clo (clo) wrote in clofic, @ 2005-06-15 23:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | andy roddick, andy roddick/roger federer, mirka vavrinec, one-shots, r, roger federer |
One-shot: Even Heroes (R, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer)
Title: Even Heroes
Rating: R
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer
Summary: Roger’s finally lost and Andy doesn’t know what to do to help.
Notes: Set Thursday 27th / Friday 28th January just after Roger lost his five set marathon with Marat Safin at the 2005 Australian Open. Big thanks to tasheila for reminding me of the fantastic Five For Fighting song Superman which gave me a title when I had none.
Disclaimer: Noooooooooooooooot mine. Surprisingly. Not claiming any of this happened and so on, I just like to make the pretty boys kiss for fun.
Even Heroes
“Oh come on,” Andy hissed, clenching his fists as the press asked Roger yet another probing question. He himself was out of sight, peering around a door at the back of the room but a few of the closer journalists cast surprised looks over their shoulders at the snarled words. Andy didn’t notice; his eyes were fixed on the Swiss at the other end of the room, pale under his Australian tan and seemingly fighting to keep his eyes open. “Fucking vultures. Leave the poor guy alone!”
“Hey,” a soft voice said, Mirka touching his shoulder as she came up behind him. “Are they still at it?”
“They won’t leave him alone.” Andy knew he sounded close to tears and didn’t care. “After that match, after all he had to do, the fucking bastards just want him to give them a better story. Fucking bastards-“
“Sshh,” Mirka warned as a few more journalists looked towards their door with mixed expressions of confusion and curiosity. “He’s tough Andy. He knew he would have to do this someday.”
“Yeah?” Andy said, not really listening. “Well I’m not going to fucking stand here and listen to these fuckers rip him to pieces.” He made a move to enter the room but Mirka grabbed his shoulder in alarm.
“Andy don’t – the last thing Roger needs right now is a press scandal. Let me go.”
“But-“ Andy bit the words off, knowing she had a point and hating it. He swallowed hard. “Go on then. Quickly.”
Mirka slipped through the half-open door, threading her way swiftly through the gathered press towards the raised stage at the opposite end of the room. A few eyes turned to watch her and by the time she reached the stage steps, she held everyone’s attention except Roger’s. He was answering a question slowly, a hint of slur to his English and his eyes fixed directly ahead on empty air, probably in an attempt to keep them from closing. Mirka waited behind him until he had finished speaking before resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning towards his microphone. From his hiding place, Andy could see Roger blink, turning to look at her with blank confusion. The American was sure if anyone had asked the Swiss something as simple as where he was right now, he would have had to think hard for a while before managing to answer. Andy could’ve screamed at the journalists for keeping Roger talking so long when he was clearly struggling to concentrate and even just to stay awake.
“Ladies and gentlemen please, Roger is very tired,” Mirka was saying politely. “Calling a halt to this now would be much appreciated. Thank you.” Her smile appeared outwardly friendly but even from across the room Andy could hear the trace of cold disapproval in her tone. A couple of journalists near the stage half-flinched from it.
Andy could’ve kissed her.
The press gathered their things, grumbling quietly to themselves as they left by the main doors across the room from where Andy stood, practically having to hang onto the doorframe to stop himself running to Roger. Mirka was helping the Swiss player down off the stage, politely shrugging off a few people who tried to stop them as they headed towards the other door. Andy never took his eyes off the exhausted Roger, barely breathing until they were both out the room and Roger was in his arms, face buried in Andy’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” Andy mouthed to Mirka over Roger’s dark curls. She shook her head.
“Take good care of him,” she said quietly, turning to leave and Andy nodded, the motion rubbing his cheek against Roger’s soft hair. In response Roger made a sound that was half sigh, half moan and Andy’s throat tightened as he held back tears. Meeting Mirka’s eyes as she turned he saw the same feeling but recognised the resignation behind it; the days when Roger would turn to her for comfort were gone and there was nothing more she could do. Her wistful expression stayed with Andy, even after he’d helped Roger slowly out the building by a back entrance and into the waiting car.
Air conditioning was a sudden shock after the heat of the Australian night; Roger made a wordless noise of protest and wrapped himself around Andy’s warmth, face still hidden and both arms around the American’s neck, like a child. Andy let himself be clung to – they’d had the same driver for the last two weeks and he knew them both well enough by now not to bat an eyelid at two of the top seeded tennis players embracing in the back seat of his car. Andy pressed a kiss to Roger’s forehead and wrapped his arms protectively around his exhausted boyfriend. “Back to the hotel, please,” he told the driver distractedly, most of his attention focused on Roger. The driver nodded and tactfully turned his entire focus to the road, oblivious to what was happening in the back seat. Andy forgot him almost instantly, bending his head to rest his cheek on Roger’s soft curls.
“Hey,” he said quietly, almost inaudibly. “How’re you holding up?”
Roger took a quick breath that Andy felt, hot against his bare skin as the Swiss sighed it back out again. “Okay,” he replied, sounding anything but. “I… I’m tired.”
“We’re going back to the hotel.” Andy reassured him. He felt Roger’s mouth press against his neck and shifted a little, getting gentle fingers under the Swiss’ chin to tilt it up. Roger’s eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed as he looked up, but he wasn’t crying. Andy’s heart ached as he caught a glimpse of the desolation lurking underneath the expression. He knew winning was addictive. Losing for the first time in so long… he couldn’t imagine how gut-wrenching it must feel. He leaned down, knowing the only thing he could give at this point was a little comfort.
Roger’s mouth on his was almost desperate through the tiredness, the Swiss leaning heavily against him for support. Andy kept the kiss slow and gentle; Roger’s attempts to harden it were easily softened, though the Swiss’s answering growl of frustration made him shiver. At Roger’s teeth grazing his bottom lip, Andy pulled back. “Roger, don’t,” he whispered. “It wasn’t your fault.”
The Swiss stared up at him, eyes briefly flickering yellow from passing headlights. Andy had to force himself not to look away from the hurt and disappointment he saw beneath the exhaustion.
“It was my fault,” Roger replied quietly. “I had the chances. I had the match. All I had to do was take it… and I couldn’t. I… I tried.” He leaned his forehead against Andy’s chest, shoulders starting to shake and his breathing coming faster, almost gasping. “I tried-“
Andy wrapped his arms tighter around Roger in distress, cradling him close and murmured soothing words while his mind tried to work through what the Swiss must be feeling. It took him a few long minutes and he was stunned by the conclusion he eventually reached. It wasn’t that he had lost. Roger had lost a thousand times before, not as often as many people but still enough to know how it felt. Had he lost to Marat through injury, or having an off-day, or even if it had been a lesser match, in the opening rounds, he wouldn’t be so devastated. Disappointed sure, but not like this.
It was because he’d been beaten. At his best, throwing his heart and soul into the match, dragging out every physically possible shot and then some, Marat had still beaten him, point for point. Shaken Andy remembered watching the final shots of the match on the TV in the locker room, Roger falling and that final shot of Marat’s sailing past him, defeated and driven to his knees.
It wasn’t that he’d lost.
It was that, for the first time in his life, Roger’s best just hadn’t been good enough.
“Oh Rog,” Andy whispered, shaken. He reached up to stroke Roger’s dark curls, tangling his fingers in them and pressing a kiss to the trembling Swiss’ forehead. “Don’t think that you lost because you weren’t good enough - don’t ever think that understand? No one should have to lose a match like that.” He bit his lip, trying to find something to say that wouldn’t make the Swiss feel worse. “Marat… you… You were both equally good.” Roger made a noise of what sounded like disbelief. “You were. Neither of you deserved to lose. It wasn’t your fault.” He tightened his grip on Roger and repeated the words, as if he could make Roger believe them if he said them often enough. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Roger didn’t reply, his breathing still rough and hot against Andy’s neck but the shaking slowed until it was barely perceptible. They stopped outside the hotel a minute later and Andy was amazed to see Roger’s face was dry when he leaned back – the Swiss still hadn’t cried. Andy would’ve bawled his eyes out right after the match if their positions had been reversed but Roger even managed a tiny smile in response to the American’s worried look. As they were climbing out the car, Andy helping Roger from behind, the driver cleared his throat. Andy paused, glancing back.
“My wife and I-,” the driver said, meeting Andy’s eyes. Roger was already out the car, stumbling up the path towards the hotel’s back entrance. “We’re both big fans… we saw the match.” His eyes went to Roger outside, shoulders drooped and step heavy as he walked. “Will he be okay?”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Andy assured him with a tight smile. “Thank you.”
The driver nodded. “You’re welcome.” He watched Andy climb out with a sad smile and waited until the American had slammed the door shut before muttering, “A crying shame he lost.”
Andy had already forgotten him, catching up with Roger and sliding an arm around the Swiss’ waist. Roger leaned against him with a sigh, letting Andy keep him upright. “What would I do without you?” he murmured, eyes almost closed in exhaustion. The American smiled.
“You’d manage,” he replied sincerely. “You’re amazing like that.” Mirka’s face flashed through his mind, wistfulness and longing mixed together as she looked at her ex and he glanced at Roger leaning against him half asleep, suddenly anxious. “But you’ll never have to - I’m never going anywhere, you know that right?”
“Mmm, yes.” Roger slid down far enough in Andy’s embrace to rest his head on the American’s shoulder. “I know. And I’m staying right…” He broke off to yawn, stumbling as Andy helped him up the steps to the door before finishing, “…here with you.”
Andy felt a wave of relief, followed immediately by guilt for doubting Roger when the Swiss needed comforting. “Come on,” he urged gently, helping Roger across to the lifts and ignoring the few curious stares from the people still awake this early in the morning. “Bed. We can deal with tomorrow-“
“- today,” Roger corrected sleepily.
“- today after we’ve both had some sleep.”
“Sounds good,” Roger murmured but Andy knew the Swiss was only half listening. As the lift doors slid shut he half-turned and drew Roger fully against him, stroking his back soothingly. Roger leaned into him, foreheads touching so all Andy could see was tanned skin and dark curls, blurred this close and still beautiful enough to make his heart ache.
“I love you,” he whispered. Roger’s eyes flickered up and Andy’s stomach tied itself in funny knots at the surprise he saw on the Swiss’ face. His worry vanished a second later when Roger replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I love you too but you don’t need to say it you know.” He moved to press his face against Andy’s shoulder, closing his eyes again. “You’re here. That says it for you.”
“Oh.” Andy swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. He knew right then that if throwing himself into a cage of hungry tigers, or skydiving without a parachute would make this man happy, he’d do it without a second thought. “Good.”
He heard something from Roger that could have been a chuckle but it was lost in the ping of the lift doors sliding open. Getting the now mostly asleep Roger down the corridor and into their room was more a matter of carrying the Swiss than guiding him; Roger seemed to hardly have the energy to pick up his feet. Andy breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind them and he spared a hand to shoot the bolt across. Roger was a dead weight leaning against him as Andy half carried him to the bed and eased him down onto it, leaning over to flick on one of the beside lamps. Roger flopped back with a heavy sigh, turning to burrow under the pillows.
“Hey, wait a second,” Andy told him, crouching to unlace the Swiss’ trainers. He pulled the first one off and tossed it across the room. It was shortly followed by the second and Roger’s socks. Roger made a small sound of complaint, curling his toes against the cool, air-conditioned air and Andy couldn’t resist tickling one foot.
Roger yelped, pulling his feet away so fast Andy almost fell over backwards. He caught his balance with a laugh and saw one dark eye glaring at him over the rumpled sheets. “Couldn’t help myself,” he offered in a semi-apology. Roger grumbled good-naturedly.
“If I was awake right now…” he started but ruined the threat with a massive yawn. Andy crawled onto the bed, reaching for the belt of Roger’s jeans but the Swiss rolled away with a wordless protest.
“Whoa Rog, I’m not planning anything here.” Andy held up his hands defensively despite the fact Roger still had his face hidden in the sheets. “You’ll just sleep better undressed. Come on love, let me…” He rested a hand on the Swiss’ side, gently pushing and reluctantly Roger rolled over, letting Andy unbuckle his belt and pull down his jeans. Andy had just turned back from tossing them across to the couch when he caught sight of the dark bruise on Roger’s right thigh.
“What…” As he touched it he remembered the Swiss falling, skidding a few inches across the court only hours earlier. Roger shivered under his hand, shifting a little on the bed.
“I landed on it,” he answered the unspoken question. “Guess I landed harder than I thought.”
Andy traced the bruise with a fingertip, barely brushing the skin but Roger shut his eyes anyway, gritting his teeth. It stretched from mid thigh all the way up to his hip, various shades of blue-black with a painfully red graze in the middle. Investigating further Andy found more small grazes on the Swiss’ knees. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he studied the damage anxiously.
“Have you put ice on it?” he asked. Roger made an unusually whiny sound and rolled over, hiding the bruise from view. Andy sighed and with a muttered “Fine,” set about stripping off the Swiss’ black sweatshirt and t-shirt. Roger let himself be manoeuvred in silence until Andy had finished and started to slide off the bed to strip himself. One foot had just touched the floor when a hand gripped his wrist and he looked back, surprised to see Roger’s eyes open and fixed on him.
“I’m sorry,” the Swiss said quietly. “I know you’re helping. I didn’t mean to complain.”
“Hey,” Andy shook his head, reaching back to run a hand through Roger’s hair, brushing curls of it away from the Swiss’ face. “I’d be a far worse pain in the ass in your position. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” Roger blinked, guilt fighting with exhaustion in his expression. “I shouldn’t… you don’t deserve…” He was interrupted by yet another yawn.
“Look, go to sleep. We’ll ice your leg in the morning,” Andy offered. He knew by then the ice would be pointless but he also knew he couldn’t keep Roger awake any longer. The Swiss nodded without lifting his head, eyes drifting closed.
“Yeah. Morning.” He buried his face in the sheets and mumbled something that was too muffled for Andy to catch. Sighing the American stood up and stripped swiftly, tossing the clothes aside. Clad only in his underwear he turned off the light and folded back the sheets, convincing Roger to move with gentle pushes and soft words. Roger wriggled aside with a groan so Andy could drag the blankets up over them both, pulling the Swiss in close as he lay down. Murmuring something incomprehensible, Roger curled against him, hair tickling the American’s lips as he kissed Roger’s forehead.
“Sssshhh,” he whispered. “Go to sleep.”
If Roger’s mumbled response was meant to be words, it wasn’t any language Andy knew. The Swiss wriggled in closer, as close as he could get and rested his head on Andy’s chest, his breathing slowing almost instantly. The American lay awake for a long while, watching Roger in his arms, skin still tinted with sun-kissed gold even in the grey darkness, rich brown curls spread fan-like across Andy’s skin. It always amazed him how young Roger looked when sleeping, worry lines and blank ‘poker-face’ fading away to soft contentment. You wouldn’t think to look at him, Andy thought to himself, that only a few hours ago he was on his hands and knees, at the end of one of the hardest matches of his life.
With that thought in mind and Roger comfortingly curled around him, Andy fell asleep.
~
He was woken by a gasp for breath, hastily stifled. He had no idea what time it was but the sky outside was still dark, so he couldn’t have slept for more than a couple of hours. He blinked against the haze of sleep, hearing another muffled sound from Roger, still curled against him.
“Rog?” he asked. The sounds went quiet for a moment but two hot drops splashed onto his skin and Andy tightened his grip on the Swiss who was shaking and sniffling. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Roger’s voice was thick with tears. “It- it just sort of hit me you know?”
“Oh hey love, it’s okay.” Sympathy and comfort filled Andy’s tone and he tightened his hug, running his hands soothingly over Roger’s back and shoulders. “Ssshhh, it’s okay.”
Roger didn’t make much noise, even when he was upset, a few sniffs and gasps but nothing more. Tears streaked his face as he slid up in the bed so he was level with Andy, the American kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, anything he could reach. All he could taste was salty tears as Roger silently cried, Andy hugging him as tight as he could and tangling their legs together and still whispering “Ssssh, sssshhhh, I’m here,” in between kisses. Roger seemed to quickly regain his control and Andy pulled back far enough to meet the Swiss’ eyes in the dim light, wiping away the tears with a corner of the sheet.
“Better?” he asked softly. Roger nodded, still sniffling. Without taking his eyes off his distraught boyfriend Andy reached across to the bedside table and grabbed a handy box of tissues. Roger smiled through his tears as the American plonked the box on the pillow beside them and pulled one loose to gently dry the Swiss’ cheeks.
“I cried for hours when I lost that US Open match last year you know,” Andy said after a minute, discarding the soaked tissue for a fresh one. Roger frowned, closing his eyes as the American ran the tissue gently over his eyelids.
“I didn’t see you cry,” he said slowly. Andy half-smiled but it was more ashamed than amused.
“I waited until you were asleep and snuck into the bathroom,” he confessed. “I think I went through almost three boxes of tissues but I hid them so you wouldn’t guess in the morning. We’d just got together and I didn’t want you to see me cry so…”
Roger’s distress melted away and he ran light fingertips over Andy’s face, tracing his thumb across the American’s lips. “You should never worry about me seeing you cry,” he said softly. “I love you. It won’t make me think any less of you.”
“I know… it just didn’t seem that way at the time.” Andy smiled, eyes looking suspiciously wet in the dim light. “But I’m not the issue here. You know tonight wasn’t your fault right? You were incredible. They’ll be talking about that match for years.”
“But I lost,” Roger said, his voice cracking on the last word. Andy shook his head, hastily leaning in to press a kiss to his salty-wet mouth.
“No love, no one lost,” he whispered. “Not in a match like that. Everyone else I know would’ve collapsed before they even reached the fourth set. It wasn’t that you weren’t good enough or that Marat beat you; you were both incredible. Besides,” and his tone turned lightly teasing. “If you win them all then it isn’t much fun for the rest of us right?” Roger smiled, shaky and weak but a smile. “It took something out of this world to get past you. You’re still the best, no one can deny that. Not even Marat would deny that.”
Roger’s smile steadied, a trace of bitterness in it but his tears had stopped, his death-grip on Andy relaxing a little. “Sorry. I must seem so arrogant-“
“Don’t ever say that.” Andy cut him off, pressing a fierce kiss to the Swiss’ lips. “Anyone else would have been in pieces for days after a match like that. You took a shower, hugged me for a while and went to a goddamn press conference at gone two in the morning! That’s beyond incredible.”
“But-“
“No,” Andy insisted. “I’ve met a lot – and I mean a lot – of arrogant people. Trust me Rog, you’re not one of them.” He brushed Roger’s hair back, running his fingers through the soft curl of it, eyes fixed on Roger’s face. The Swiss was watching him back, calm having replaced the tears. “You are beautiful and amazing and don’t ever think less of yourself for losing a match like that.”
Roger just smiled, sliding his arms around Andy’s waist and pulling him closer. Andy went willingly and they lay side by side, touching from shoulders downwards, all warm skin and tangled limbs. Roger brushed a kiss over Andy’s mouth, moving his hips a little. Andy kissed him back with a smile, knowing exactly where this was headed, and unspeakably relieved Roger felt good enough to initiate it.
“You really cried?” Roger murmured, running a hand over Andy’s hip and pressing their bodies together harder, moving a little faster. Andy exhaled slowly, eyes closing in pleasure at the heat and friction in all the right places.
“Y-yeah. Once I started I couldn’t stop.”
“Next time wake me,” Roger told him, rolling the American onto his back and straddling his hips. Andy bucked up into the Swiss’ weight, enjoying the lazy thrills that raced through him, made him shiver. “You should never have to cry on your own.”
“I promise,” Andy gasped out as Roger leaned down to kiss his neck, moving their hips against each other in lazy circles. “But Rog-“
“Yes?” Roger’s teeth grazed his collarbone and Andy almost lost his train of thought. He pushed the Swiss away slightly with a huge force of will, meeting the dark eyes directly in the dim light. Roger looked flushed and his hair was hanging over his face in tangled strands, but he looked happier than he had since the match ended. Andy watched him closely for a moment.
“Are you okay?” he asked carefully. “I mean… at least better than before? This isn’t a way of distracting me from how upset you are?”
Roger’s smile widened and he kissed Andy long and hard, tongues and wet lips and the sharp sting of teeth all together. Andy was out of breath by the time the Swiss broke it, blinking as the room spun dizzily from lack of air. Roger didn’t go far; his breath was hot against Andy’s wet mouth as he spoke.
“No, it’s not a distraction. Think of it as a… thank you. For being so incredible.” He kissed the tip of Andy’s nose and the American grinned, squirming a little beneath him. “I love you. I want to show you exactly how much.”
“That’s fine with me-“ Andy’s voice broke as Roger rolled his hips in exactly the right way, worry and sympathy for the Swiss being swept away in the rush of pleasure. His last coherent thought was that, despite promising everyone that he’d take care of Roger he had no idea what he’d done or said to make the Swiss feel better. Maybe it had been saying he loved him, maybe it had been something else he said in reassurance, maybe it had just been his simple presence, Andy didn’t know. All he did know was that Roger had passed the low point and, in truly spectacular Federer fashion, was proving just how grateful he was for Andy’s help.
~Fin~