clo (clo) wrote in clofic, @ 2008-06-28 04:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | andy roddick, andy roddick/roger federer, pg, roger federer, series, verse:pcti |
Series: Intent (verse:Pretty Close to Invincible, PG, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer)
Title: Intent (Pretty Close to Invincible series 6/10)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Roddick/Federer
Summary: Andy watches Roger play and reflects on his style.
Notes: Part 6 of the Pretty Close to Invincible series, taking place after Closer Than This. Set during the Federer vs. Santoro match on Thursday at the 2004 ATP Masters Series in Toronto.
Disclaimer: Not mine, for which they are probably eternally grateful. Never happened. Own themselves. Don’t sue. Does that cover everything?
“You know, the thing with Roger is that he just makes it look so easy.” – Andy Roddick, post-Wimbledon final
Intent
Andy settled into his seat, keeping his head down so the brim of his hat hid his face. He’d chosen a seat towards the back and in a relatively empty area so no one was close enough to get a good look at him but it didn’t make him less nervous about being recognised. This was a crazy idea. A stupid idea. Something he could only have thought of at three in the morning, jerking awake from dreams of slender hands and warm lips that left him hard and soaked in sweat. He’d had to make excuses to his friends, his support team and his coach to be here; he’d had to dress very carefully so as not to be recognised and he’d had to make a huge inner effort to justify the trip to himself; eventually settling on the somewhat flimsy excuse of checking out the competition. He was exhausted from lies, from two nights of bad sleep and from the sheer stress of the week.
So he shoved his anxiety to one side, slid further down in the hard plastic chair and watched Roger play.
It was two games all and Andy was interested to see Santoro holding his own against the Swiss. Roger showed no sign of annoyance as he threw the ball up to serve and Andy’s grip tightened convulsively on the arms of his chair for the brief instant when the Swiss leapt gracefully into the swing. Every movement; every breath was controlled, powerful; the mental image of a flushed and sweating Roger reflected in a mirror that flashed through Andy’s mind was so at odds with the calm player out on court that briefly he wondered how they could even be the same person. He ached to slam Roger against the nearest wall and see just how long it took him to shatter that calm.
Andy did love a challenge. Knowing the possible rewards of this one made it all the more tempting.
Coming back is not an option Roger. His own words, harsh and angry echoed through his mind but he couldn’t make himself believe them. Roger being the one to end it had hurt his pride, but Andy knew it wasn’t just a bruised ego that had forced him out here to watch the Swiss. He wasn’t sure exactly what had forced him to go to all this effort just to watch a man who’d made it quite clear he wanted nothing more to do with Andy but he some very worrying suspicions. Worrying because they’d make his life very uncomfortable if they were true. Worrying because he’d pretty much burnt his bridges as far as Roger was concerned the other night.
Worrying because how the hell was he supposed to play against someone he was in love with?
He’d done his best to change his own mind. He’d gone through enough whiskey Tuesday night that the hangover he woke up with yesterday morning had been truly painful and had made his match against Benneteau interesting to say the least. Last night he’d gone through most of the post-match interviews surreptitiously trying to hide his hard on after the encounter on the stairs; he’d spent twenty minutes in a freezing shower when he finally got back to the hotel. For the last two days, with the notable exception of last night, he’d avoided Roger. The Swiss entered a room, Andy left it; someone brought Roger up and Andy changed the topic. He’d raised a few eyebrows and Mardy had given him a few searching looks that begged to know what was going on but Andy had brushed him off. He wasn’t in love with Roger. He wouldn’t let himself be.
But last night, his arms full of warm, tired Swiss it had been that much harder to believe that. When Roger, tired and upset Roger had leaned against him on the stairs, holding onto Andy as if he’d fall if he let go, Andy had held on back, automatically, instinctively, naturally. Roger had looked lost and a little forlorn sitting by himself on the stairs and Andy’s somewhat unnerving first impulse had been to hug him till he felt better.
Which was insane considering they’d agreed – or rather Roger had said stop and Andy had stormed away – to call it off.
Not that his current record held any gold stars for sanity but still…
But Roger didn’t want him; that much the Swiss had made clear on Tuesday and no brief hug could change that. Andy just didn’t know if he could be around the Swiss and not touch, not when he remembered them both reflected in a mirror, half naked and rocking togeth- He bit his lip sharply to cut that train of thought short and slid further down in his seat, adjusting his sunglasses. Thank god he’d sat in an empty patch of seats and no one was close enough to hear his breathing speed up when naked Roger refused to get out his head. He bit his lip harder and tried to concentrate on Roger’s style out on court. In a purely checking out the competition way of course…
…Though not checking out as in ‘checking out’; I just meant- Andy shut his eyes and mentally snarled at himself. Oh shut up Roddick. You’re not fooling anyone.
No one could watch Roger play and not appreciate it though, Andy had to admit that. The Swiss played tennis like breathing; hit backhands like he was dancing and the ball simply happened to coincide with his racquet. Andy watched the tanned legs stretch, admired the flash of tawny skin as Roger leapt for a shot and inwardly shivered with envy. Deep down where no one would ever find it, he knew he could never play tennis like that. He didn’t think anyone but Roger could play tennis like that. The Swiss was practically inhuman, some sort of stunningly beautiful alien or maybe- Andy lost the rest of his thought as Roger hit a particularly spectacular shot, jumping up to applaud with the rest of the crowd. For the briefest second Roger glanced towards him and Andy flinched but the dark gaze flickered past without a pause. Roger hadn’t recognised him or hadn’t seen him all the way at the top of the stands. Andy relaxed with a deep breath and sank back into his seat, fighting down the shivery thrill that always ran through him when those dark eyes looked his way.
He loved the intent behind Roger’s stare; loved the sense of power and confidence the Swiss could load into a simple glance. Roger radiated quiet self confidence and assurance; Andy could count the times he’d seen the Swiss uncertain or confused on one hand. Out on court Roger made decisions and went with them; it helped that they were usually the right ones but Andy knew as well as anyone the sinking feeling mid-shot, when you realised that your racquet wasn’t quite going to make it, when you were two steps the wrong way and your opponent was smirking at you across the net before you’d even started to lunge forward in a desperate attempt to rectify your mistake. Roger never seemed to doubt he was going the right way; every step, every movement seemed planned with natural, effortless precision and if doubt was a tangible thing then Andy would’ve bet money on Roger having had his removed when he was a child. The Swiss made his choice and he went with it, for better or worse, regardless of right or – more rarely – wrong.
Just like he had with Andy. He decided to end it and he had.
And it still really fucking hurt.
Andy watched Santoro scramble to win a point. The Frenchman was holding his own but everyone knew there was only ever going to be one outcome. That was Roger’s magic. Even when he was losing, it still seemed like winning. Closing his eyes, Andy let himself imagine that it was happening differently, that Santoro was sets ahead and tonight Roger would be flying home, safely out of Andy’s way. It was a hollow fantasy. If Roger wasn’t there Andy knew he’d feel it, knew he’d probably go crazy. Not being able to touch the Swiss was bad enough but, as reluctant as he was to admit it, Andy knew not seeing him at all would be worse. Which led again to the admission he’d been trying to avoid for the last two days.
He was in love with Roger Federer. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
“Fuck,” Andy muttered, drawing a few glances from the people closest to him. This wasn’t how his life was supposed to go. He was supposed to have fantastic, passionate sex with beautiful women for the duration of his career before settling down with a sweet and intelligent blond who just happened to be a model. Or an actress, he wasn’t picky, though after Mandy he was wary of very famous girlfriends. It attracted double the media attention and that was the last thing he wanted in his retirement. He’d settle down, have some beautiful kids and teach them to play tennis in Texas, working for charity in his spare time and maybe doing the odd commentary or interview. He’d planned it all out with Mardy over too much whiskey a few years ago, just after they’d come to the mutual decision that they weren’t destined to be a couple and Mardy had laughed, telling Andy that one day he’d meet the right guy and all the careful plans would be tossed aside. Andy hadn’t believed him.
Damn Mardy for always being right. Andy watched Roger step up to take match point and reflected that his best friend knew him better than he knew himself. He’d give it all up if Roger asked; the beautiful wife, the kids, the peaceful retirement into obscurity. It didn’t matter if nothing he’d intended happened, not if he could wake up every day beside Roger, or hell, he’d settle for just a couple of days a week right now. Andy surprised himself with how much he meant the thought. Roger was worth throwing his life into chaos for. He’d do it without a second thought if the Swiss so much as asked.
Which he never would. Roger had made that perfectly clear. Andy got to his feet and headed towards the exit, knowing Roger would win the point without having to watch. Not wanting to watch, if watching was as close as he’d get. Slamming through the door, he heard the crowd behind him erupt into cheers and knew the Swiss had won, of course he had. He couldn’t decide whether that made him happy or furious, perfect Roger strolling to another victory without even thinking about it while Andy fought with his feelings from the sidelines. Perfect Roger, able to turn around and do the right thing, stop the relationship before it ruined everything.
Perfect Roger, who probably hadn’t meant to make Andy fall in love with him but had done it anyway and what was that saying about the road to hell being paved with good intentions? Andy smiled bitterly to himself as he swung into his car, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He’d never intended to fall in love, but he had.
And all he could do now was sit back and hope Roger, for once, would change his mind.
~ Fin ~