One-shot: Forget Me Not (NC-17, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Forget Me Not Rating: R… again a few moments that may kick it up a little higher. (EDIT: I've changed my mind. This is basically NC-17) Fandom: Tennis!slash Pairing: Federer/Roddick Summary: Roger never wanted it to end and now he can’t forget it did. Roger’s POV. Notes: Inspired in a round-about way by Dido’s Sand in my Shoes, by Lirpa’s urging for me to write fluff instead of angst (no promises on how well I succeeded) and by my desperate need to work on my inner-Roger-voice. Also I remembered *after* writing the Olympic flashback that I think the Athlete’s Village had communal showers. Indulge an author’s creative licence. Disclaimer: I own nothing or no one. Surprised? ;-)
Flashbacks are between the periods (. . . ) - they’re too long for italics but hopefully they should be obvious.
Finally, this is long, around 9,000 words. Just to let you know. :-)
Forget Me Not
Loving a hyperactive American can be exhausting.
Loving one who doesn’t love you in return is enough to drive a saint insane.
I’ve tried sitting still. I’ve tried pacing. I’ve tried making myself endless cups of coffee then making endless trips to the bathroom as a result. TV requires too little concentration; reading too much. If I didn’t know better I’d say Andy’s hyperactivity has rubbed off on me.
The only good thing I can see about it is that it’s finally wearing me out and I may be able to sleep tonight for the first time in weeks.
I used to think Andy never got tired from his constant movement. He seemed rather to feed on the adrenaline during matches; come back to the locker room more hyped up than when he left. Secretly I was jealous - often it was all I could do to stand upright after a draining tournament and there Andy was, running laps or dancing in the hotel bar with whatever model he was currently dating, I never paid that much attention to the names. He even kept up the illusion of exhaustive energy the first month or so after we… well I never thought of it as anything so mundane as ‘dating’. Andy briefly referred to us as fuck-buddies until he realised I hated it; after that it was simply ‘us’. There were never chat up lines or a first date. I can’t even pinpoint the moment I personally realised I was interested in him as more than a rival or a fellow tennis player.
I do however have the clearest of memories of him realising it.
. . .
The Wimbledon locker rooms are lonely for finalists. The long stretches of empty benches echo of everyone’s losses except your own, reminding you that soon you might lose too. All around are framed pictures of former champions, signed, dated, history captured and trapped behind glass to remind players they’re walking on hallowed turf.
It’s disconcerting to see your own face framed and proudly displayed when you walk into a locker room. I hadn’t looked at it since I arrived – it made me nervous.
Though now it seemed reassuring when compared to how nervous I was about hearing a certain voice.
“Hey Roger!”
I glanced up from tying my shoes, ignoring the painful hitch in my chest. I’d been dreading this all through the last two weeks. Every one of his matches I’d been torn two ways over whether to root for him to lose or win; to lose so I wouldn’t have to face him in this final, to win… because I couldn’t bear to see him defeated.
“Hey Andy,” I answered, keeping my tone neutral and my welcoming smile quick. I caught the briefest of flashes of shining brown eyes as I looked at him then dragged my gaze away, back to my shoelaces that were suddenly fascinating. I’d carefully chosen a corner out the way in hopes he’d choose somewhere else to drop his stuff. With a safe distance between us I knew I could stay calm. Rational.
Not drag him to one side and kiss him senseless.
So I jumped when his tennis bag landed on the bench beside me with a thud.
“Ready to hand me that trophy?” he asked with the little grin that I knew meant he was joking. He rested a foot onto the bench beside my thigh as he unlaced his shoe. “I quite like the idea of Andy Roddick; 2004 Wimbledon Champion.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t think I could. I’d have given him the trophy if I thought he’d accept it but I knew even then that Andy’s pride was the only thing stronger than ceaseless drive to win, to be the best. He’d have just laughed if I offered him my title. And I loved him for that.
I just didn’t know how to tell him.
I’d stayed quiet too long and he nudged my thigh with his now-bare toes. “Hey Feds, you not speaking to me?”
I loved him calling me nicknames. From most people it would have irritated me, but my name and variations of it rolled off his tongue with no apparent effort or forethought; he was casually familiar with me from a safe distance. I could never resist smiling when he called me silly things. I glanced up, trying to keep a straight face.
“I will never stop speaking to you Andy,” I told him solemnly, my smile tugging the corners of my mouth. Andy grinned in reply; his true grin, when his eyes light up and he tilts his head to the side, just a little as if to say I can’t believe you said that. I laughed.
“You may laugh now, but just wait till we get out on that court,” he promised, switching feet so he could pull off his other shoe. His arm brushed mine as he bent down to reach his laces, hair sticking wildly up at all angles just beside my cheek. I could smell apples and knew it must be his shampoo. I wanted to know what it tasted like but bit my tongue to keep it safely between closed lips. I bit too hard because when he straightened up with a glance down at me, anxiety flashed across his face.
“You’re bleeding!” He leaned in to look as if personal space was something for other people to worry about, reaching to my lips to wipe away the drop of blood. I reached hastily up to grab his wrist and looked down; with his eyes this close to mine I didn’t trust even my iron-clad self control.
“It is nothing, I bit my tongue. It’s fine now.”
“You sure?” He refused to back off, twisting his wrist in my hand to gently press a thumb to my lower lip. “Lemme see?”
“No, I-“ I took a deep breath, moving my head slightly so his calloused thumb fell away. “I promise it will be fine.”
“If you’re…” He trailed off. Andy always talks with such deliberate comments; he puts lazy energy into each word that carries him past jokes and sly remarks without apparent effort. To hear him sound uncertain was so unusual that I looked up.
And met brown eyes, wide and confused.
I have never been able to lie when faced with those eyes and I never will.
“What’s the matter Roger?” he demanded quietly, almost softly with confusion. “You used to at least talk to me and now it’s like we’re nothing more than… than what the media make us out to be. Rivals. Acquaintances. What did I say wrong?”
Hurt sounded in every word and instantly I felt guiltier than if I’d kicked a puppy. Andy’s charm is always on view for the world to see and love but rarely is it aimed at one person alone and never before at me. I hadn’t realised he’d noticed me avoiding him. I hadn’t considered he might think it was his fault.
I hadn’t known before that moment that underneath the exterior of effortless charm, bouncing energy and oozing confidence, it was easier to hurt Andy Roddick than it was to breathe air.
“You did nothing wrong.” I was on my feet without noticing, still holding his wrist in both hands. “I’ve been… distracted. You must believe me Andy; I did nothing intentionally to shut you out.”
“It’s okay, it’s not like we’re friends or anything, I just… I liked you and thought you might like me and then when you kept hiding I thought maybe…” Andy shrugged and the smile he attempted was a faint shadow of his former grin. “Maybe I might’ve…“
For the second time in two minutes, he trailed off, but this time he glanced down. At my hands wrapped around his; at my thumb unconsciously tracing the lines across his palm. One quick glance up at my suddenly panicked face then back down again as I tried to pull away.
“What…” A third time. Andy Roddick lost for words and if my head hadn’t been so full of panic and terror – he knows, he knows – I’d have marvelled at such a rare occasion.
As it was all I could think of was getting away. I tore my hands from his suddenly tight grip and fled to the door, snatching up my tennis bag. The officials chose that moment to call us onto court and although I thought Andy said my name, it could’ve just been an echo in my mind. I asked him later and he swore he didn’t but… to this day the tone of stunned amazement I heard in the way he said my name is stamped in letters of stone on my heart.
. . .
I wander restlessly across the living room of my house. It’s snowing again outside and I should light the fire but my hands tremble lately and I’m afraid of burns. The memory of that Wimbledon final is precious even though Andy capitalised on my distraction to take the first set. It was during the first rain break that he cornered me on reaching the locker room and brushed strands of hair off my face with hands that shook. His breath was warm and smelt like mint as he leaned in; his lips were hot and tasted of sweetened coffee. I used to tell him off for using so much sugar. It would rot his teeth I said.
He only ever laughed and added another spoonful.
We kissed for almost the entire rain break. We parted just before it ended; he left with a muttered apology and I returned to my support team, to Mirka who knew how I felt and gave me more help than I deserved. She saw my expression and hugged me once, tightly. Then it was back out on court to face him and this time he was the distracted one.
I bend to pick up a worn tennis ball from behind the couch, tossing it from hand to hand. I hate the winter, though I used to love it for the time it gave me to relax. Now relaxing gives me too much time to think and I find the snow depressing whereas once I found it beautiful. I have a million memories of Andy lurking in my mind, some nothing more than brief pictures; Andy silhouetted against the sunlight through my window; Andy laughing, head thrown back and eyes sparkling; Andy underneath me on his bed, mouth open as he cried my name.
I don’t mind the snapshot memories, although they creep into my thoughts with no warning. It is the longer memories that haunt me, the times when what happened was important enough to be branded into me, down to the smallest detail. I’ve relived them torturously these last few weeks, searching for what I did wrong. There must be something I’m missing because all I see is smiles and kisses, making love and waking up beside each other, never wanting to move. There were arguments of course; no relationship is without them but Andy’s temper always flared up quickly and was faster to die down, so we never fought for long. Andy was the only one who could ever break my façade of calm; he quickly learnt when I was an inner knot of nerves beneath my outer shell.
From the very first time he understood and he never failed to comfort me.
. . .
The knock at the door was hesitant. I glanced up from where I was sprawled on the couch. The celebrations after Wimbledon last night had been exhausting and I wasn’t looking forward to the flight home that afternoon. It hadn’t sunk in that I was Wimbledon champion for the second year running. It hadn’t registered that I’d beaten Andy Roddick for the seventh time.
It still seemed like a crazy dream that he’d actually kissed me in the locker room.
We hadn’t really seen each other since unless you count out on court in front of countless eyes. When he hugged me at the end he’d held on just a moment too long; had pressed just a little too close, not so the audience would notice, but close enough for me to feel his breathing quicken. Then it was apart for speeches and interviews and publicity and somehow he’d vanished into the blur of people clamouring to talk to me. I looked for him all evening; my heart leapt at the faintest sign of blond or at the sound of a familiar voice that was never anything more than my imagination. I never stopped looking but he wasn’t there.
I was starting to wonder if he never had been and being kissed in the locker room was just my wishful thinking.
So the knock at the door didn’t immediately make my breathing catch or my hands clench because it could have been anyone; a journalist, a friend, a more-enterprising-than-most fan who’d discovered where we were staying. I heard Mika’s footsteps cross the kitchen to open it and low voices; it wasn’t until she called, “Hey Rog, I’m going out for a while,” that I sat up in confusion.
“Going where?” I called back but the door slamming was my only answer.
I hesitated a moment longer and that was all the time it took him to peer uncertainly around the open door. I knew it was him the instant before I met worried brown eyes and was on my feet and moving toward him before I could stop myself.
It took an immense effort to remind myself he may not be as happy about yesterday as I was and I froze halfway across the room.
“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. I clenched my hands into white-knuckled fists of nerves behind my back and stared at the floor.
“Hey.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come last night. I didn’t think you’d be home and then I talked myself out of it and… well yeah. I’m sorry.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, watching me expectantly. I didn’t know what to say so I merely shrugged.
“There is nothing to say sorry for.”
“Yes there is!” He straightened and took a step toward me, pushing a hand back through hair that stuck up as usual. The stubble from yesterday was still there but I ruthlessly quashed the memory of it against my cheek. “Roger, I took advantage yesterday-“
“You took advantage?” I was astonished enough to interrupt. He held up a hand to stop me and continued.
“Yeah, I did. I don’t know what you want or think you want Roj, but it isn’t this. Believe me. I’ve tried it before.”
A spark of anger followed the initial wave of jealousy that someone else – a fellow tennis player? – had touched, had had what I could only dream of. Anger that he would dare tell me what I did and didn’t want, like a child being offered a sweet only to have it snatched away by a disapproving adult. I bit back a rude comment and swallowed it, taking a deep breath. “You have no idea what I want.”
“Yeah I do.” Andy’s tone softened again, becoming understanding. “I wanted it once too. Only I got it and it didn’t make either of us happy.” He took another step toward me, cautiously. “Please trust me on this Roger. This would be too difficult for both of us.”
“So that’s it.” I didn’t recognise the sneer in my voice, borne of the roiling disappointment and hurt buried beneath outer calm. “It is too difficult for you, so forget it? No matter what I feel. No matter what I want.” I summoned every ounce of control I possessed and turned my back on him. My tone was icy when I next spoke. “You know where the door is. I’ll see you in Canada.”
“Feds, don’t do this-“ He started tiredly but broke off as I shook my head tightly. I heard his sigh from across the room. “Okay but just think about it. No matter how much we want it, under the circumstances it’s impossible.”
I barely heard his footsteps turn towards the door. His last sentence echoed through my mind on repeat, making the room go hazy and my balance unsteady. How much we want it.
We.
He wasn’t leaving because he didn’t want me. It wasn’t because he’d changed his mind since yesterday or because he didn’t feel the same way about me as I did about him.
But he was still leaving.
I held my breath and closed my eyes against threatening tears. I wouldn’t cry until he’d gone. I didn’t want him to see me lose control. I didn’t… I never finished the thought as a tear escaped to slide down one cheek.
His arms around me weren’t hesitant – he pulled me into the embrace with reassuring strength and I turned against his chest with a muffled sob. His hands were in my hair and on my back; stroking, petting, accompanying his voice murmuring wordless comfort in my ear. He smelled fresh; of the rain outside and the same apple shampoo, with hints of something spicy which I later learned was a scent he liked to use. For some inane reason it reminded me of cinnamon and I could never use it when cooking again without remembering him.
How long we stood wrapped around each other in the middle of the room I’ll never know. I do know that he spoke first and it was in a gentle, almost thoughtful tone of voice.
“You really want this don’t you?”
The lump in my throat was too heavy for me to speak. I nodded against his shoulder, my face hidden in it. He sighed again, heavily.
“You know it’ll be hard? Two different countries, media stalking our every move, having to keep it secret from everyone else on tour?”
I nodded again.
“And you’re absolutely positive?”
I swallowed hard, finding my voice which came out low but determined. “Positive.”
Andy Roddick never hesitates when he has a clear purpose in mind. The kiss was harder than the one the day before; sharp edges of teeth and pressing tongues and a hint of something like a promise - that this was real and definite and he’d do everything he could to protect me.
“That’s good enough for me,” he whispered as we broke apart, his lips brushing my cheek and his breath mingling hot with mine.
. . .
My bedroom seems cold these days, the cool grey and white colours reflecting the white snow dazzle from outside. I sink on to the bed and toss the tennis ball in my hand against the wall, fumbling the return catch and watching it roll away expressionlessly. This is the room that I hate the most when remembering him; we spent hours here, talking, fucking, kissing. Time was always moving too fast for us; he had to catch a plane back to the States for a promised photo shoot; I was playing a local tournament as a favour; we had practices and family and lives to deal with, but in this room it didn’t seem to matter.
I trace a hand across the soft coverlet, following the position he loved to lie in, on his side with me curled against him so he could watch me sleep. He was always awake when I dozed off and seemed to sense I was waking a few seconds before I opened my eyes because even in the night when I woke from bad dreams he had me comfortingly in his arms often before I’d even realised my eyes were open. I used to play a game to see if I could outlast him and stay awake but in the early weeks I never won.
It was in this very room I first saw him sleep and first heard what I’d be longing months to hear him say.
. . .
“Roger?” Mirka was at my side, wearing a funny half-smile. When I lifted a questioning eyebrow she put a hand on my arm and steered me firmly towards the hall. I cast a quick parting smile back at the group of friends I’d been chatting too and let her push me out the room.
“What’s going on?” I asked curiously. For all I knew she’d organised another birthday surprise; the party had been more than enough but it was late and guests were beginning to leave. Mirka took a deep breath.
“There’s someone at the door for you.”
It was the way she said it that made me pause, confused. She sounded amused but serious. There was no one I could think of who hadn’t either been at the party or who was currently in the country, that would make her react like this.
I realised I was wrong a second later when I saw Andy, dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes, leaning wearily against the doorframe. Somehow when he saw me he summoned the energy to smile.
“Happy birthday,” he said warmly.
Fifteen minutes later I’d waved the last of the guests off and was climbing the stairs to my room where I’d asked Andy to wait. He said he’d jumped on a plane as soon as he could after his match against Andre and done everything possible to get here before my birthday ended. I could say nothing in reply, only kiss him until he broke away for air, laughing at the success of his surprise.
I tiptoed to my door, half afraid that I’d open it and find him gone. It was ajar and the light was on which reassured me that I hadn’t been hallucinating, but as I slid silently into the room I could only smile in wonder.
Andy sleeping was incredible. When awake he was never still even for a moment; he resettled his hat; he played with the elastic band he liked to keep around his wrist; he danced from foot to foot in joy or frustration. He thrived on endless motion and it drew attention to him even when he didn’t mean it too. I could never take my eyes off him from the beginning, simply because he was so engaging to watch. I’d never before seen him entirely still, even when bored or tired.
Exhaustion – and the endless journey – had finally caught up with him. I walked as softly as I could across to the bed and crouched beside it, studying his motionless – for once - form. He was stretched out on his side, face buried in my pillow, one tightly shut eye just visible under strands of tangled blond hair. He looked thinner and younger asleep, the seemingly boundless energy that kept him going through the day disappearing to nothing. I reached out to brush wondering fingertips down one flushed cheek then hesitated. I shouldn’t wake him.
As if he had heard me, the half-visible eye cracked open, a slit of gleaming brown through strands of blond. Faster than I’d have thought possible for someone so tired he grabbed my wrist and hauled me onto the bed beside him, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist. I went willingly, laughing and happy just to have him there with me.
“Mmmm.” He settled himself again, closing his eyes with his forehead touching mine. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” I tilted my head slightly to kiss the tip of his nose and wriggled closer to his warmth. I didn’t need to tell him how much I appreciated him flying out to me. He already knew. He slid one hand up from my waist to my shoulder then up to cup my face as his eyes opened again. They were dark and serious when they met mine. That he’d thought to surprise me like this, after his second exhausting defeat in as many weeks – I shied uncomfortably away from the memory that the first had been at my hands – was worth more than any words he could ever have said.
He stared at me a second longer, then smiled. His voice was soft and sincere when he spoke.
“I love you.”
Except those.
. . .
I’m freezing lying on the bed, freezing from the inside out and the thick jacket I snatch up on the way out the room won’t do anything to help. The silence screams around me; screams for something to fill the empty spaces left by an American voice whispering he loved me. There were never any pictures – too dangerous – but instead of blank spaces on the wall I feel the empty places in my soul. Andy filled a place just by being in it; his personality fizzed and bubbled into all the corners until everywhere you went you felt his presence. He’s gone and the house is nothing but an empty shell again and it hates it, hates it almost as much as I do.
I’d move if I thought the memories wouldn’t simply follow me.
My bare feet make sadly echoing footsteps as I restlessly enter the kitchen, turning away from the abandoned mugs of coffee in disgust. The table holds bad memories once treasured; Andy bent backwards beneath me, glowing golden in the late sunlight coming through the wide window. My treacherous memory reminds me that it turned his brown eyes to rich copper; bleached his skin to the colour of honey. His remembered breathy cries shiver through me as I turn away to stare out the window at the curtain of falling snow.
There’s a shell necklace hanging above the sink. I’m so used to it now that I hardly see it but against the empty whiteness outside it glitters like a rainbow; iridescence bright enough to hurt my eyes. I reach for it haltingly and taste hot, dusty air, lips flavoured with ouzo and the burn of salty tears.
…
Losing is something everyone learns to deal with in different ways. After a while it can become routine but it’s a routine that’s simple to forget. Winning is a dangerously additive drug and I’d almost forgotten the penalty for being deprived of it.
I was trembling as I knocked Andy’s door, shaking hard enough for my knock to sound erratic. The air in the Athlete’s Village was stiflingly hot and my breath came in short sharp gasps that could’ve been from the heat or disappointment, I couldn’t tell and didn’t care. I slammed my fist into the wood again and noted distantly that my knuckles were painfully bruised. My sweat-damp tennis clothes clung to me and I suppose at any other time it would’ve been uncomfortable.
I knocked again and the door flew open under my hand. I stumbled unexpectedly forward only to be caught by a surprised Mardy Fish.
“What-“ He recognised me and as I glanced up I saw the shock flash across his face. His arms were steady around my waist as he helped me upright but I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Andy!” he yelled at the bathroom door as he guided me across to the bed I knew as Andy’s since I’d spent last night spread across it being fucked. I sank onto it with Mardy’s help and numbly stared at the glass of cold water he pushed into my hands.
“What’s-“ Andy sounded annoyed as he came out the bathroom but the instant he caught sight of me sitting on the bed he was across the room and had his arms around me, pulling me into a fierce hug. “Roj where the hell have you been?! I’ve been going out of my mind.” He pulled back just far enough to kiss my cheek then redoubled his grip around me. I wasn’t sure where my trembling ended and his began.
There was a soft click as the door closed behind a tactfully leaving Mardy. Andy didn’t even glance up and some bizarrely calm part of my mind observed that he was only wearing a towel around his waist, some sort of string hung with shells around his neck and that he smelt more strongly of ouzo than Mardy had. Thinking about it the glass of something in my hand looked a little cloudy for water. I took a sip and nearly choked on the burn of liquor in my mouth. It was enough to bring the threatening tears behind my eyes closer to falling.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” Andy said, his voice muffled against my neck. “I’m so sorry…” He suddenly stiffened against me and pulled back, looking at me in surprise. “You haven’t even changed? Oh Roj…”
I couldn’t speak. I’d hardly spoken since I walked away defeated from an Olympic doubles match, only a few painful hours after doing the same in the singles. I’d wanted to come find Andy right away. I’d wanted to hear him say I’d be fine and it was just another day and just another match.
Then I’d heard he’d won his match and the trickle of bitter jealousy had kept me away.
I hadn’t realised I was being so selfish. Even after leaning back Andy was pressed against me as if he’d never let me go again and his eyes were red-rimmed. Remorse filtered through my crushing disappointment and I put the glass of ouzo down by my feet so I could turn into his embrace better.
We sat silently on the bed holding onto each other, Andy running his hands through my hair and over my shoulders as if checking I was really okay. Being held was enough to lessen the sting of the double defeat, just a little but that only ended in the tears I’d forced back for so long welling over. Andy hugged me while I cried and whispered reassuring nonsense and held me upright as I downed the tall glass of ouzo in one mouthful. We didn’t move from the bed until I’d run out of tears and then it was only to the bathroom where he kept me upright as he turned on the shower and helped me out my clothes.
I remember the shower being hot enough to sting and just big enough for two people to share. Andy stood behind me with a steadying arm around my waist as I leaned back into him and let the water wash away my tearstains, burning clean my skin. His lips against my neck were hardly cooler than the water and when his hands slid downwards I exhaled gratefully. As talented as he was with his hands he couldn’t completely remove the sting of defeat but he could lessen it a little. I braced myself against the wall as he moved faster; the water making everything slippery and smooth. My breathing quickened and with coloured lights dancing behind tight shut eyelids I came under his hands, a choked cry breaking free from behind clenched teeth as he brought me gently through it.
I sank to the floor of the shower when my knees gave way and he came down with me, ignoring the water beating down on us both. I lay there too exhausted - emotionally and physically - to move and he held me close, skin on skin, as close as we could get.
He moved first, shifting a little so he could reach up to lift off the necklace I’d seen earlier. It was a string of tiny speckled shells, coloured somehow a dazzling shade of turquoise blue. He reached around me to place it in my hands and wrapped my fingers tightly around it.
“This is my lucky charm,” he said quietly through the sound of the water. “I want you to have it.”
“Don’t you need it?” I asked, opening my hand to watch the spray bounce off the shells. It was iridescent in the bright lights, shimmering as I tilted it. I could feel Andy’s smile as he pressed a kiss to my neck.
“I don’t need it,” he answered. “I’ve got you.”
It was then I understood that perhaps losing wasn’t the end of everything.
I still had him.
…
The tiles are cold beneath my feet as I leave the kitchen, the chill from bare stone drifting up and making me shiver. I tuck my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket and wander aimlessly down the hallway. Everywhere I go I see something to remind me of him; the trophy from Toronto (which I enjoyed more than any tournament in my life; sharing a hotel room with him and sleeping – or often not - beside him every night); an armband he tossed onto a chair once and forgot; the intertwined AR carved into my antique Italian table. He bought me a new Playstation as an apology for that. It’s still under my bed having never left the box.
It was the US Open the week after he gave it to me.
I don’t want to think about that particular memory. It’s too vivid, too painful. It seems like forever ago and yet still seems like yesterday; Andy’s terrifying when he’s truly upset and I can still feel the bruises he apologised profusely for the next morning. He never hit me – I know looking back that never in a million years would he dream of it - but he’s stronger than he realises and when he was venting frustration, it was all I could do to simply hang on.
I’m thinking about it again and it hurts, but I can’t stop. It’s relentless as all the other memories and I close my eyes, leaning back against the wall in a futile attempt to block it out.
. . .
I’d known from the moment Johansson beat him that he was going to be furious. I’d never expected it to happen and from the look on Johansson’s face as he walked off court, he hadn’t either. I’d never seen Andy want something as much as he wanted to win this tournament before. It had never occurred to me, the way he was playing, that he could lose.
I’d never thought that maybe he’d take it out on me.
Andy in a temper isn’t the most rational of people. As I paced back and to in my hotel suite, wondering whether his family had left and it was safe to go to his room yet, I was half expecting the crash of the door flying open. I wasn’t expecting Andy to come storming through, slam me back against the wall and kiss me hard enough to make my head spin.
“Andy-“ I managed to gasp out as he moved back far enough to unbutton my jeans. A thousand sayings flashed through my mind; calm down, take a deep breath, it’s just another match – only to vanish when I met his blank, reddened eyes. I could smell the whiskey on his breath and feel it in the way he leaned on me for balance. Deep down I knew there was only one thing he needed right now and since I couldn’t give him back his chance at the US Open trophy, I could only give him the next best thing.
Myself.
“The door-“ I warned as he yanked off my belt. The growl he gave was filled with raw frustration but he pulled me off the wall and pushed me towards the bedroom, his warmth vanishing briefly from my side as he slammed and locked the door. I hesitated a moment in the middle of the room only to be half knocked off my feet as he dragged me towards the bed.
“Andy-“I tried again; the name ripped free of my throat as I hit the bed backwards, hands digging into soft blankets to steady myself. “I-“
“Don’t.” Andy leaned over me, silhouetted against the light but I could still see his narrowed eyes and hear his harsh breathing. “Just don’t.”
He stripped with brutal economy; I heard material tear as he struggled out his shirt and hurled it aside. Sitting across my thighs in just his boxers, leaving half moons of anger in my shoulders from bitten nails, he was more terrifying than I’d ever seen him and inside I shivered at this new Andy whose kisses were flavoured with despair and whose touch left me holding back gasps of sudden pain. He was methodical in his rage; teeth marks through my shirt down my chest from bites and handprint bruises on my arms as I bucked into him, desperate to be touched, for anything other than tight jeans.
I could’ve tried to calm him down. I could’ve walked away, said no, yelled and sworn at him until it got through. But it was easier just to lie there and let him vent his anger on me; let him burn off frustration and disappointment and hurt by fucking me hard and deep. I took the easy way out and to this day I regret it. In a way I suppose I represented everything he was so furious with; I was successful where he had failed; I was close to winning his tournament and I, I just lay back and let him have me. He didn’t want obedience; he wanted a fight, to blow off steam but I didn’t understand until I found it painful to walk the next day. When Andy Roddick truly needed me to understand him I let him down, and that memory is seared into my soul as my greatest failure.
I remember his hands, bruisingly hard on bare skin; remember his harsh breathing and the way he swallowed my scream in his mouth when I came. I remember hearing my clothes rip and knowing I’d find them uselessly shredded the next day; remember his blank silence as he moved over me and the low, fierce tone of his voice when he finally spoke.
“You win this fucking tournament for me,” he demanded between gasps as he crouched above me, trembling and spent. “I want you to go out there and beat the other guy into the ground.”
I looked up in the semi-darkness, the only light the lights of Manhattan through the window. They painted him in an odd yellow glow; shimmering from the sweat trickling cold across hot bare skin and glinting from his dark eyes. He was still inside me and it still hurt and I could hardly speak for fear the tears behind my eyelids would spill over. So instead I reached a shaky hand up to pull him down into a long kiss, softer than anything we’d done since he came through the door. By the time I let him go, I’d found my voice, rough and cracked though it was.
“I promise,” I whispered, my breath catching sharply as he shifted a little. “I promise I’ll win this tournament for you.”
. . .
Back in the present I smile bitterly without opening my eyes. I’d won that one for him. I’d won it with the bruises and the marks and knowing that somewhere in Austin, Texas he was staring at a blank TV screen waiting for me to call. After that he was always careful when he touched me; treating me like I was made of glass and would shatter if he bruised me again. He never voiced it but I knew he felt guilty on top of his disappointment in himself, guilty that he’d gone too far and a little angry I hadn’t stopped him.
I’m angry with myself that I didn‘t at least try.
Pushing away from the wall I pace back into the living room, trailing a hand over the back of the sofa as I pass. It was Andy’s favourite place to sit – he could never sit properly on chairs or sofas; he’d sit back to front or sideways or on the arms - and I was always terrified of it tipping over backwards. We used to sit and watch old movies, him on the back, me on the cushions between his knees as he massaged my shoulders. Every so often he’d lean down to press a kiss to my hair. He loved my hair. He told me so every day. I almost cut it after he left but couldn’t bear the thought of his expression next time we passed in some hotel corridor.
I’m back to the little memories now and it’s good because it’s leading me away from the one I really don’t want to think about. While I’ve been obsessively over every last detail of the months before it happened, my mind shies away from the final scene in what could be a bad movie without the happy ending. My teeth chatter with cold as I curl up on the sofa and wrap a blanket around me. It still smells faintly of him, of apples and lingering spicy scent; it’s enough to bring to mind his face from that last day, serious, sad and not what I want to remember at all.
"I’m sorry I couldn’t end it better."
His voice was choked with emotion and he couldn’t look at me. The memory hurts like a knife in my chest and I huddle deeper under the blanket as if I can block it out by hiding.
It doesn’t work.
. . .
I’d gone to visit him. It had seemed like a good idea at the time since we’d hardly had time to do more than briefly kiss during the Master’s Cup and I’d been delayed unexpectedly in Texas by a wrongly booked flight. I’d cancelled my ticket and gone to Andy’s as a surprise. I told myself it wasn’t to satisfy the niggling anxiety at the back of my mind.
He’d been distant that week, for a few weeks in fact. Sometimes when I said I loved him he’d open his mouth to reply with a smile then hesitate. He always covered it with a swift “I know,” but that didn’t mean I hadn’t caught the pause. I wouldn’t see him much during the day and he wouldn’t come straight to the room at night or he’d disappear to ‘meetings’ with Brad for hours on end. I suspected he was doing it on purpose and it hurt. I just didn’t know why.
I loved his Austin house; loved the honey-coloured floors and pale walls, the comfortable chairs hidden in alcoves and the thousands of memories to go with each one. There was a spot by the lake where we’d spent hours, a ledge above the cove at one end. In the summer it was a warm, lazy spot and my feet turned that way as I got out the car before I’d even considered knocking at the house. I knew Andy would be up there even though the summer sunshine was long gone this late in the year and a cold wind was cutting through my fleecy jacket with ease as I walked, shivering, to the lake.
It was grey under the winter sky, white-capped waves skittering across the surface from the wind. A light drizzle misted the air and I walked faster to keep warm. My boots made no sound on the dry winter grass but Andy looked up as I approached anyway. There was no welcoming smile or open surprise; he looked resigned, almost pained.
I hesitated beside the ledge, my hands in the pockets of my jacket and blinking against the wind. Andy was sitting with his knees drawn up only a few feet away and I wanted to say ‘hello’, or ‘surprise’ or even for some reason I didn’t understand, ‘don’t’ but what came out when I opened my mouth was “What’s wrong?”
Andy just shook his head and looked back out across the lake. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or it was the rain trickling down his face and suddenly I didn’t want to know. I wanted it to be summer again, to be lying curled against him on this spot watching birds soar over the lake, to hear him say he loved me. I wanted to wake up beside him and find I’d been dreaming. I wanted everything and anything except the icy, sinking feeling in my chest as I stared down at him.
“Andy?” I asked uncertainly. I was chilled to the bone standing in the wind and my fingers were starting to go numb. “What…”
He didn’t even look at me; just rested his head on drawn up knees. “Roger,” he said in a muffled voice. “You have no idea how difficult it is to say this but…”
The world dropped away beneath me and I felt like I’d fallen even though my feet were still on the ground. I closed my eyes against the dizzy certainness of what he was about to say. “Don’t,” I begged in a choked whisper that could have been spoken aloud or simply thought. “Please don’t do this.”
He hesitated but finished, each word shaped carefully as if it took an effort to even form them. “I can’t do this anymore. “ He kept his eyes down and I numbly knew his tears were being scattered by the wind, his voice choked and broken. “I’m sorry I couldn’t end it better. I just know… I can’t.”
If I’d have moved I wouldn’t have been able to tell which way was up or down; everything blurred into shapeless grey around me and the only real thing was the soft rasp of my breathing. It was unreal. I wasn’t really standing there hearing Andy say he wanted to end us; I was warm and safe in a bed beside him somewhere and I was going to wake up to his comforting arms and soft reassurance that he loved me and would never leave. I wasn’t going to walk away from here alone because it wasn’t real.
There was no way it could be. I wouldn’t let it be.
The funny thing about being number one at what you do; you start to think you’re untouchable in every part of your life, not just your sport. I was so used to being thought of as the best, as perfect, that I didn’t know how to handle suddenly being unwanted.
He didn’t want me.
Andy was still speaking, haltingly as if trying to find the right words. “I can’t keep standing across the court from you wanting us both to win because I can’t stand to see either of us lose. I can’t… I can’t keep clocking up flying hours between here and Switzerland at the expense of my family, tennis, my life Roger. We can’t dodge the media forever and there’ve been too many close calls in the last month!” He rubbed a hand angrily across his face, wiping away tears and rain. “It’s too fucking difficult and we’re risking too much.” Finally, finally when it was too late and everything had already been said, he looked up, anger and shame and tears all mingling together in his eyes. “Fucking say something Roger!”
His voice cracked on my name and I flinched. My breathing was fast and unsteady; my head still spinning dizzily as I met his eyes. He looked like he was falling to pieces but Andy’s always shown how he feels, an open book for the world to read and I’d have been more hurt if he was calm. I knew my stony silence was hurting him but I couldn’t speak through the roiling mess of thoughts and the lump in my throat and could only stare at him, my world shattered with a few simple words.
We could have stayed there all day, gazes locked, each desperate to find understanding from the other but Andy broke first. He scrambled to his feet and pushed past me; for the briefest of moments he had his arms around me and I thought it had all been a mistake; I’d hear him say he loved me again. A rough brush of salt-soaked lips on mine and he didn’t need to whisper ‘I’m sorry’ into the kiss because I knew it already; understood with abrupt clarity that he’d meant every word. And, as he walked away towards the house with head bowed and shoulders hunched into the wind, I knew he wouldn’t look back.
. . .
How I got home from Austin that day I’m still not sure even now. Tears have soaked my blanket at the memory which ends in a meaningless blur of grey that ends in me waking up in my own bed gasping Andy’s name. I’d hardly believed it was real for days after but when he didn’t call or knock at the door or even write, it started to sink in. Being alone again after so many months of having him to turn to was torture and I was lost for anything to do to take my mind off losing him. I still am and as I bury my face in the blanket, I think I always will be.
The knock at the door is hesitant and I glance up towards it from my huddle on the couch, swallowing a painful leap of hope. This isn’t the day after Wimbledon; this isn’t Athens or Toronto or anywhere I’d have expected to see him in the past. This is real life and if I open the door expecting him I’ll only be disappointed, again.
The knock again.
I can ignore it. I can pretend I’m asleep or not home and save myself painful explanations for my red eyes and the fact the house is freezing cold. I’ve done it before countless times over the last month and one more time won’t matter.
So why I climb off the couch and stumble towards the door on numb feet I can’t really explain.
Reaching the door, I stand behind it with one hand on the key. I hate this moment and love it at the same time; hate the fact deep down I know it won’t be who I want it to be and loving the fact that, in the brief instant before I open the door, I’m fully expecting to see him on the other side. Just turning the key is difficult with chilled fingers but I manage and turn the handle, closing my eyes for a moment.
“Please,” I whisper to mid-air and open the door.
Andy looks half frozen standing on the doorstep, huddled into his thick coat with snow coating his hair. I stand speechless, disbelieving, motionless. My heart says it’s him and my head says I’m going crazy. For the second time in a month the floor beneath me feels unsteady and dizziness makes me blink.
“Hi,” Andy says uncertainly and I absently notice the cold has turned his cheeks red and is making his teeth chatter. I’m completely out of my depth and all I can think of to say is;
“… Hi.”
He shifts his weight a little and I know from months of watching his body language that he’s trying very hard to stay calm. “Can I come in?”
Once he wouldn’t have even had to ask. I stand silently back and gesture for him to come in, well aware I’m wrapped in a ridiculously brightly patterned blanket and look like some sort of deranged Eskimo. I don’t care. Somewhere inside there’s a tiny voice screaming at me not to smile too soon but it’s hard. I bite my lip and follow him through to the living room where he sits uncomfortably on the arm of the sofa. I lean against the doorframe, staring at the floor.
He’s here. He’s closer than he’s been for weeks and all I want to do is tell him how much I missed him but I can’t find the words.
Andy runs a hand through his hair, scattering snowflakes, and gazes around the room at everything but me. I’ve hardly ever seen him so uncomfortable. “How… how’ve you been?”
“Okay,” I lie, pretending I’m not shivering. “You?”
He swallows and stands up, taking a few paces towards the window so his back is half turned towards me. “Terrible. I…” He trails off and I notice he looks thinner, despite the bulky coat. “I’ve been trying to tell myself I did the right thing but I think I screwed up and Mardy keeps telling me I’m a moron and this is completely different from what we-“
He breaks off abruptly but I’ve picked up on the reference. Mardy - of course. He was the guy Andy had ‘tried this before’ with. Everything suddenly makes a little more sense; Mardy’s tact in Athens, the way he was always on there if we needed an alibi for friends or the press. How I got home from Texas when I have no recollection of buying a ticket or driving to the airport; I can vaguely remember a soft, worried voice and gentle hands helping me into the car. And Mardy had told Andy he was a moron for dumping me.
I’ll have to remember to buy him a drink next time I see him. Or maybe a new car. Something sleek and shiny. The part of my mind that isn’t totally fixed on Andy standing in my living room wonders absently if buying him a villa in France is going too far.
“So next thing I know I’m sitting on this plane and then I’m driving here and then I’m standing outside your door, all with no idea what I’m supposed to say.” Andy’s keeping his eyes fixed out the window but I know he’s nervous from the faint trembling of his hands as he knots them together in front of him. “I… what am I supposed to say?” He sounds closer to tears with every word and all I want to do is cross the room and put my arms around him but I’m frozen to the floor. There’s something he’s trying to explain and if I interrupt him now it might ruin everything. Faintly, ever so faintly, a tiny spark of hope flickers underneath my despair.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice hardly above a whisper. “I thought I could live without you but I can’t.”
‘Neither can I’ I want to say but my mouth is dry and Andy’s still talking, the words slipping out faster as if he’s found what he wants to say.
“I was scared when I- when I broke it off. Being with you takes everything I’ve got and more and I’ve never had to give anyone that much of myself before.” He scrubs impatiently at his eyes with the back of his hand and I see it come away wet. I’m still hanging onto the wall for balance and can’t quite believe this is happening. “I’m so sorry Roj.” At last he looks up and I meet his eyes, warm brown wet with salty tears and bright with hope. “Please… I love you. Forgive me?”
Yes. Of course. I love you too. A million things to say flash through my mind and somehow before I can say any of them I’m across the room and kissing him desperately because for him, for this, I don’t need words. Everything I’ve felt, thought, wanted, needed these last few weeks is in this kiss and he’s warm against me, enfolding my cold hands in his and laughing with relief against my mouth. Memories can’t compare to what he really feels like against me, tasting like salt and mint and coffee - everything I hadn’t known I’d miss until it was gone. I’m laughing too and hugging him as tight as I can and kissing him until we run out of air.
“I love you,” he repeats as we break apart, his lips softly brushing mine. This close all I can see is his eyes and how much he means the words; means them utterly and I know he won’t ever doubt them again. I smile through the glow of happiness surrounding me - he’s here and he loves me and I can finally feel the icy chill of loneliness and hurt inside melt away. Finding my voice is easy now I know what to say.
“I love you too.”
~ Fin~
A.N. This mini-mammoth of a fic was originally intended to be short, around 4-5,000 words at the most (!). It was written quickly and hasn’t had the editing it really needs, because quite simply just thinking about it exhausts me.
The flashbacks, are intended to take place at these times:
1 – Wimbledon 2004 (July 4th – just before the final) 2 – London (July 5th – just before Roger left England for Gstaad) 3 – Switzerland (August 8th – the day after Andy lost to Andre Agassi at Cincinnati) 4 – Athens (August 17th – Roger had just lost in both the singles and doubles at the Olympics. Andy lost the next day to Fernando Gonzalez) 5 – US Open 2004, New York (September 9th – Andy had just lost his match against Joachim Johansson. Roger of course went on to win the tournament.) 6 – Austin, Texas – (sometime mid-to-late November 2004, after the Master’s Cup which will take place in Houston, Texas.)