clo (clo) wrote in clofic, @ 2008-01-22 11:30:00 |
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Current mood: | busy |
Entry tags: | andy roddick, prize, roger federer |
Roger thinks there’s something being planned for him. Nasty or nice, he’s not sure but Mirka’s been smiling that smile all night, the smile that means she’s got a secret and she’s biting her tongue to hold it back. Of course, it could also be the ‘my boyfriend just won a million dollars that he’s going to spend on me’ smile but Roger’s seen that look often enough to know that this one, this tiny quirk of a smile with the mirth caught in the corners of Mirka’s mouth, is different. This one means she’s plotting something, something worse than how quickly she can replace her entire wardrobe with a million dollars worth of clothes.
And it’s been there all night which means, since nothing unexpected has happened since he stepped off the court, that he has the next hour or so before he goes to bed to expect something--
-- something unexpected. Which isn’t really a lot of help, other than to get him flinching at his own shadow.
“I love the new car,” Mirka says as they leave the elevator on their floor, the door to their luxury suite one of just two along the hallway so it’s not unusual to see it as deserted as it is now. Everything looks the same as it did when they left in the morning, Roger sneaking cautious glances into the alcoves they pass in case whatever Mirka’s smiling about involves people jumping out at him, but he finds only vases of fresh flowers. Whatever she’s planning must be in their room.
“What?” he asks on autopilot, more concerned with watching the mirror down the hall for anyone sneaking up behind him than listening. Fingers, slender and cool from the New York evening they’ve just left, tangle in his and he watches Mirka’s reflection lean up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
“I said, I love the new car,” she murmurs and Roger watches his reflection’s face light up. No matter what she’s got planned, no matter what happens to him when he steps through the door they’re fast approaching, just thinking of his new Lexus will make him smile. The drive back to the hotel had been fast and smooth, that new car smell wrapping around him almost as snugly as his leather seat and oh god, the leather; slick under his hands as he sat down, the earthy-polish smell of it better than perfume. He spent the entire twenty minute drive trying not to get turned on by the way the engine roared when he stepped on the gas and sure, it wasn’t his Lamborghini or Maserati, but it was good.
“Me too.” Understatement, but he thinks it’s probably not the time to tell her he was planning the best ways to have sex while driving the entire time she was trying to tell him his schedule for tomorrow. In the same way that he doesn’t understand the importance of co-ordinating shoes and accessories, she doesn’t understand why, as his reward for winning Wimbledon this year, he wanted sex on the back seat of the Aston Martin. Neither did he afterwards, when he realised the stains on the leather were irremovable.
“I know. You looked happier when he handed you the keys than when he gave you the million dollars.” She’s teasing, her smile broad and still just a little wicked as they pause outside their door. Roger flushes at the observation -- mostly because it’s true -- and eyes the door nervously. There could be anything on the other side of it and he can only hope it’s not a surprise party. It’s been a long day and he needs time to let it all sink in.
Because he hasn’t let slip to anyone exactly how much he believed he’d win this one. It’s been two weeks of biting his tongue on comments the press would’ve labelled ‘smug’ and perhaps ‘arrogant’; never mind that they would’ve been true. Ever since Andy lost in the first round, Roger’s had a sense of going through the motions. He’d lose a game, lose a set perhaps but, to him at least, he was already the winner before he stepped out on court. Without Andy to watch on the other side of the draw, he’d almost felt as if--
“Damn!” Mirka’s paused, key-card dangling forgotten from one hand. “I meant to get a sandwich from downstairs. Here.” The key-card is tucked into the hand Roger has curled around the US Open trophy, fingers shifting automatically to grip it as he stares suspiciously at his smiling girlfriend. “I’ll go and get something. You have a bath, rest your feet for the press stuff tomorrow.”
“There’s no point in you going all the way back downstairs.” Roger shuffles the trophy under his arm to grip the key harder, sharp edges digging into his fingers and there’s no way he’s walking through that door without her. Remembering a sudden urge to snack is entirely too convenient. “Call room service.”
“But I’d like the walk. I’ve been sitting down all afternoon.” The slightest hint of laughter, playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’ll be five minutes and it’s not as if you need me to fill the tub for you. Go on.” A kiss that’s barely a brush of lips on his and she’s gone before he can catch her, jogging down the hallway with her sandals soundless against the thick carpet. She’s at the lift before he can think and the doors are closing on her smile before he can move. He’s left standing in the hallway, tennis bag over one shoulder, trophy balanced awkwardly under one arm and key-card being gripped hard enough to cut his hand, staring blankly at the mirrored elevator doors.
She wouldn’t have done anything awful he tells himself. It almost sounds convincing in his mind, if he ignores the conflicting memory that this is the woman who once put a live frog in his bed for revenge when he forgot their anniversary but that was two years ago; they’ve grown up a lot since then. Meaning Mirka’s now mature and sensible enough to not have, for example, rigged a net of water balloons with Congratulations printed on them to drop on his head the moment he opens the door.
Again. It was bad enough in London, where at least the floor was tiled so they could mop up the mess. She wouldn’t have done it this time, with the expensive carpet and *presidential suite*, you can probably get kicked out just by taking anything as messy as a water balloon within a mile of it. He tells himself that she wouldn’t dare and all the mental strength the press keep raving about means he can make himself believe it as he inserts the key-card, turns the handle. It isn’t until he pushes the door open that his self-preservation instincts override the forced belief and he’s leaping backwards, a defensive stance with his hands curled into fists in front of him made much more difficult by trying not to drop the trophy under his arm.
Nothing drops from above the door, water balloon or otherwise. No one comes leaping out at him, armed with party poppers and cake. Nothing happens at all in fact, for about ten seconds, and then a throat is very politely cleared to his left.
“Something wrong with room?” It’s the Russian diplomat from the other suite, now hesitating in his doorway and regarding Roger with the careful wariness usually reserved for large animals with even larger teeth. “I call the concierge?”
“Um.” Roger lowers his fists, crouching down to pick up the tennis bag he’d dropped in his mad lunge backwards. He’s glad he’s got his back to the mirror, because he thinks he might be blushing hotly enough to melt the glass. “No. Just, um. Checking.”
“Ah.” The Russian inches forward, barely, to crane his neck and peer into Roger’s open doorway. “And everything is…”
“It’s fine.” Bag slung over his shoulder, clinging to his trophy as if his life depends on not dropping it, Roger makes for the safety of his apparently water-balloon-free room. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Not at all.” As the door closes behind Roger, he thinks he hears a muttered comment on neurotic Europeans but he doesn’t care. Leaning back against smooth, solid wood, he takes deep breaths until his face cools and he’s no longer the colour of a ripe tomato. No doubt the Russian will go home believing all Swiss are paranoid about assassins hiding behind every door but, in the blissful, balloon-free silence of his room, Roger feels relieved enough to note that at least no one else was around to see him make a fool of himself.
“Mnghfphmf!”
Only suddenly, not so silent. Distinctly un-silent actually, if the muffled sounds coming from his bedroom aren’t a hallucination brought on by embarrassment. Roger opens one eye to see the doors to the bedroom standing open, when he definitely remembers closing them before he and Mirka left this morning.
Which means someone’s been in his room and this is the Four Seasons, they seem to have maids who can clean a room without actually touching it, everything replaced to within millimetres of where Roger left it, only minus the dirt. The maid wouldn’t have left the doors open if she’d found them closed, which means someone else has been in his room. Still is, if the moans are anything to judge by and really, the wonderful second when he thought Mirka would resist temptation had been too good to be true.
Warily, walking poised to run at the first sign that he should, Roger puts the US Open trophy down on the coffee table and crosses the expanse of beige carpet to the bedroom doors. It takes quite an effort to make himself peer around them, but he can be out of the room and into the elevator in ten seconds if he has to, not that he really thinks it’ll be necessary. Mirka’s not cruel he tells himself, how bad can it be? Taking a deep breath, he looks into the room.
Andy Roddick is tied, naked, to his bed.
Roger blinks. Takes a step back to stare at the polished mahogany door in front of him, focusing on the tiny details of the grain until he’s sure his eyes are working. Peers back around the door.
Andy is still tied to his bed. Still naked. Making desperate vowel sounds into the duct tape across his mouth as he stares at Roger with wide eyes.
Roger’s going to make Mirka pay for this forever. Forget live frogs, he’s going to fill her bed with worms. Or maybe mice, she hates mice. Roger spent five days a week living with a whole school of teenagers when he was at Switzerland’s Tennis Centre; he knows a thousand and one ways to get revenge.
Only they’re all going to have to wait because, right now, he has Andy Roddick tied to his bed. Naked. Yes, absolutely, very clearly, naked. Roger thinks his mouth might be hanging open but doubts he has the willpower to close it.
“Mngghff!” Andy says and manages to make it sound demanding even through the tape. “Onghm onhgr!”
Running isn’t an option, mainly because Roger can’t convince his eyes to stop staring long enough to let his feet run away and isn’t that a shame, he’ll just have to keep looking at Andy. Naked Andy, tied wrist and ankle, stretched out in a smooth, sun-tanned expanse of golden skin and this isn’t fair at all, because Mirka knows how much Roger’s wanted him. He’d told her last year in a slightly-drunken rush of guilt and she’s teased him about it ever since, though she’d never so much as hinted that she’d let Roger try to seduce the American. No matter how much finding Andy like this may seem -- emphatically -- as permission, Roger knows he should untie him, apologise, and lend him some clothes for the walk back to his room.
It’s a pity because the struggling American has Congratulations! swirled across his chest in what looks like chocolate sauce. Roger knows he’d die happy if he could lick it off.
Don’t you dare start thinking like that Federer. Mentally kicking himself, he tries to look calm as he walks over to the bed but thinks he fails, mainly because he feels anything but calm. There’s a brief hesitation as he looks down at Andy who’s staring at him pleadingly and then he leans down to peel up a corner of the duct tape.
“Slow or fast?” he asks before realising Andy can’t answer. “Um. Nod for fast.”
A nod, sharp and jerky, tugging the corner of tape loose from his fingers. Roger winces and finds his grip again with a silent promise to hurt whoever had decided to use duct tape instead of a gag. “One, two, three-” On ‘three’ he tugs hard, the tape making a vicious ripping sound as it comes off and Andy arcs up off the bed with a yell, turning his head to scrub his red mouth against the curve of one arm.
“FUCK! Fuckfuckfuck! That hurt, the fucking bastards. Fuck!”
Roger waits for him to finish, because it’s understandable that the American is pissed off. He is a little surprised that it seems Andy wasn’t at all ‘in’ on the plan to make him Roger’s living, breathing prize for winning -- though he’s only guessing that from the American’s fury -- and it kills his last hope that maybe, just maybe, Andy was going to do something sexy and irresistible that Roger could use as an excuse to let himself have this.
“Fuck, I’m going to string Mardy up by his fucking balls for this.”
No, Roger thinks he was definitely being too optimistic on the sexy-and-irresistible front.
“Are you okay?” he asks cautiously, aware that this is technically is his fault or at least might seem that way to the enraged American. Hazel eyes fix on him from under a deep frown, narrowed in anger and maybe a trace of humiliation beneath it, a pink flush spreading over Andy’s cheeks.
“Do I look okay?” he demands, tugging hard enough at his bindings to make the wooden headboard creak ominously. “I’m tied to your fucking bed, covered in chocolate that’s going to be hell to get off and you ask if I’m okay. Fuck Roger, are you deliberately dense or does it happen naturally?”
That hurts, enough to show on his face apparently because Andy’s snarl falters. Lips pressed tightly together to stop himself snarling something equally insulting back -- because Andy’s got a point; if their positions were reversed, Roger knows he’d probably be rude too -- the Swiss sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for the silk binding Andy’s hands. It’s padded with what looks like socks but Andy must’ve been pulling at it for a while because the skin around his wrists is rubbed raw, viciously red.
“These’ll be bruised tomorrow,” Roger says, flat calm like ice in his tone and there’re ways to be rude without needing insults. Idiot, his tone implies and he knows Andy gets the point, the hand he’s trying to untie clenching into a fist. “How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. An hour maybe.” Andy closes his eyes, head tilting back against the pillows but not relaxed, tension almost humming through the skin brushing Roger’s hands as he works at the knots. They’re hard to loosen, tied by someone who knew what they were doing and probably tightened more by Andy’s struggling. “Your girlfriend has a sick sense of humour.”
“You were meant to be my surprise for winning.” Roger can’t help a hint of amusement creeping into the words but the beginnings of a smile fade with a glance down at Andy. The American has his eyes screwed tight shut, biting his lip and it’s an expression filled with humiliation. Roger knows that if he laughs, Andy will probably never speak to him again, not that Roger would blame him. No doubt Mirka thought both he and Andy would be getting a good time out of this but, sitting beside a tense, miserable American, Roger thinks they’ll be lucky to come out of it still friends.
“I know I was.” A slit of hazel glimmers at him through dark lashes, Andy looking at him briefly then turning his head away. “Though from the look on your face when you walked in, I guess I was kind of a disappointment.”
Shock, a numbing rush of it, makes Roger pause in tugging at the knots. “What?!”
“You looked like you’d rather run all the way back to Switzerland than come over here when you saw me.” Andy smiles but only, Roger suspects from the strain to it, because it’s that or cry and even tied naked to a bed the American is still clinging to a semblance of dignity. The wrist under Roger’s hands jerks, the silk loose enough now to slide free and Andy turns his back to the Swiss as he reaches over to untie his other hand. “Not that I mind. You could’ve walked over here and fucked me instead, which I think was the general idea.”
Silence, Roger struggling to sort through his confusion as he watches Andy tug helplessly at the knotted silk. There’d been bitterness in the American’s voice but relief too, just enough to make Roger go cold at the thought of what he might’ve done if he’d assumed the American, stretched out naked and tempting, was offering a willing invitation. He doesn’t even know if Andy’s gay -- though past evidence would seem to suggest not, or at least not exclusively. But he knows too, without a trace of doubt, that Mirka wouldn’t have set Andy up like this if she didn’t think the American would enjoy it.
“Andy?” he asks cautiously. “Was it just Mirka and Mardy who did this?”
Andy gives up on the bound wrist, letting himself hang by it as he rests his head against his arm. His back is still to Roger and the Swiss can’t see his expression, can’t even guess it because Andy’s tone is flat, giving nothing away. “No. Mardy got me up here but Robby and James jumped me as I walked in. Mirka wasn’t even here. Mardy told me it was her plan as they were tying me up.”
“Why would they do this if you didn’t want it?” Roger reaches out to touch Andy’s shoulder but pauses an inch away, suddenly uncertain how the American will react. “Aren’t they your friends?”
“They’re assholes,” Andy says and his voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s bitter, the hint of a snarl to the insult. “Thinking they’re cheering me up. I should’ve just gone home.”
Roger frowns. “You need to be cheered up?”
It’s going too far. Andy makes a sound of frustration, hissed through clenched teeth as he sits up and attacks the knots again. “Roger, just forget it.” The still-tied wrist is jerked hard, Andy’s bitten nails scrabbling uselessly at the silk. “Stupid fucking Mardy and his fucking knots—“
“Hey!” Roger leans over to grab Andy’s arm just below the vivid bracelet of red skin, alarm and concern making him ignore the tension that runs through the American at their sudden closeness. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I don’t care.” Andy pulls harder at his wrist and his voice is cracking now, trembling over the words in a way that Roger knows has to hurt the American more than the bruises on his skin. “I want it off, Roger, please-“
It’s the please that does it, one tiny word that says Andy’s abandoned dignity in favour of a quick escape, tearing into Roger with a knife-edge of shock because he’s never heard the American beg before. Didn’t think Andy’s pride would let him even consider it and the desperate need to stop Andy sounding like that drives a flash of inspiration. Reaching back to the bedside table, he finds Mirka’s manicure set and frees the scissors without looking, other hand still locked around Andy’s arm. It takes a long few seconds to cut the silk with the tiny nail scissors, polished metal slicing through it with soft tearing sounds and Andy rips the last inch with a sharp tug.
“Andy, wait.” Roger gets the scissors out the way in a hurry, dropping them to free both his hands to hold onto the American before he can move. Andy’s sitting with his head bowed, sweat beaded along the curve of his neck and he’d run if his feet were free, Roger can tell from the tense, bunched muscles under his hands. “Calm down and let me get your feet undone. Then we’ll talk, okay?”
“Stop talking to me like I’m stupid.” Andy shrugs Roger’s hands from his shoulders, finding the scissors Roger dropped by leaning his elbow on them. His flinch has the Swiss opening his mouth to apologise but Andy’s already picked them up and is shuffling down the bed to reach his bound ankles. “Clearly this has all been a horrible mistake and I’ll go away and we’ll never speak of it again, alright?”
“No.” Roger watches Andy saw at the ties around his ankles and wonders how he was meant to get a night of hot sex as a reward, but ended up with a humiliated, desperate American trying to escape instead. “I’m sorry you were tied up because of me Andy but why didn’t you just tell them you weren’t happy about it? They would’ve let you go.”
“They said it was for my own good.” The sawing motions take on an angry jerkiness, Andy attacking the silk as if it was its fault he’d been tied to the bed. “Said I needed something to wake me up. Said I was sulking— shit.”
“What?!” Roger’s down the bed in an instant, lifting Andy’s hand from his ankle for a better look. It’s barely a scratch but blood is welling up, smearing under Andy’s fingers and making it look worse than it is. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid.”
“It’s not that big,” Andy protests then hesitates, peering closely at the tiny cut. “Though knowing my luck this month, it’ll get infected and my foot’ll drop off,”
Roger blinks, thinking for a second the American is serious -– until he catches the flashed glance of hazel eyes, a smile hovering uncertainly at the corners of Andy’s mouth and he surprises himself by laughing. Andy doesn’t quite make it that far but his smile steadies and the tension in the air is gone, as if the American hadn’t been close to tears just seconds before.
“I doubt even your luck could be that bad,” Roger says teasingly when he catches his breath, watching Andy cut the last piece of silk. “You should put something on it though you know. Just in case.”
“Yeah.” Andy’s reaching out as Roger starts to get up to fetch a Band-Aid, fingers closing lightly on the Swiss’s shoulder and holding him still. “Rog, I-“
“What?” Roger prompts softly when the American pauses. Andy shakes his head, teeth sunk into his lip that’s still red from the tape.
“Thanks, I guess. For not laughing at me.”
“My pleasure. It’s not every day I walk in to gorgeous, naked men tied to my bed.” Meant as a joke, mostly, but Roger hears the catch in Andy’s breath and looks hastily up, wanting to keep the relaxed atmosphere now they’ve got it. “I’m sorry, that-“
Andy’s looking at him, face only inches – less maybe, Roger’s suddenly a little dizzy, unable to judge -- away from Roger’s and making it a kiss would be easier than not at this point, forward less effort than back. Roger can almost taste it and there’s an echo of his thoughts in Andy’s eyes, lip caught between the American’s teeth in indecision and they want it, want the sex that would be the inevitable result. For a fraction of a second that’s all it needs, just Roger to lean in and it’s his.
And it wouldn’t be right, not when he’s still thinking of Andy’s desperation of only a minute ago. He couldn’t do it without being sure Andy wanted it, really wanted it and wasn’t just pretending, which the American’s hesitation suggests it would be. Regret is sharp, bitter because he might never have the chance again but Roger still sits back, putting a safe distance between them. Andy’s quick smile could be relieved, though for the space or for having had the decision made for him, Roger isn’t sure.
“I’ll get you some clothes, so you can go back to your room,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands because it’s better than seeing anything like relief on Andy’s face. There’s a laugh from the American, short and amused.
“Clothes would be nice, since Mardy took mine, but you’d have to wait a while to get them back. Only room I’ve got is in Texas.”
Startled, Roger looks up. Andy’s smiling at him, a little amused, a little uncertain. “You don’t have a room here?”
“I checked out. Only came back for a sponsor thing, so I thought I’d be home by tonight.” Andy shrugs. “No big deal. I’ll courier your stuff back to you soon as I get back home, if that’s okay.”
“What, you’re planning on finding a flight now?” Roger realises his mistake as the American shakes his head, a hint of a smirk to his smile. “You’re going to drive? That’s crazy, it’s-“ He glances at his watch. “It’s almost midnight Andy. I’m not letting you drive halfway across the country.”
“And I missed the part of the conversation where I said you were allowed to stop me.” Andy’s smirking for real this time, hands casually resting in his lap to cover himself and Roger hadn’t realised he’d been sneaking glances before now, blushing as he wonders if the American noticed. “What’re you going to do, withhold clothes?” A fraction of a second where the smirk doesn’t waver then it abruptly vanishes at Roger’s answering smile. “Fuck, you would, wouldn’t you? Bastard.”
“So,” Roger says cheerfully, without making any move towards the wardrobe to find Andy some clothes. “Will you be getting a room or do you want to sleep on the couch? It’s very comfortable.”
“You can’t do-“ A hesitation, Andy thinking it through and realising that it’s Roger’s room, Roger’s clothes he’s trying to borrow and the Swiss absolutely can withhold them to get his way. “You’re evil Roger. Pure evil.” Another hesitation. “…But, since you’ve offered, I guess I’ll take the couch.”
“Good.” Hard not to sound smug about his victory but Roger’s had a lot of practice at keeping the smug level down. Getting up, he crosses the room to the wardrobe but wonders when he gets there if his clothes will actually fit Andy. They’re about the same height but Andy’s built heavier, solid muscle from the shoulders down and Roger suspects his clothes will be too tight. Not that he can admit defeat after having won the argument, so he digs out his favourite pair of sweatpants, loose enough on him to hang precariously over his hips and to prompt Mirka into threatening to throw them away, along with a t-shirt that Nike sent him months ago by accident, big enough to hang like a tent on him but probably no more than comfortably loose on Andy. He turns, clothes folded neatly in his arms -– and is met by an empty bed with only scraps of silk scattered across it.
“Andy?” he calls, hoping the American hasn’t left. Though he thinks even Andy might hesitate before running naked through the hallways of the Four Seasons.
“Through here,” Andy answers from the main room and, telling himself that it’s not relief that’s letting him breathe again, Roger walks through to find Andy, wearing the hotel’s complimentary white bathrobe and perched on the arm of the couch, staring at the US Open trophy on the coffee table.
“That’s last year’s,” he comments after a silence just long enough for Roger to remember that he’s just won the tournament everyone on tour still thinks of as ‘Andy’s’ -- even though none of them say it, it’s there, beneath everything anyone says, everything they think -- and that the last thing Andy probably wants is a glaring reminder of it. Too late now though; he hesitates in the doorway, clothes forgotten in his arms.
“They needed to engrave the new one.” A quiet answer, trying to keep his tone as neutral as he can. “I’m getting it back tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Andy leans back, folding his arms across his chest and the part of Roger that isn’t totally focused on not making Andy feel worse wonders -– a little sadly -– if he washed the chocolate sauce off. “Jesus, feels like a lifetime ago.”
“It was only a few years Andy.” Roger risks walking over to sit in the armchair beside the couch, perched uncomfortably on the very edge of the seat. “You’ll win it again.”
“What, if you break your leg right before and can’t play?” It’s joking, not at all bitter but maybe a little wistful. “Besides, I proved how good I am this year. In case you didn’t notice, even the crowd thought I sucked.”
“Everyone loses,” Roger says quietly, because it’s true and he’s not sure what else to say, not for something like this. No one had even considered that Andy would lose in the first round; the whole tournament had changed, without him there. At least, for Roger it had and that’s something he hasn’t thought about too closely because there’s been no time in the last two weeks, the shock at knowing he wouldn’t face Andy in the final taking backseat to the need to keep winning for himself. “There’s next year.”
Andy laughs and it’s almost normal, barely an edge of forcedness to it. “Yeah, right. If you’re not there or…” He pauses thoughtfully. “Actually there is no or. It’s pretty much you’re here, you win.”
“Don’t.” It comes out sharp, uncomfortable, Andy looking at him in surprise. “I’ve been trying not to think like that for two weeks so please just… don’t. I can lose, same as anyone else.”
“Not quite,” Andy replies but shakes his head to stop Roger answering. “Fine, you can lose, whatever you say. Though when they crown you the god of tennis, I get to say I told you so.”
Shifting uncomfortably on his chair, blushing because praise from Andy even in the form of a joke isn’t given lightly, Roger nods. He wants to ask, can feel the question burning a hole in his tongue and he knows Andy’s waiting because the American is watching him with an air of patience. Tired of searching for the tactful way to say each word, wanting to know, Roger decides he’s got nothing to lose and asks.
“Is that why you were sulking? Because you’d lost?”
“Well it was kind of a big thing for me you know, humiliating myself on my birthday like that.” It’s a non-answer, Andy drawling the words into sarcasm. “What about you? You’ve won a million dollars, a shiny trophy and a new car. Don’t you think wanting me tied to your bed too is asking a little much?”
“I didn’t ask,” Roger points out. “And I untied you.”
“I noticed. Guess I suck as a prize huh?” A quick smile, self-deprecating and nothing like happy. “Look Roger… I appreciate the offer of the couch but maybe I should go see if they have a spare room. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“You aren’t. I think Mirka won’t be back for a while, if at all before tomorrow and I’d rather you were here where I can see that you’re not driving to Texas.” Roger returns Andy’s glare with a smile. “Besides, it’s not like I can kick you out. Mirka went to a lot of trouble to get you here for me so the least I can do is let you stay.”
“She did go to a lot of trouble.” Andy frowns and the undercurrent of bitterness is gone from with the subject change, tone thoughtful, confused, maybe slightly teasing. “Now why would she do that?”
Because Roger wants the American and she knows it. Because she knows too that he’d never ask her to let him have Andy so this was her way of giving him what he wanted and making it okay, because it was a prize for winning. And maybe because she’d wanted to freak Roger out a little, just for fun. Mirka’s always liked to keep life interesting. Roger couldn’t say which it was, though it was probably a mix of all three and he’s trying to guess Mirka’s reasons that it takes him almost a minute to realise that he’s been staring blankly at Andy for far too long.
“Roger?” Andy raises an eyebrow, smile growing at the Swiss’s blush. He shifts on the arm of the couch, robe loose enough for Roger to catch a glimpse of what’s underneath. “Why would your girlfriend think you wanted me as a prize?”
“Because…” Barely breathed, Roger’s voice suddenly gone and he’s transfixed by the flashes of bare skin from Andy’s constant shifting. “Because I told her I did.”
“Huh.” Andy seems to consider the answer for a moment, sliding off the couch in a way that makes his intentions clear, white cotton falling open in all the right places. “I guess that would make it kind of obvious.”
“Y-yeah.” Roger swallows and in the space of a blink Andy’s there, sitting across his thighs, all a blur of white robe and gold skin this close. With both hands braced against the back of the chair the American leans in and they’re too close to pretend this is still casual, even if that hadn’t ceased to be an option the moment Roger walked in to find a naked Andy on his bed.
“So.” Drawn out, Andy’s lips twitching against a clear urge to smile and Roger’s struggling to equate this new, teasing Andy with the desperately miserable one of minutes ago, because it’s as if he looked away for barely a minute and found someone entirely different when he turned back around. Andy’s mouth touches his in a soft kiss, almost making him forget to worry -– and then gentle hands encircle his wrists, pinning them to the chair and he gets it, knowing exactly what’s changed. Andy must feel him go tense, because he leans back with narrowed eyes and a contemplative look. “What?”
“I figured you out.” Keeping his voice soft, letting himself be held down because it doesn’t bother him so much, not like this but he knows it bothered Andy, being tied down and helpless. “Why you want this now, when you were ready to run out of here a minute ago.”
A pause, filled with silence. Andy is simply looking at him, thoughtful expression unchanging. Roger shifts, from the weight of the stare rather than because he wants to move but his wrists are instantly released.
“Maybe I changed my mind,” Andy whispers. He leans back further and the distance between them now could be the length of a tennis court, longer, even though he’s still effectively sitting in Roger’s lap. Roger wants to reach out but knows it’ll be brushed off or worse, make Andy move away. “It’s not a crime.”
Defensive, close to a protest. If he’s not careful, Roger could drive the American away completely and that’s the last thing he wants, especially when he’s already half-hard in his jeans from Andy simply being so close. He still wants this; they can have this, on equal terms, if he doesn’t say something stupid to ruin it.
A tiny voice at the back of his mind whines that he won his prize already, and having to fight for it isn’t fair. Roger squashes it.
“Did Mardy know?” he asks. Soft, keeping his tone as neutral as he can so Andy can’t take offence at imagined pity. “That you don’t like not being in control?”
“What?” Andy’s startled into a flinch, nails scrabbling at smooth leather for a grip as the movement overbalances him backwards. Roger catches the flailing hands to steady him only for Andy to furiously wrench them free the moment he’s upright again. “Fuck you Roger! You don’t know what I like or what-“
“Hey.” Roger holds up his hands, calming or defensive or to show he’s got no intention of holding onto Andy, anything to stop the American glaring at him. And to stop Andy running for the door, because he’s on the very edge of it, if his tension is anything to judge by. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to know, because I was going to break his wrist for him again if he did.” He makes himself relax into the chair a little, because it’s hard to sound calm when he’s wound tight enough for Andy to feel him trembling. “They shouldn’t have tied you up but especially not if they knew.”
A moment more of tense silence, Andy looking torn between relaxing and anger, staying or leaving. Staying wins; he relaxes back down from his poised-to-run stance, weight heavy across Roger’s thighs as he breathes out a long sigh.
“No, he didn’t know.” A flashed smile, part forced amusement and part exasperation that doesn’t seem to be directed at Roger. “Though he’s doing a good job of messing his wrist up all on his own, so you might’ve wanted to break an ankle or something instead.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Roger murmurs, smiling but Andy doesn’t return it, if he even sees it because his stare has fixed at a point around Roger’s chest with the strained, wide-eyed look that he gets while trying not to cry after losing a match. “Andy?”
“Why’re you so nice?” Andy demands abruptly, shades of despair and frustration colouring the almost-accusation. His stare flicks up, meets Roger’s eyes and he’s desperate, looking searchingly at the Swiss as if to find answers. “You’ve just won the US Open but you’re not celebrating, you’re sitting here trying to talk to a dumb American who lost in the first round and can’t even stop his friends tying him to a bed. You untied me instead of fucking me and yeah, no words for how grateful I am that you did but I was supposed to be your reward for winning right? So why’d you even stop to think I might not be okay with it?”
“Because I couldn’t have had sex with you tied up like that,” Roger answers honestly and has to pause, suddenly confused. He wouldn’t have touched Andy tied up and gagged, at least not without taking the tape off first and Mirka knows him to well enough not to have thought he would. Now he thinks it through, she can’t have thought he’d enjoy sex with Andy like that. She’d know that the first thing he’d do would be to take the tape off and that once Andy could talk, he’d say he wanted to be let go.
Though Andy had said she wasn’t there, so maybe Mardy… but Roger knows Mirka almost better than he knows himself. If there was the slightest doubt in her mind that Andy wouldn’t want this, then she wouldn’t have gone so far as to approach Mardy at all.
“You wouldn’t because you’re nice,” Andy mumbles, jerking Roger out of his thoughts abruptly. “I guess I should be glad that Andre didn’t win. Or Lleyton.” A shudder accompanies the look of genuine horror that crosses Andy’s face. “Jesus, I don’t even want to think about it.”
“But Mardy’s your friend.” Brief shock, Roger staring at Andy in disbelief because Mardy’s always seemed sweet when they’ve talked, not the type to do something so… Roger searches for a word and can’t find one, settles on asking a question instead. “Why would he do it if he knew you wouldn’t want it?”
“But I do want it.” It’s said in passing, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Andy only hesitates when Roger looks confused. “With you I mean. Not with Andre because that would be all things weird, and not with Lleyton because we’d be more likely to kill each other than have sex. But you’re nice--”
“So you keep saying.”
“--and Mardy knows I think you’re nice.” Andy shrugs. “He’s my friend Roger, not to mention being about as far from sadistic as anyone can get. He did this because he thought it’d make me happy to have sex with you and that me being happy would stop me crying all over him every time something reminds me I lost.”
‘Two weeks,’ Roger thinks, surprised and a little confused, ‘two weeks and he’s still upset.’ The part of him that’s been winning for too long almost dismisses it, an overreaction to just one loss, but a bigger part -- the one that remembers losing in Australia, France, to an eighteen year old he’d hardly heard of –- that part can understand. Andy’s been having, not a bad year as such, but nowhere near good. He’d needed this, something to wipe the slate clean and in Andy’s mind, he’d screwed it up, that was it, Andy Roddick a proven failure. Roger’s starting to think Mardy may have agreed this out of sheer desperation, not knowing what else to do.
“This one really hurt, huh?” he says softly. He wants to make Andy talk more than needing to hear his answer but Andy’s smile locks in place and Roger knows it won’t be that easy.
“Yeah but, you know. Everyone loses.”
Roger winces, his own words thrown back at him with an edge of sarcastic humour. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re right, of course you are. Everyone does lose.” Andy’s warmth and weight is suddenly gone from Roger’s legs, the American snagging the forgotten clothes from the Swiss’s lap. “Some more than others, but such is life. Am I still okay to sleep on the couch?”
Hardly the neatest subject change in the world and Roger frowns, watching him disappear into the bathroom. “Yes but—“
“It comes with a ‘but’?” Andy pokes his head around the bathroom door. “But you snore? But I have to promise not to raid the mini-bar?”
“No but—“
“And another one.” Andy’s head disappears back into the bathroom again. “I never thought you’d be so hard to live with Rog,” he calls. “Let me guess, if I drool on the couch I have to replace it right?”
“Andy, for godssake.” Roger’s off his chair and stalking across the room, only his common sense checking him at the door. Walking in on a naked Andy – again -- would probably do nothing to help either of them at this point. “Will you just talk to me?”
“About what? Losing?” Andy brushes past him before Roger can move and by the time he’s turned, the American is back across the room on the couch. “Sorry Rog but I hardly think you’re an expert on the subject. Mardy had a nice little plan going but it didn’t work and I’ll be back sulking at home by tomorrow. “
Roger looks at him unflinching, holding the hazel eyes until Andy has to look away. The American suits the t-shirt and sweatpants better than the robe, looking more relaxed though Roger thinks it’s probably just acting because Andy’s hands are locked together in his lap, knuckles white and there’s a stubborn hunch to his shoulders that suggests he’ll argue all night. Roger knows he’s not going to get anywhere no matter how he pushes the issue.
Fine, so he’ll stop pushing. Andy’s probably been coddled and sympathised with for two weeks, for all the good it’s done, but Roger would bet his new Lexus that no one’s simply ignored him.
“Guess I’ll go to bed then, since I can’t change your mind,” he says with exaggerated cheerfulness. He catches Andy’s startled look out the corner of his eyes as he crosses the room but doesn’t let himself return it or let his smile show he’d noticed. “Been a long day you know? There’re extra pillows and sheets in the closet by the door if you need them. See you in the morning.”