliss. There's a breathless minute when neither of them move, riding out the aftershocks and then Andy relaxes down onto Roger with a slow, shaky breath.
"Wow," he murmurs and drops his face to the Swiss's neck as he starts to pull out, licking the sweat-slicked skin under his mouth when Roger whimpers, everything still sensitive. "You okay Rog?"
"Yes," Roger tries to say and can't, mouth dry. He swallows and tries again. "I'm fine."
"Good." Moving slowly, with stiff caution - Roger knows how he feels; everything aches now the glow of orgasm is fading - Andy strips off the condom and knots it, hesitating with a glance at the waste bin across the room before discarding it in the wash bag beside the bed. Still moving stiffly, he resettles himself at Roger's side and trails his fingertips through the streaks of wet come across the Swiss's stomach.
Roger shivers and, with a soft laugh, Andy pushes himself up on an elbow to lean over and kiss him. It's slow, lazy after the frantic pace of a minute ago, the tang of salt and copper in Andy's mouth as his lips move over Roger's, neither of them willing to be the first to break it. Roger thinks he might never want to move because lying here and letting Andy kiss him the easiest thing in the world right now, more comfort than sex. Lifting a heavy arm -- heavy with tiredness or maybe the numbness of after-orgasm -- he slides it around Andy's waist and hangs on, as if by clinging he can make this last longer.
Andy breaks away after what could be minutes, could be longer, turning to lean over the edge of the bed and grab his t-shirt. Before Roger can ask what he's doing -- anxiety that the American might leave the bed fresh and sharp under the warm fuzz of post-sex -- Andy twists the shirt into a ball and starts to clean the come from Roger's stomach, worn cotton pleasantly soft on sticky skin.
"You're so thin," he murmurs after a few, silent moments, letting go of the t-shirt to rub his fingers along the faint bumps of the Swiss's ribs. "You hide it but there's nothing to you."
"You sound like my mother," Roger growls, his groan echoing Andy's the second the words have left his mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- that came out wrong."
"Of all the things I dream of hearing after sex, that's probably at the bottom of the list." Andy's teasing; Roger can tell the American's mock-dismay is laced with amusement as he tosses the dirty t-shirt off the bed. "Not that I believe anything about tonight anyway, so I'll just tell myself you never said it and be happy."
Looking up, watching Andy's smile as he draws invisible patterns across Roger's stomach, Roger can't help a frown. "You don't believe...?"
"Rog, you turn up outside my door in tears at some insane hour of the night, demanding sex--"
A rush of indignation, barely soothed by Andy stroking his hair. "I didn't demand anything!"
"Okay, so asking for sex." A small smile quirks at the corners of Andy's mouth, amusement being held back. "You've shown no signs of wanting me or this, ever. But," and the hand on Roger's stomach stills, resting flat against softly furred skin. "I don't care why you're here, as long as you've stopped thinking you're a freak. You have, right?"
"I don't know." Roger closes his eyes against Andy's frown. "It's not- I can't just turn how I feel on and off, you know? But I feel better," he adds quickly, opening his eyes again to see worry on Andy's face. "I needed this. Thank you."
There's a long second when Andy simply looks at him, eyes narrowed and with the faintest trace of a frown. Roger tries to answer the silent question with a slightly desperate shake of his head, because he doesn't want this conversation to ruin this moment; mutely begging Andy to drop the subject and it's with immense relief that he kisses the American back when Andy brushes their lips together.
"You are perfect," he whispers, shaking his head warningly when Roger starts to reply. "And I'll beat the crap out of anyone who says otherwise."
Roger laughs, startling himself and Andy's answering grin is broad, pleased. He keeps grinning as he leans over to turn off the light but with a flash of alarm, Roger starts to sit up.
"Andy I have interviews at half five, I can't-"
"Sssshh." An arm wraps around his chest, pulling him back down so Andy can snuggle against his side. "It's what, close to three now? Stay a few hours."
"But-"
"Roger." Quietly desperate, the tone of Andy's voice letting him know how much the American wants this, though it's too dark to see the pleading look Roger knows he'll be wearing. "Please."
He couldn't say no to a begging Andy if he tried and besides, he doesn't want to leave either. A few hours won't hurt; he can leave before five and make it back to the apartment in plenty of time. Slowly, savouring the warmth as Andy curls closer, arms around him and head resting on his chest, Roger lets himself relax.
"A few hours," he whispers, as if to remind himself and Andy makes a sleepy sound of agreement. Tiredness is a weight, having crept over him without him realising and Roger closes his eyes, warm, comfortable. Falling asleep for the first time in weeks without trying not to cry into his pillow.
His last thought is that perhaps he should have set an alarm to make sure he wakes in time, and then, nothing.