"So glad to see you well Overcome and completely silent now Without himself You cast your demons out And not to pull your halo down Around your neck and tug you off your cloud... ...With your halo slipping down Your halo slipping Your halo slipping down... ...to choke you now." - A Perfect Circle, The Noose
I
A stranger looks back at Roger in the mirror.
Not that he doesn’t know himself; it’s not that at all. His eyes are the same brown as always. Hair a little shorter but it’s been that way for a few weeks now and he’s used to it, no longer goes to brush his fingers through non-existent curls. The same quirk to his smile when he forces his mouth into a semblance of one; it’s harder every time though he’d have thought it would be the opposite. Thought practise would slip the mask more easily into place but he was wrong. Familiar features with a stranger looking out from behind them and Roger knows it’s just a mask, a smiling pretend of normal. He acts content for the cameras, answers their questions like he cares but he doesn’t understand anymore; doesn’t understand himself and thinks, maybe, he never will because no one should be able to play tennis like he did today. At least no one human or natural and Roger’s hand shakes as he rubs it through his hair. He’s as familiar with words like superlative and gifted as he is with his own name after a year or more of dealing with adoring press but he’s never heard the hissed whispers he’s heard today before, hushed voices as if it isn’t something to be spoken out loud.
Unnatural. Spooky. Freak. He doesn’t even need to hear the words to see them in everyone’s eyes, knowing he scares them simply by playing, by existing. Old players with the records he’s beating match by match; the interviewers who run out of things to say after the first “How?”; the young players, the ones he should be drinking with, playing cards with, friends with – they’re more scared of him than anyone because they can’t beat him and they hate that. Respect and praise may be tossed back and forth between them but it’s just so much wasted breath with fear underneath, of losing, of being second best. Fear of Roger and everything he stands for.
Roger hates that he scares them. Hates even more that he scares himself, and that’s something he’s kept hidden in every interview, from the most intense conversations with Mirka, even from every sweetly supportive talk with his mother. Hidden from himself most of the time because if he doesn’t think about it, it’ll go away. He’s always been a staunch supporter of locking everything he doesn’t like away inside, out of sight, and if it’s bad, 'unhealthy' as Mirka keeps insisting then--
-- then he’ll deal with it all when he can’t avoid it any longer. No point making everything harder than it has to be he tells himself every time he starts to worry and he’s learnt exactly what volume to have his headphones set to, so the sound of AC/DC drowns Mirka out without her realising.
Once he’d have felt guilty about it but now, it’s just another thing to not think about.
So, according to the power of denial which he’s got down to a fine art by now, if he can convince himself that he didn’t walk out on Centre Court earlier and treat the world to a display of perfect one-man tennis -- Andy was really just there to bounce the balls off, if he’s honest with himself – then it didn’t happen. He’d played the match locked up tight in his mind, watching himself from a distance as he hit shot after shot that shouldn’t have been possible and he’d wondered more than once if he was dreaming. He briefly entertains the idea that he might wake up any second now to find himself in the locker room before the match, not Wimbledon champion again yet and in for a tough match. Because today couldn’t have been real. Not even he should be able to play tennis like that.
It’s only remembering Andy that convinces him he didn’t dream it, Andy staring at him over the net, dark eyes fixed on Roger’s every move and he’s never seen the American so unreadable. If it had just been another match, another day beating Andy and exchanging a friendly smile at the end, then he’d be pinching himself to wake up now but there’d been something odd, something… something almost desperate. Something he didn’t usually see in Andy, something he’d never have anticipated after these last two weeks.
Maybe something like fear.
It had been unexpected enough for Roger to be sure he could never have dreamed it, because Andy’s never been afraid of him like the others have. At least, not that Roger has noticed and he’s pretty much an expert in Andy Body Language after seeing the American every time – or what felt like it - he glanced across the net last year. Andy hasn’t exactly made it hard for him either; he’ll defiantly meet Roger’s eyes when everyone else looks away, shoot quick glances towards him when they’re in a room together and flash a smile when he meets Roger’s eyes, that makes the Swiss blush without knowing exactly why. Behaviour - that can’t be called flirting, not quite - that’s gone on for almost a year but these last two weeks it’s… changed. Since he walked into the showers and saw Andy… though he supposes anyone would act differently around someone who’d seen them doing that, with Marat of all people and that was a shock in itself, when he thought the two didn’t even like each other. Ever since then, Andy’s been…
A ‘flirt’ is the only thing Roger can think of but it’s been more than that, nothing short of blatant sensuality flaunted in his face at times and that’s why the aloof cool of today had been so strange. Roger had fully expected to be nothing short of sexually assaulted on court and the distant hardness in Andy’s eyes had hurt, in a way it really shouldn’t have. Not with Mirka watching, not when Andy had hardly given him more than teasing hints. Not when he was meant to be caring about winning Wimbledon for a third time but for the last two weeks, Andy’s been a pleasant distraction that Roger won’t, - can’t, though he refuses to dwell on that desperate thought - lose. For two weeks he’s almost enjoyed playing tennis again, months of doubt and irritation forgotten in the long seconds it took him to back out the showers, stammering an apology in the first language that he could think of and it was Andy that did it, that Roger knows without thinking.
Because if Andy could smile at him, then it didn’t matter what bitter whispers Roger heard when his back was turned. It didn’t matter that Mirka was treating him more like he was made of glass every day or that, after Paris, he’d had to curl into a corner of his hotel room and force back the tears until he could barely breathe. But equally, if Andy who Roger had never seen look afraid before today - even during the U.S. Open last year when he was losing everything he wanted most, even during the vicious fight after Australia that had ended in Lleyton with broken ribs and Andy with a concussion – has given up on him then…
Roger doesn’t want to think about the ‘then’. He’s not a freak, the evidence of today none withstanding and he grips the edge of the sink hard enough to stop his hands shaking. “I’m not a freak,” he whispers, watching his reflection form the words through gritted teeth. “I’m not.”
It’s harder to make himself believe something than it is to not think about it. When he lifts a hand to rub his eyes, it still shakes.
“Roger?” Mirka calls from the next room and if he concentrates hard, he can make himself believe he didn’t just flinch. “Are you almost ready?”
“Ja,” he calls back, though his shirt’s still unbuttoned and his bow tie is lying in the empty bath where he hurled it almost half an hour ago. He’s meant to be going to the Champion’s Ball in a few minutes and all he can think is that Andy won’t be there, that there’s no way he can confront the American before he leaves tomorrow. Knowing he’s going to be trapped in a room full of press and people who expect him to smile constantly for hours, making polite conversation and pretending he doesn’t notice the wariness, the jealousy and distance in their eyes… if he could lock the door and scream at everyone to leave him alone he would. Is even tempted for a long few seconds but it wouldn’t accomplish anything, because he knows he’d have to come out in the end. Closing his eyes tight, Roger leans forward until his forehead rests on the cool glass of the mirror.
“Congratulations,” Andy’s flat voice from earlier running on repeat through his mind and it’s echoed by Mirka’s sympathy from a few days ago, when he tried in a moment of hopelessness to explain. “He’s trying to get in your head. Ignore him.”
As if anyone in the history of mankind had managed to ignore Andy Roddick when he was demanding attention. Even if Roger, with his willpower that’s cracking more by the second, could attempt it then Marat’s remembered moans from the showers would defeat him because he can’t get them out of his head, along with the way Andy’s eyes had flickered up to meet his, held Roger’s stare with that oh-so-knowing smirk as he fucked Marat hard and fast against the tiled floor.
“Roger?” Mirka’s at the door and he hopes he isn’t shaking as he turns, hopes his smile doesn’t waver as she opens the door. “The car’s here- You’re not dressed!” She’s across the room in a rustle of expensive fabric and the click-click of heels, reaching up to stroke soft fingertips across his cheek and Roger blinks back tears because he should care more that she looks so beautiful. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong? Do you not want to go?”
“No, I’m fine. I-“ Voice catching on the lie and he swallows hard, sees her frown. “I buttoned my shirt wrong. I was just fixing it.”
A moment of silence while she searches his face and she’s better even than him at hiding her feelings, nothing like hurt in her quiet sigh, though Roger knows from long association that she didn’t believe him. “Men! You can win a trophy but ask them to – of all things! - button a shirt correctly…” She rolls her eyes expressively and Roger smiles as he was meant to, letting her start on the buttons for him. Her eyes stay fixed on her fingers and his chest, avoiding his face and Roger can’t tell if the fluttering lashes mean she’s blinking back tears or simply focusing on keeping his shirt neat. Guilt tightens his throat until he couldn’t speak, even if he could find something to say.
“I’m proud of you,” she murmurs on the last button, still without looking up. “You know that right?”
Tears burn behind his eyes and he wants to say something. Wants to explain or at least try but there’s nothing he could say to make sense of anything in his head, remembering Andy’s eyes locked with his across a short but still too-far space of tiled floor and empty air. There’s nothing he could say to make sense of that, even to himself so he just forces the smile back to his lips, nails digging into his palms with the effort of forming words.