Series: Play Suspended (verse:Pretty Close to Invincible, NC-17, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Play Suspended (The Pretty Close to Invincible series 1/9) Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Roddick/Federer Summary: Frustration and tension are wearing down on the two top seeds during the 2004 Wimbledon final. (Set during the first rain break in the first set.) Notes: This fic - well not exactly this fic, I rewrote the entire thing because it showed just how bad my tennis knowledge was at the time - was the very first tennis slash fic I wrote, begun halfway through the 2004 Wimbledon final it's centered around. I remember having to check the scoreboard to see how you spelt 'Federer' and if 'Roddick' had two d's or one. Disclaimer: Own nothing, no one and this never happened - as far as I know both Andy and Roger were innocently occupied with other things during that first rain break. This is just me having fun with what could have happened.
“You know, I proved that Roger's not quite invincible. You know, he's pretty close (smiling).” – Andy Roddick, post-Wimbledon 2004 final.
Play Suspended
To say Wimbledon was a nice place would be an understatement. The locker rooms gleamed with polished wood and tile; the bathrooms were glittering rooms filled with golden taps and mirrors illuminated by tiny lights, the creamy marble floors covered with rugs, no doubt custom designed by some top fashion guru. Even in a world often filled with luxury, Wimbledon stood out. No expense had been spared on catering to even the players’ smallest whim. It was historic. It was special.
“It’s like being locked in a fucking golden box,” Andy Roddick snarled to himself as he stalked into the player bathrooms. His tennis bag was hurled into the corner, swiftly followed by his hat and his rain-damp shirt as he stalked over to the sinks and turned the tap on full blast. Freezing water sprayed across the marble counter but he ignored it as he bent down and plunged his head under the tap. When he emerged cold and dripping a few seconds later the urge to break things or to go scream at some officials to vent his frustration had subsided a little, cooling from hot fury to a simmering annoyance. Flicking back his hair he rubbed a hand across his face and stared at himself in the mirror.
“Fucking British weather,” he told his reflection angrily. “Haven’t they ever heard of fucking roofs?!”
His reflection didn’t have an answer and he turned away, shaking his head hard enough to scatter water around the room. Stepping over the puddle his abuse of the tap had left on the marble he started to pace up and down in a helpless attempt to burn off some nervous energy, running a hand through his soaked hair.
He could do this. He was doing this. Plan A of beating Roger into the ground with sheer power was working, better than he’d hoped for which was fantastic because he’d never got as far as a Plan B. All he had to do was keep it up and at the end of the match he’d be the one finally grasping the golden trophy and graciously complimenting Roger on a ‘good match.’ He wanted it, wanted it so badly it hurt; getting to hold that trophy, Roger’s dark eyes on him as he lifted it above his head for the cameras and the crowd. Roger had already had a good year and for the first time Andy felt like he knew how to beat the Swiss, knew it and could do it. He couldn’t let the man beat him again. It wouldn’t be fair.
“You okay?”
Andy almost leapt out his skin with a yell, tangling his feet as he turned and almost falling. He caught sight of Roger’s anxious expression before he put out a hand to catch himself, leaning on the wall for support. The Swiss hesitated a few steps away, the hand he’d reached out to help still hovering uncertainly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“
“Don’t worry about it.” Andy attempted a smile, knowing it came out crooked. Roger still looked worried so he took a deep breath to steady himself before smiling more confidently. “Honestly. I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.”
Roger seemed to realize his hand was still outstretched and let it drop to his side. “Ok. Sorry.”
Was it a European thing, the excessive politeness? No it couldn’t be, because Andy had encountered as many rude Europeans as Americans throughout his career. It must be just Roger and that irritated Andy even more, that one man could be so talented and yet so modest and plain nice at the same time. It wasn’t like Safin’s temper, when you could have a screaming argument then be best friends with each other two minutes later, or Henman’s tendency to play practical jokes until you would cheerfully have pushed him under one of those red buses Londoners seemed so fond of – there was no way to get openly angry at Roger without seeming arrogant and stupid. Andy hated it. He’d screamed insults at half the guys and umpires on tour at one point or another but Roger just never gave him a good reason, or even a vague hint of one. The guy was nice. That was all there was to it.
It wasn’t fucking fair.
“English weather eh?” Roger remarked in a friendly tone, turning to the sinks. Andy dragged his mind away from how much the Swiss annoyed him and nodded silently, leaning back against the wall. He wanted to pace again but he’d have died before he let Roger see how wound up he was. He’d have to wait for the Swiss to leave. It was infuriating to see how calm Roger was, even when he was being beaten; Andy was playing possibly the best tennis of his life out there and Roger barely seemed to notice.
He was starting to sound like a broken record, but it wasn’t fair dammit. Andy gritted his teeth in frustration but Roger seemed oblivious to the American’s tension, freeing his ponytail and running his fingers through his hair. Andy’s eyes followed the movement unwittingly, brushing over the strip of light brown skin the stretch upwards revealed at Roger’s waist. It pulled his shirt tight across his chest, reminding Andy how surprisingly thin Roger was, all bone and muscle under the tennis outfit. It was something else to annoy Andy who had to fight a constant battle to keep his weight down – Roger probably lived on goat’s cheese, or whatever the hell it was they ate in Switzerland. Didn’t the Swiss make chocolate? How could the guy come from a country where they made chocolate and still be so thin?
Without realizing he was staring, Andy’s eyes moved upward, cataloguing each thing that annoyed him about Roger. The slender strength in the Swiss’ arms; the curve of a tanned neck; the neatly tapered fingers running through damp brown curls; everything that was perfect about Roger seemed only to remind Andy that this man was better than him, the favorite to win the match even though Andy was kicking his ass out there. Andy’s gaze flicked to the mirror to catch a glimpse of Roger’s face – and met the Swiss’ dark eyes, watching him right back in the mirror.
“What are you looking for?” Roger asked softly. Andy, thrown off balance at being caught staring, shrugged helplessly.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Your secret. A weakness maybe. If you have one.”
“Everyone has a weakness,” Roger said quietly and something flickered across his eyes momentarily, making Andy blink. It was gone before he had time to pin it down.
“Yeah? Well what’s yours?” he asked jokingly, pushing off the wall towards Roger. That expression was bothering him; it had suggested something, something he couldn’t quite pin down. He wanted to know; mysteries drove him crazy. “Swiss chocolate? Beautiful women? I could always bribe Sharapova to dance naked across the court when we play.” The thought sidetracked Andy momentarily. “Actually that’d probably distract me too. In a good way.”
“No, none of those things. And I think Maria may object to that suggestion.” Roger was smiling as he turned from the sinks, hands still tangled in his hair as he re-tied his ponytail. “If you can’t guess then I can’t-”
Andy saw what was going to happen the split-second before Roger put his foot on the wet patch of marble and was already diving across the room when the Swiss’ feet went from under him. Roger’s hands were too full of hair and bandanna to catch himself; he fell backwards towards the sinks with a cry of surprise. A fraction of a second before he hit unforgiving marble Andy caught him, throwing his arms around Roger’s waist and pulling him away from the sinks and marble counter, ending up hugging the shaking Swiss against him. They stood mutely pressed against each other, shock at the near-disaster rendering them both speechless.
Adrenaline made Andy tremble as he tried to convince his tightly locked hands to let go of Roger, images flashing through his mind of what would’ve happened if he hadn’t reached the Swiss in time, how hard his back would’ve hit the edge of the marble countertop with Roger unable to catch himself. The Swiss’ grip on his waist was tight enough to leave bruises and Andy could hear his rough breathing, Roger gasping for air as he rested his forehead against Andy’s shoulder. It was almost a minute before he loosened his grip with a small laugh that was too cracked to even sound faintly amused.
“Thank you,” he said very quietly, the words muffled against Andy’s shirt. “That could’ve been…”
“Shut up.” Andy couldn’t keep the sharp tone out his voice; he softened it with, “I’m trying not to think about it.” It took some effort but he managed to release his death-grip on the Swiss, wincing as his fingers cramped. His voice was wobbly, even as he tried to sound calm. “If you ever scare me like that again I’ll… I’ll…”
“Be very angry?” Roger suggested, still not looking up from Andy’s shoulder. The American could feel the heat of Roger’s body through their shirts, the Swiss’ damp curls tickling his neck. It was actually kind of comforting, in a-we-just-escaped-career-ending-injury sort of way. Andy was surprised to find he didn’t want to let go of Roger, just yet.
“Yeah. Very, very angry.” Adrenaline was still rushing through him, hot and distracting, preventing him from worrying about the fact that he was hugging his main rival, that they were pressed together like lust-ridden teenagers. Everything he’d just been watching from a distance was abruptly up close and personal; Roger was slender under his hands, muscle rippling under Andy’s touch as he reluctantly started to draw his hands away. It reminded him how soft Roger’s skin looked from a distance; of that fleeting expression in dark eyes and the way Roger’s breath was hot against his skin. It also reminded him that this was another guy he was touching, the world number one no less, and the thought had Andy hurriedly starting to pull away, abruptly aware of how long they’d been stood locked together.
Roger hung on. That simple fact alone was enough to make Andy catch his breath; the fact that moving also made him realize a certain, very interested part of Roger’s body was pressing into his thigh was enough to make him freeze, curiosity warring with shock. It shouldn’t have been a big deal; Andy could recite a list of gay guys ranked in the top hundred as long as his arm; his friend Mardy Fish was one of them. Plus the tension of the matches combined with the adrenaline was enough to confuse anyone’s body. It had happened to him on more than one occasion, resulting in desperate attempts to escape intrusive cameras or fellow players. It wasn’t that Roger was getting turned on by their hug that made him pause, it was that it was Roger getting turned on by it. Up until about ten seconds ago, Andy would’ve sworn the Swiss number one was as straight as it was possible to get.
Apparently he’d have been wrong.
“We should move,” the American pointed out calmly, overriding stringent protests from his body which was enjoying Roger’s closeness. Ninety-nine percent of the time Andy was straight and he knew right now would probably be a very bad time for that leftover one percent to kick in. Roger’s grip didn’t loosen. “Roger the rain can’t go on much longer. They’ll be-“
“They can wait.” There was a rough edge to the Swiss’ voice that made Andy’s breath catch again but a moment later Roger seemed to reconsider, loosening his grip. “Though you’re right. We should…”
“… move,” Andy finished for him, neither of them attempting to do any such thing. Roger turned his face into Andy’s neck, lips moving wetly across skin and Andy shivered.
“Roger,” he said warningly as the Swiss kept kissing his neck. “Roger don’t-“
He couldn’t completely squash the wave of disappointment as Roger lifted his head, dark eyes calmly meeting Andy’s. “I’m sorry. You’re right; we should leave.”
It was the calm that drove him to it. How the Swiss could sound so composed and cool all of a sudden when just seconds ago his lips had been on Andy’s skin – it brought all the earlier frustration and anger rushing back and Andy’s mouth was on Roger’s before he stopped to think, tongue pushing into the Swiss' mouth. Roger started to pull away but Andy snaked an arm back around his waist to hold him there; Roger had started this and he could fucking well stay to see it finished... He didn’t want to follow that thought through to see where this would finish. The problem with such being in such a competitive sport was that once two players got into any competition, even an unspoken one, neither would dream of quitting.
From the feel of Roger grinding their hips together, this was now officially a competition and Andy would be damned if he was the first to back down.
“Still want to leave?” he panted, breaking the kiss and leaning back. Roger glared furiously at him, calm shattered as he hung on to Andy to stay upright. He growled something in Swiss-German that Andy would’ve bet good money on meaning ‘Fuck you Roddick’. Andy just laughed, enjoying his control of the encounter, having finally successfully broken through his opponent’s calm mask.
“If I spoke German, I’d probably be offend-“ He broke off with a strangled gasp as Roger deliberately ran a hand up his inner thigh, sending a thrill of pleasure racing through him. “Jesus. Fuck Roger-“ The hand kept going, only to pause tauntingly several inches from where Andy really wanted it. The American hissed through his teeth.
“I’m quite comfortable where I am thank you,” Roger said politely and the smirk Andy knew so well from on-court was there, tugging at the corners of his mouth. This had definitely moved beyond a simple brushing-against-each-other into full on…
… full on something. It all depended on what happened next.
“I think you should breathe,” Roger murmured helpfully. Andy made a wordless noise that was half agreement, half outrage.
“I’d breathe better if you moved your goddamn haaaand fuck!” Andy threw his head back, eyes shut tight as Roger’s hand moved where he wanted it, calloused skin through cotton and just enough confidence to suggest the Swiss had done this before. Andy groaned through clenched teeth.
“Are we going to do this?” Roger asked as casually as if he was inquiring about a warm-up volley and he hadn’t got his hand half wrapped around Andy’s erection. Andy couldn’t speak, so instead he turned and bent the other man back against the countertop, losing Roger’s touch but pressing their hips together instead. They moaned in unison.
“That would be a yes then,” Roger gasped almost to himself, bucking his hips a little. With a growl Andy held him down, the tiny part of his mind that was still rational reminding him not to leave visible bruises. He caught the Swiss’ wrist as he slid a hand down to where their bodies pressed together.
“I think you’ve done quite enough touching for one day,” he said breathlessly, glaring down into the dark eyes smirking up at him. Christ the man was so fucking calm-
It was the smirk that drove him to it, already well past the point where stepping back and saying no was anything like an option. He reached down with his free hand and slid it up one brown-tanned thigh, hesitating a little at the unfamiliar sensation of thick hair on skin before venturing further up under the shorts. He hadn’t ever done this enough to be completely comfortable with it and it was one thing to see Mardy spread beneath him, familiar and encouraging, and another thing entirely to see Roger, flushed and gasping for breath. The Swiss’ lips parted in a silent plea, eyes screwed shut in shivering pleasure as Andy ran tentative fingertips over straining cotton, hot from body heat, from arousal and sweat. It gave the American a thrill to finally see Roger bent backwards for him, writhing and silently begging to be touched. All thought of girlfriends, of the unlocked door of the room, of the match itself, were long gone. He hooked a finger into the waistband of the Swiss’ shorts and tugged them down.
Roger’s gasp was harsh in the quiet room, his entire body arching back over the countertop in a way that to Andy looked painful. It’d be a fine thing to have saved Roger from breaking his back, only to have him hurt something while Andy fucked him against the sinks. Anxiously the American leaned forward to slide an arm under Roger to give him some support – and accidentally brought their hips together again. They both jerked in surprise and the hard contact had Andy swaying dizzily on his feet, every nerve screaming for more contact, for hot skin touching his. Short nails scrabbled across skin, leaving red scratches as he searched for the top of the tight briefs Roger wore. They stuck to sweaty skin as he peeled them away, pushed them down to free the Swiss’ straining erection. Roger let loose a stream of unintelligible words that sounded like half a dozen languages mixed together and Andy laughed.
“Too much?” he gasped teasingly and in reply, Roger lifted both feet clear off the floor, resting his weight on the counter, to drag the American’s shorts and briefs down with his feet. Momentary surprise at the manoeuvre left Andy motionless and Roger took advantage of it to hook his legs around the American’s waist and pull him in between his spread thighs. Skin-to-skin contact was a sudden shock and Andy felt a flash of panic as he realised how fast this was moving, with no way to stop it. He could of course turn around, walk away, say no even but he knew he wouldn’t. That would be tacitly admitting defeat and he’d be damned if he was going to lose to Roger again.
In an attempt to get a grip on himself, however shaky, Andy tore his eyes away from Roger’s and looked up – only to see them both reflected in the mirror, both naked from the waist down. Roger’s slender thighs wrapped around his hips was even more erotic when he could watch it in the reflection, cocks brushing together as Roger shifted slightly. He fixed the sight in his mind; Roger bent backwards beneath him, one hand pinned against his chest by Andy while the other gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself. Beautiful. Andy rocked his hips forward to see if Roger would gasp and was rewarded with a soft cry from the Swiss, begging wordlessly by bucking his own hips up, rubbing against him.
Knowing that there was no going back now, Andy finally wrapped his hand loosely around Roger’s cock, sliding it almost lazily up and down. Roger breathed something that Andy didn’t catch, not even what language it was in, and rocked his hips harder. Andy felt the slow build of pleasure, hot and liquid, rushing through him as he watched them both moving faster against each other in the mirror. He saw Roger’s head tilt back to follow his gaze, the Swiss flushed with tendrils of hair clinging to his face. He caught the amazed expression that flashed across Roger’s face the instant before he came, arching up off the marble with a choked cry and the shock of release slackening his features into a look Andy'd never seen before, all the Swiss' control lost to the bliss. The tiny part of him that wasn’t teetering on the very edge of his own orgasm had time to feel smug that he’d held on longer; then Roger’s voice gasped his name and the knot of heat coiled where his skin met Roger's exploded outwards, swamping him, until it was all he could do to keep his feet. Half-collapsed across the Swiss and feeling the hot spurt of come against his stomach, his or Roger’s he couldn’t tell and at this point didn’t care, Andy somehow found Roger's mouth with his, for a kiss all wet lips and the scrape of teeth.
"A-Andy-"
"Ssh." Andy gasped it out because he couldn't talk right now, not when he couldn't think or even breathe; he arced his back to keep the contact as long as possible, draw out the orgasm still shaking through him and his eyes met Roger's in the mirror as he tipped his head back. They watched each other silently in the reflection as they rode out the aftershocks, flushed, gleaming sweat and come slicking their skin as they moved against each other. Slower, slower than the frantic grinding of before until Andy made a conscious effort to still the almost-instinctive rock of his hips.
Winding down was almost painful, aching muscles making themselves known, common sense beginning to reassert itself with the brimming up of panic, 'what the hell were we thinking?!' repeating over and over in Andy's head. He pushed the thought away and shuffled a step back with a wince for the parting of skin sticky with come and sweat, steadying himself against the countertop as he helped Roger to sit up, leaning back against the mirror Andy was silently thanking some nameless designer for including. It was a little unnerving how fast it had all happened, how fast he’d… they’d… Andy couldn’t find words to finish the thought. What had they done? Something that would no doubt change everything was the best he could come up with, still dazed and a little confused.
Almost-fucking Roger Federer. That hadn’t been on his to-do list for today. The thought made him smile, just a little though he wouldn’t rule out that being the shock kicking in. “Well,” he said after a silent moment, still breathing hard. “That was… well.”
“Unexpected,” Roger supplied, watching him through half-closed eyes. Andy’s smile widened and he held out a hand to help the other player down from the counter.
“Yeah. Just a little.”
Roger staggered a little as his feet hit the floor, slipping in the pool of come and water they’d left across the marble. Andy hastily caught him, wrapping an arm around Roger’s waist and holding him up. The Swiss glanced down at the floor and the ruin of his shirt. “We’ve made a mess.”
“Great. You practically fuck me in a restroom and worry about the cleaning bills,” Andy tried to joke but it fell flat as Roger glanced him in alarm. “Whoa, sorry. Bad taste.” Over-sensitized skin twitched in protest as their bare thighs brushed. “We should get cleaned up. The rain’ll be….”
Before the words even left his mouth, they heard the speaker in the corner crackle to life. “Play on Centre Court to be resumed in five minutes,” it announced with a British accent. “Andy Roddick and Roger Federer to Centre Court in five minutes.”
“… stopping soon.” Andy finished.
Roger was looking at him again, breath coming easier now though his tone was still worried. “We’re okay? This won’t…”
“I’ll still be willing to kick your ass out there,” Andy hastily reassured him. “And you better be ready to do the same to me. If you go all sentimental on me, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Agreed.” Roger grabbed his hand and shook it. “Now…” Dismay coloured his expression as he glanced down at his soaked shorts and the splatters of come across his t-shirt. “My spare clothes are in the locker room.”
“S’ok. I have spares.” Andy waved a hand at his bag sitting in the corner where he’d tossed it earlier. “Kind of kinky,” he added mischievously as they turned towards the showers. “You wearing my underwear out there.”
Roger pushed him teasingly away. “Don’t count on it to distract me. I’ll still… how do you Americans put it?” His smile turned wicked. “Your ass is mine Roddick.”
“In your dreams Federer!” Andy shot back, but caught the Swiss’ arm at the door to the showers. “I…” Roger was watching him patiently with those calm, dark eyes. “Good luck I guess. With the match.”
“You too.” Roger gripped his hand briefly, reassurance for both of them in the contact. “You won though,” he remarked cryptically after letting go. A frown flashed across Andy’s face before he realised what the Swiss meant.
“I don’t know,” he commented thoughtfully, glancing down at the mess they were both in and back once at the mirror. “I think I’d call it more of a draw.”