clo (clo) wrote in clofic, @ 2005-06-16 23:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | andy roddick, andy roddick/lleyton hewitt, andy roddick/roger federer, lleyton hewitt, nc-17, one-shots, roger federer |
One-shot: Watch Me Fall (NC-17, Andy Roddick/Lleyton Hewitt, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer)
Title: Watch Me Fall
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roddick/Hewitt, Roddick/Federer
Summary: Andy may have lost but he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. Lleyton retaliates and it all gets out of hand.
Notes: Um… not sure what warnings to put on this one other than to point out I’m not really a big Lleyton Hewitt fan and this fic is a direct result of me screaming “Andy you lose and I’ll slash you with Hewitt!” at the Live Scores on my computer during the Andy vs Lleyton match at the Masters. He lost. I slashed him with Hewitt. Hints – ok, more than hints – of non-con. Set in the locker room, right after the Hewitt vs Roddick match at the Masters.
Disclaimer: It’s very simple - not mine, never happened, not making money off it and they own themselves. See? Simple.
Watch Me Fall
So that was it. 2004, officially a disaster for Andy Roddick.
Andy was shaking as he leant back against the lockers, the metal pleasantly cold against hot skin. Sweat had glued his shirt to him and he let the lockers support his weight as he closed his eyes in exhaustion, everything aching with bone-deep tiredness.
It was the feel of losing. It was familiar. After all, he’d done it enough this year.
He didn’t have the energy to stay upright and slid down the lockers, knees giving out halfway down so he hit the hard stone floor with a soft grunt. Looping an arm around his legs, drawing them up close to his chest and resting his forehead on one knee, he wished he was already back in his warm, comfortable hotel room, or better yet, his own bed. He didn’t know how he could face the press as a loser, again.
‘Just another day’ he told himself. It was just another loss, no different to the rest. Only he knew it was different. The palpable disappointment of the crowd outside cut him to pieces and he’d be crying if he hadn’t had had so much practice holding back the tears by now. It was New York all over again, falling well short of being good enough and wishing everyone would stop watching him screw up because he could win, if they’d look away. Without the pressure of countless eyes, if he could’ve stopped trying to vanish into the hard court that squeaked beneath his worn sneakers, if he’d just made the shot that mattered when he needed to… he could’ve won.
Could’ve. Should’ve.
Didn’t.
There was a thud from across the room and he cracked an eye open to see Hewitt digging through his tennis bag, tossing aside racquets and towels in his search for something. Seeming to sense Andy’s eyes on him the Australian turned, met Andy’s stare with a hostile one of his own.
“Found your sense of sportsmanship yet Roddick?” he hissed, emphasising the last four letters. Andy flinched, too tired to snap a comeback.
“Go to hell Hewitt,” he muttered, closing his eyes again. There was a long silence, aching with tension, before he heard footsteps crossing the room and Hewitt had him by the arm, hauling him upright.
“What the hell was all that about on court Andy?” he demanded angrily. “I know you’re a moron but you’re not usually that fucking rude. And you could’ve spoken up a bit – I don’t think your screaming fan girls right at the back heard you.”
“It’s none of your business, so just fuck off.” Andy jerked his arm free, pushing past the Australian to reach his own tennis bag, which he’d tossed carelessly to one side. “You won alright, so just leave it.”
Lleyton hesitated. Andy could feel him wavering, caught between anger and sympathy. It hurt more than losing, to have Hewitt, of all people, pitying him. He spun round, clenching his fists.
“You can stop fucking looking at me like that. You won, so leave me the hell alone!”
“Look mate, I’m not going to apologise for beating you-“ Lleyton was startled onto the defensive, taking a step back. “You’re the one who screwed up today.”
“Yeah and you love that don’t you?” Andy knew where this was headed and made a conscious effort to stop himself, shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth. “Just- leave me alone.” He took a deep breath and added in a small voice. “Please.”
Lleyton shrugged in frustration, shaking his head. “Fine! Whatever.” He muttered to himself as he started to turn away. “Think you can say anything, just because you’re fucking Federer-“
Andy was moving before he could stop himself, a tiny, rational part of his mind screaming at him for overreacting while the rest of him was too tired and frustrated to care. The fist to Lleyton’s stomach was instinctive, unbalanced and with only adrenaline to power it but Hewitt doubled up with a gasp, more of surprise than pain. Next thing Andy knew he was being slammed back against the lockers, Hewitt half crushing his wrists in a fierce grip.
“For fuck’s sake Roddick,” the Australian hissed with a wince of pain, one arm around his waist while the other hand kept Andy’s wrists pinned above his head. Andy struggled to free his arms but exhaustion was working against him and Lleyton just tightened his grip. “Do you ever know when to quit?”
“Fuck you Hewitt. Let me go!”
“No!” Lleyton was really annoyed now, expression darkening. Andy could feel his wrists start to bruise, pressed into the metal lockers “What the hell is wrong with you? You know you don’t get a free ticket to win every match just because your boyfriend’s number one-“
“Leave him out of this!” Andy fought harder but although he had the height advantage Lleyton was stronger, undefeated and running on anger. The Australian used his body weight to pin Andy against the lockers, nothing between them but sweat soaked cotton, Andy trembling in tiredness, and fury. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back in defeat, struggles subsiding as exhaustion won.
“That’s it.” Lleyton sounded surprised as he worked it out, breath hot against Andy’s skin as he breathed the words slowly. “You had a fight with Federer. That’s why you played so badly-“
“It’s none of your fucking business!” Andy almost yelled it, freeing his hands with strength borne of anger and slamming into Hewitt who stumbled, nearly falling. The Australian regained his balance and fought back; for a few seconds there was nothing but harsh breathing and stifled hisses of pain, Andy closing his eyes and just lashing out, misery and rage forming a lump in his throat that made it hard to breathe. For a second he had the upper hand then he caught his foot on one of the benches and fell, taking Lleyton with him.
They hit the ground hard, Andy taking the brunt of it with a choked gasp as he landed underneath, a terrified part of his mind insisting he’d felt something break even as he struggled to catch his breath. Lleyton’s fall was cushioned as he landed half across Andy and he quickly capitalised on it, pinning the winded American’s hands down and straddling his hips to stop him moving. Andy couldn’t have moved even if Hewitt had let him, gasping for breath as spots danced in front of his eyes, exhaustion or concussion he couldn’t tell and didn’t really care. Lleyton was a dead weight across his thighs, leaning forward to glare directly at him.
“Are you insane or just stupid?” he demanded in a harsh whisper, still breathing heavily. “Don’t be such a bad fucking loser Roddick. I don’t care what cute little domestics you’re having with Swiss-boy, you lost and there’s no one to blame but yourself.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Andy rasped. He shifted beneath the Australian but Lleyton held him easily down. “Roger’ll kick your ass in the final anyway. You won’t get the number two spot this year, or ever.” He smirked through the pain of his bruised back and Hewitt’s painfully tight grip on his wrists. “Looks like I’m not the loser after all.”
Lleyton’s expression darkened further, fury flashing across his face. “Walking on thin ice Roddick,” he warned harshly. “Very thin ice.”
“Why, what’re you gonna do?” Andy absently wondered how he could even begin to sound confident, bruised and helpless beneath the Australian. “You’ve lost Hewitt. Nothing you can do about it.”
Lleyton hesitated, his grip on the American’s wrists tightening. Andy bit back a wince. “Nothing I can do?”
“Nothing,” Andy hissed. “Now let me get the fuck up loser.”
He knew it was a mistake the split second before the word left his mouth. Hesitation vanished; Lleyton snarled something under his breath and ground his weight downwards, deliberately creating friction between them. Andy cried out at the unexpected sensation, instinctively arcing his hips into the touch. Successful, the Australian smirked, transferring both Andy’s wrists to one hand to leave his other one free.
“Quite a little whore, aren’t we Roddick?” he hissed, sliding his free hand along Andy’s hip. Panic flashed through the American and he fought, struggling and throwing his weight from side to side. All he succeeded in doing was pressing harder against Lleyton, the sensation drawing a choked moan from behind clenched teeth. Hewitt’s smirk widened and he slipped a couple of fingers under the waistband of Andy’s shorts, running his nails across Andy’s skin. Andy caught his breath, half-whimpering as he relaxed back to the floor, too exhausted to fight back anymore. He closed his eyes against Hewitt’s accusing stare.
“What’s the matter Roddick?” Lleyton abandoned the top of shorts to run his hand up Andy’s thigh instead, calloused hand rough against the American’s skin, a note of furious triumph in his voice. “Federer good enough to touch you but I’m not?”
“Fuck you Hewitt!” Andy managed, choking back a gasp as the hand brushed his swiftly-growing erection, straining against constricting cotton. Panic was still racing through him but beneath it was a thrill of… excitement or lust, he couldn’t decide. It scared him more than Hewitt touching him uninvited, more than losing or the fight with Roger that morning. The idea that this might actually happen… and he might actually enjoy it.
“Get the hell off me,” he hissed, his voice cracking as Lleyton finally slid the teasing hand over all the right places, heat and rough skin through cotton. A second later he almost-screamed when the Australian applied unexpected pressure.
“Why? You seem to be enjoying yourself.” Lleyton taunted, nevertheless lifting his hand away. Andy fought down the urge to push his hips up after it, desperate for touch, any touch, but he couldn’t repress the moan rising in his throat. Lleyton’s smile was sharp and humourless.
“What do you want Andy?” he demanded, letting his hand hover tantalisingly close. “Want me to touch you?”
“Go to hell,” Andy hissed, opening his eyes to glare with hatred at the Australian. Lleyton sighed in mock-disappointment, shifting backwards a little. Before Andy could stop himself he was arcing off the floor, bringing his hips up and Lleyton’s hand back where he needed it. A choked cry hissed between gritted teeth at the touch, pleasure warring with self-disgust.
“Say it,” Lleyton demanded, unmoving. Andy tried to push his hips up further to get more pressure but the Australian moved his hand tauntingly away. “Say it.”
“For fuck’s sake Hewitt, just fucking do it already!” Andy gasped out in desperation, closing his eyes against the triumph on Lleyton’s face. The Australian started to say something but never got further than “I knew-“ before they both heard voices at the door.
Faster than Andy could think by now, Lleyton leaned down to crush a kiss against his mouth, muffling the American’s cry of surprise. It lasted only a few seconds before Lleyton broke it, whispering triumphantly against Andy’s lips.
“Guess I won after all Roddick.”
Andy hardly felt him get up, hardly heard his footsteps retreat across the room. He did hear Roger and Marat come in the door, heard Roger’s surprised “Was?!” as Lleyton pushed past them and out into the corridor but didn’t make a sound, rolling painfully onto his side to press his face against the cold floor. Footsteps came hesitantly towards him round the benches then Roger let loose a stream of German, sounding torn between surprise and anger. Instantly the Swiss’ gentle hands were helping Andy sit up, supporting the American as he hissed in pain. Andy buried his face in Roger’s clean shirt, smelling fresh cotton and the scent the Swiss liked to wear. It was enough to make the tears finally spill over.
“It’s okay love, I’m here.” Roger sounded a little angry, but mostly confused as he cradled Andy against him, pressing a kiss to his hair. “What’s wrong?”
Andy just shook his head, keeping his face hidden. He couldn’t even think about what he’d just done, what he’d almost… He clung tighter to Roger, hearing Marat murmur something in Russian from a few metres away. Roger growled, a wordless sound of fury as he comfortingly hugged Andy close.
“Find Hewitt?” he asked Marat, barely concealed anger in his voice. The Russian must’ve nodded agreement because Andy heard him leave, door slamming behind him. There was a few minutes of silence, Andy’s choked breathing muffled against Roger’s shirt, while the Swiss simply held him, frowning worriedly. It was almost ten minutes before Andy could lift his head, reaching up to wipe wet cheeks. Roger intercepted his hand and got there first, frown deepening as he saw the bruises on the American’s wrists.
“What did he do?” he asked in a quiet voice, laced with cold fury. Andy shook his head.
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “It didn’t- It wasn’t- It was my fault.”
The Swiss growled something furiously in German and Andy flinched. Instantly slender brown arms wrapped around him and Roger was kissing him, apology and comfort and everything that Hewitt’s kiss hadn’t been. Andy shut his eyes and opened his mouth to it, trying to forget the feel of Lleyton’s lips on his, forget the Australian’s touch, teasing and tormenting, but he knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. Roger was all softness, as different to the Australian as it was possible to get but Andy couldn’t help tensing as the Swiss innocently slid a hand along his thigh. Roger pulled away, leaning back to look at him anxiously.
“What’s wrong?”
“Does this mean you’re speaking to me again?” Andy asked softly, avoiding the question. Roger’s frown dissolved into a guilty expression.
“Of course. I’m sorry, I should never have-“
Andy interrupted him, shaking his head. “No, forget it.” He rubbed a hand across his face, brushing off the last few tears, voice almost inaudible when he spoke again. “Then will you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
Andy leaned into him, resting his head against the Swiss’ shoulder and sliding his arms around Roger’s waist. “Beat Hewitt for me?” he said softly. “Please?”
Roger brushed a kiss across his cheek. “It’s done,” he promised, and the icy fury was back in his tone. Andy closed his eyes, knowing even Roger winning wouldn’t be enough to completely banish the taste of Hewitt in his mouth, the sense-memory of a rough hand, sliding up his thigh. Nowhere near enough.
But at least it’d be something.
~ Fin ~