clo (clo) wrote in clofic, @ 2005-07-04 14:14:00 |
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Multi-part: Parisian Dreams (NC-17, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer/Mardy Fish/Mirka Vavrinec)
Title: Parisian Dreams (2/4)
Rating: (this part) PG-13
Pairing: Strong hints of Andy/Mardy and Roger/Mirka, implied Andy/Roger.
Summary: Mardy and Mirka are pulling the strings while Roger and Andy are just trying to understand why they’re wandering, seemingly aimlessly, through the streets of Paris... and they’re not above a bit of manipulating of their own to try and get an explanation.
Notes: Sequel to Ficlet N, set in December 2004. Part one is here. And yes, the French will be all wrong. Just accept it and move on. :)
Part One
Mirka loves hotel breakfasts. Roger, sitting bleary eyed and silent across the table, is about as far from a morning person as it’s possible to be and Mirka understands the lure of sleeping in, she really does, it’s just… she’s always loved Swiss mornings with mist curling around the mountain peaks and birds still singing like the day is full of possibilities. For her, morning is a time to be optimistic. She glances out the window beside them, at Paris shrouded in late December fog with the Eiffel Tower rising like a spear from the haze in the distance and it’s enough to make her smile. She’s been waiting for this day for months and from her early morning vantage point, it looks like it’s going to be beautiful.
“Pass the butter?” she asks Roger who’s staring into his coffee cup as if he’s found the Holy Grail. Her question doesn’t even rouse him enough to blink. With a sigh she reaches over and snags the butter from beside his plate of shredded, uneaten croissants. That at least catches his attention enough to make him glance sleepily towards her.
“You only had to ask me for it,” he says. His voice was still heavy and slow with sleep, dark eyes shadowed and Mirka absently wonders how long he lay in bed awake last night. Longer than she did from the look of him. Her smile is genuinely amused as she meets his gaze.
“I did.”
“Oh,” he mumbles and returns to his contemplation of his cup. He isn’t usually that much of a caffeine addict, or at least he never used to be, and Mirka wonders if the coffee is just an excuse to ignore her while he thinks everything through. Or maybe Andy has rubbed off on him; she’s heard Americans take the love of coffee to whole new levels. Though if Basel had a Starbucks on every corner, perhaps she’d be the same.
“Isn’t it tea that tells your future, not coffee?” she teases in an attempt to elicit a reaction. The startled glance up is reward enough, the first smile of the day lighting up his face an added bonus. Roger is beautiful she realises abruptly. Strangely it’s something she’s never really considered before, though she’s always known he’s attractive to both sexes. The fact that he’s truly, simply beautiful is something she always took for granted and never gave more than a passing thought but now, dark eyes sparkling and a genuine smile lighting up his face, she realises just how beautiful he is, inside and out. All of a sudden there’s a funny tight feeling in her chest and fierce jealousy overwhelms her; Andy owns this beauty, as surely as if his name was tattooed across the golden skin and she’s left with nothing more than permission to stand at a distance and admire. Even after reminding herself that’s what this weekend is all about, she still has to make an effort to drive the jealousy away.
Oblivious to her thoughts, Roger replies, “Actually I think it’s tea leaves.” There’s a hint of rueful apology to his tone and he glances down, almost shyly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ignore you.”
“I know. I can wait for you to wake up.” Mirka butters her croissant carefully, licking her fingers one by one when she’s finished. It’s a little disconcerting when she glances up to find Roger watching her with that intense focus he uses on the tennis court, and she pauses, one finger still in her mouth.
Slowly, holding eye contact all the while, Roger leans across the table and runs his thumb over the corner of her mouth. It’s the exact spot he used to kiss when he was in a sweet, playful mood and a warm shiver runs down her spine at the touch, rough skin against soft, dark eyes locked with hers. There’s something in his expression that’s familiar and strange at the same time; a look she half remembers from hours spent simply kissing combined with a new wonder and fascination. It’s more of a thrill than the touch to see that look in his eyes and Mirka almost trembles, everything she wants and is trying to win back being offered to her for a split second. Briefly it feels like there’s no one but the two of them in the room and Mirka can almost taste Roger’s mouth on hers.
Then he’s leaning back again, licking the butter off her lips from his thumb. His smile is small and the look is almost gone from his eyes, just a lingering trace keeping her hope alive. When he speaks his voice is slow, seemingly innocent and yet laced with the faintest trace of lazy wickedness.
“I’m awake now.”
~
“Mardy don’t take this the wrong way but why did you pick such a fucking stupid month to bring me to Paris?”
Mardy grins across at Andy who’s hunched into his favourite red and white Cornhuskers jacket, leaning against a tree. The drivers of Paris are flashing past beside them with an occasional burst of bad tempered horn blaring and the screech of brakes but both of them have been here before and they don’t even flinch from the noise. “Well I was going to ask you to skip Wimbledon but I thought you’d probably say no. Would you? Have said no I mean?”
“Shut up,” Andy grumbles, wrapping his jacket tighter around him. “It’s fucking freezing Mardy, so I hope we’re going somewhere warm.”
“It’s not that cold.”
“It fucking well is.”
“Language,” Mardy remarks with mock disapproval and catches up Andy’s wrist, dragging him onto the path. Andy lets himself be dragged with an air of resigned suffering, his free hand tucked deep into a pocket of his ripped jeans; it’s cold enough for the people walking past them to be wearing gloves and scarves, clouds of breath misting the air. Mardy glances back at Andy’s cold-reddened cheeks and knows unless they warm up quick, his friend will be miserable for the rest of the day. A Texan at heart, Andy loves long, lazy summers and heat that shimmers across the asphalt; painting imaginary lakes and rivers on air; and glues your clothes to you until you’d sell your own mother for a glass of iced water. The damp cold of the Paris winter is his idea of torture, long streets stretching away into grey mist, the very air filled with water drops that caught in their hair and on their skin. Mardy thinks it’s a little romantic – Paris in the December mist is like a magic city, fairy lights in the trees and strung along the awnings of the streets cafes – but Andy’s always more likely to appreciate beauty when he’s warm, a mug of coffee in hand. Mardy debates the possibilities as they stroll up towards the Champs-Elysées.
“Mardy!” Andy slips his hand into Mardy’s and tugs, suddenly as excited as a kid in a candy store. Mardy takes a moment to smile at his friend’s flushed face and bright eyes before turning to see what’s worth so much enthusiasm. When he realises, he laughs.
“You just had breakfast!”
“Don’t care.” Andy bounces on the balls of his feet, leaning towards the crepe stall with all his weight. “C’mon Mardy, pleeeeaaaaassee…?”
“Alright, poor spoiled baby that you are.” Mardy‘s still laughing as Andy drags him over to the stall. “What do you want?”
“Chocolate,” Andy says firmly. “And…” he stands on tiptoe, peering at the list of ingredients at the back of the stall. The man behind the counter is grinning and while Andy’s attention is occupied Mardy winks at him. The man winks back then instantly assumes an expression of polite curiosity when Andy looks at him, still bouncing a little.
“And banana,” Andy says decidedly. “With lots of sugar.”
Mardy sighs the sigh of the long suffering although he’s still grinning and leans on the counter. “Un crepe de chocolat et de banane s’il vous plait,” he requests and gets a stunned look from Andy. “Don’t look so surprised Roddick, I probably just asked him for an Eiffel Tower pancake or something.”
“Actually it was pretty good,” the man behind the counter comments in near perfect English, hands busy pouring and spreading the crepe mixture. Mardy blushes and looks down, only to be poked in the side by a grinning Andy.
“I had no idea you were so multi-talented Fish. You should impress me more often.”
“Why? Does it get me a gold star to stick in my good behaviour book?” Mardy teases back and catches the glee in Andy’s eyes before arms are wrapped around him and he’s being spun in circles. “Whoa, Andy-“
There’s the briefest of seconds when lips brush across his cheek towards his mouth then Andy lets go, turning to watch his crepe being finished as if nothing had happened. It’s only from long experience that Mardy catches the tiny smile, curling up the corners of his friend’s mouth and it’s enough to rattle him for almost a minute - he’s been thinking the point of this trip is to manipulate Andy but so far it seems to have been dramatically one-sided and not in his favour either. He watches the other American scoop up the crepe and sink his teeth into it. Bliss spreads across his face as he licks the chocolate from his lips, fanning his tongue with his hand to cool it. Mardy fights down the urge to wipe the chocolate from the corner of Andy’s mouth and steadies himself with a deep breath, shaking his head as Andy reaches for his wallet.
“I’ll get it,” he offers, producing a five Euro note and placing it on the counter. Andy frowns at him over a mouthful of crepe but Mardy just shrugs. “I brought you to Paris, it’s the least I can do.” He collects his change and turns away with a final smile for the crepe man who winks back. Andy doesn’t notice the little exchange, already bouncing alongside Mardy back to the path.
“Where now?” he demands, trying to wipe chocolate from his mouth but smearing it across one cheek instead. Mardy restrains an urge to giggle with difficulty. “Are you going to buy me more stuff?”
“What other stuff do you want?” Mardy asks and regrets it as Andy’s face lights up. “With limits Andy!”
“Don’t worry, it’s not expensive.” Andy flashes a broad smile at him and bounces off up the street. “It’s more of a personal favour,” he calls back. “You’re not really afraid of heights are you?”
“Wha-Andy!” Mardy breaks into a jog to catch up, panic a cold lump in his stomach. “If that means what I think it means then no-“
“Oh lighten up.” Andy eats the last bite of crepe and tosses the paper into a nearby bin, looping an arm through Mardy’s as the other American catches up. “You’ll thank me for it when we’re up there.”
“Andy-“ Mardy breaks off as his friend drags him on towards a Metro station sign. On the surface he knows he’s going to regret this but underneath, he’s already wondering if it could be turned to his advantage.
“Come on!” Andy coaxes. “This’ll be fun Mardy, I promise. I won’t let you fall.”
Mardy pauses to think before he replies, inwardly smiling. This could actually turn out to be Andy’s most useful suggestion of the day. In mock defeat he sighs, pretend resignation in his tone. “Fine. Go on then.”
With a cry of excitement, Andy almost bounces up the hill towards the Metro. Mardy keeps up easily, a spring in his step.
Time to turn the focus of manipulation right back to where it’s supposed to be.
~
Mirka has always loved Montmartre, ever since she first visited Paris when she was six. She still has the framed cartoon of her six year old self hanging on her bedroom wall, proud smile exaggeratedly comic and yet somehow still her in the freckles or tilt of the eyes, the Montmartre artist capturing something that was essentially ‘Mirka’. It used to make Roger smile and he’d teasingly hold her hair up in pigtails, looking in mock suspicion from her to the cartoon as if trying to find the resemblance.
She’s always wanted to bring him here. She’s glad now she finally has that he seems to love it as much as she does.
“That’s unbelievable,” he murmurs, pausing beside a man sketching a Parisian street in charcoal, clever sweeps of black forming houses and people from whiteness. Mirka slips an arm carefully through his as he watches, relaxing a little when his attention doesn’t waver from the artist.
“Isn’t it?” The man seems completely unaware of their scrutiny. “I love watching them.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t bring me here before.” Roger glances around at the busy square they were in, early morning crowds just beginning to thicken. The air itself is heavy with mist, muffling sound to a soft murmur and beading in silver droplets on the wires of the fairy lights, strung along the shop and café fronts. “You always said it was amazing but I never thought…” Something else catches his eye and he half-turns, smiles. Mirka follows his gaze to find another artist clearly sketching them from her table in the nearest street café, quick glances of her eyes darting between them and her sketchbook. She smiles in reply but doesn’t stop, her pencil spinning lines across the page.
“We shouldn’t move until she’s finished,” Mirka suggests, not entirely unselfishly because as Roger turned it brought him closer, both her arms loosely looped around his waist now and his warmth soaking through her jeans and jacket. His smile is distracted as he looks at her, most of his attention clearly on the fact they’re being sketched.
“Yes of course.” An uncomfortable moment when neither of them know what to say and Roger shifts a little in the circle of her arms. Mirka bites her lip; an opportunity like this shouldn’t be wasted but she can’t think of anything ‘safe’ to talk about.
“Andy would hate this.”
Well she’s not sure that would class as ‘safe’ but Roger brought it up, not her and she looks up in surprise to find him staring thoughtfully into space. “Why?”
“He’d hate the weather and the crowds. He wouldn’t understand the patience of the artists.” Roger gestures with one hand in frustration, indicting the square and everything in it. “I love him… so much.” He adds the latter softly and something in Mirka’s heart breaks, almost enough to distract her from his next words. “Yet sometimes it feels like we’re thinking on different levels, missing something that’s important to each other.”
“Missing something?” Mirka frowns and readjusts her hands, locking them together over his hip. Roger’s still staring into the distance, a frown creasing his face. “There is a culture gap, which was always going to take a long time to cross. You’ll find what you’re missing Roger.” She almost shivers as she says the words, knowing exactly how they might come true later and she tries to steer them away from the thin ice they’re walking on with this. “But don’t let it bother you. You appreciate it and I appreciate it, so maybe it doesn’t matter if Andy does or doesn’t.”
“Variety is the spice of life,” Roger murmurs almost to himself and his smile is brighter than sunshine when he looks down at her, untouched by the grey mist and damp of the winter weather. “You’re right. I won’t let it bother me.”
“Pardon?” It’s the artist who was sketching them, a piece of paper neatly rolled and tied with a red ribbon in her hand. She offers it to Mirka. “Please. It is yours.”
“How much-“ Mirka begins but the woman is shaking her head, already moving away.
“Non, non, is just a sketch. It is yours.”
“Merci beaucoup,” Roger starts to thank her but she’s already vanished into the crowd with a final wave of a lead-smudged hand. Mirka looks down at the rolled of paper and tugs curiously at the ribbon. Roger’s hand closes over hers before she can undo it.
“Later,” he advises. “We don’t want it to get damp.”
“But-“ Mirka sighs and reins in her curiosity, swinging her bag off her shoulder to tuck the sketch inside. “You’re right. Have you seen enough?”
“Absolutely not.” Roger looks around with an eager smile, suddenly childishly excited. “Look!” He breaks free of Mirka’s arms to head for the painters, covering their canvases with daubs of colour, almost garish in the grey light. Mirka follows with a laugh, optimism lightening her step. Even having so much fun, it’s hard not count the hours down until the evening.
Soon, she promises herself, watching Roger strike up a conversation in quick, fluent French with one of the artists. Very soon.
~
Mardy really fucking hates heights.
“Andy please, let me go down.” He makes a futile lunge back for the elevator door, Andy wrapping an arm around his waist to stop him and any other time the contact would’ve been welcome. Now all Mardy can think about is getting his feet back on solid ground.
“Hey, hey.” Andy reels him into a hug, arms tight around Mardy’s shoulders and waist. “It’s perfectly safe Fish. There’s fences and everything. Hang onto me.”
“No I want to go down.” Mardy hates the whimper in his tone, hates that he thought he could do this and can’t. “Please Andy-“
“Come on.” Andy shifts his grip a little, turning Mardy sideways so that Mardy’s shoulder rests against his chest. Mardy still has his hands over his face, shaking like a leaf in the wind. “Mar we’re still by the elevator. We’re miles from the edge. Just try a look. Come on.”
It’s the coaxing tone that’s wheedled five am lifts and drunken games of strip poker out of Mardy before and resisting it means impossibly resisting years of ingrained habit. Against his will Mardy raises his head to catch a brief glimpse of Paris, stretching away like a grey and white carpet into the mist, as far as he can see. A strangled squeak escapes his lips and he buries his head back in Andy’s jacket, arms around the other American’s neck. Andy chuckles but at least manages to sound sympathetic.
“That’s a start. Think you could manage to look for a whole second this time?”
“No.”
“I’ll bribe you,” Andy offers, his voice suddenly laced with promise. “What would you like? A lifetime’s supply of beer? A Ferrari? Ten naked and buxom women?”
“Do you even know what buxom means?” Even trembling with terror, Mardy’s teasing side still manages to surface. Andy makes a thoughtful noise that vibrates in his throat, pressed against Mardy’s cheek.
“Not really, it just sounded good. And I haven’t got any of those things anyway, so I’ll have to do.” His tone is lightly teasing, unchanging as Mardy goes tense, wondering not for the first time just how much Andy knows. “Come on. Come to the edge and I’ll bribe you with me, somehow.”
“What, the pleasure of your company?” The sarcasm in Mardy’s tone could curdle milk but Andy doesn’t seem to notice, pulling Mardy a step at a time in what Mardy assumes is the direction of the edge. Whose goddamn stupid ideas was it to come up the Eiffel Tower in the first place? Oh right. The guy he’s come all the way to Paris to try and fuck, to put it bluntly. Letting your hormones rule your head again Fish, he tells himself and clings tighter to Andy when they pause.
“Mardy,” Andy says, wearily patient. “If you don’t stop trying to bury yourself in my shoulder, I may have to withdraw that offer of bribery. I can’t exactly do anything if you’re permanently attached to me now can I?”
“Don’t like heights Andy,” Mardy mumbles without lifting his head. Andy rubs the small of his back soothingly, Mardy arcing in the touch with a hum of pleasure and forgetting for an instant how high they are off the ground. “Come on Mardy.” The massaging hand slips lower, ghosting over Mardy’s ass for a second and the older American gasps with surprise, straightening up which only succeeds in bringing them as close as they can be without actually sharing the same body. Mardy’s pressed right up against Andy’s warmth and he’s torn between panicking about that and the edge, just a couple of metres and a flimsy-looking fence away. “Andy we’re too close to the edge, please-“
“Hush, it’s ok.” Andy holds him still with one arm, brushing Mardy’s blond hair back with his free hand. “It’s fantastic Mardy. Just look. Please?” He holds Mardy’s eyes with his, exaggeratedly sadness in his expression. “I don’t want you to miss out.”
“You’re an ass,” Mardy tells him wearily but steels himself, sinking his teeth into his lip as he forces his gaze away from Andy and outwards, over the top of the fence. Paris hasn’t gone anywhere, still a vast blanket of tiny buildings and tinier people spread out at their feet. Mardy makes a wordless noise of terror but can’t drag his eyes away so he clings tighter to Andy instead. The other American makes soothing noises, his hands running over Mardy’s back in a way that could be considered calming, or looked at another way, over-familiar.
“It’s too high-“ Mardy can’t concentrate on Andy’s hands, gradually getting more and more friendly, not when they’re this far off the ground. He has to admit they’re quite distracting though and if he keeps doing that- Mardy’s breath hisses in through his teeth as for a fraction of a second Andy grinds their hips together and pleasure sparks through him, slicing through his fear. Andy’s wearing a tiny half-smile, one hand still tangled in Mardy’s hair.
“Isn’t it a beautiful view Fish?” he says and Mardy can only nod, shivering from an entirely different set of feelings and what happened to him manipulating Andy? The thought makes him smile, edging it with wickedness – and suddenly this whole ordeal is worth it because he can see Andy realise what he’s thinking, a barely perceptible widening of the hazel eyes making his smile grow. His fear fades under the thrill of excitement because he’s finally here, in Paris with Andy, and it’s almost time for all the planning to pay off.
“Yeah,” he replies without taking his eyes off Andy. “Beautiful.”
~
Part Three.