Multi-part: Parisian Dreams (NC-17, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer/Mardy Fish/Mirka Vavrinec) Title: Parisian Dreams Rating: NC-17 Pairing: this part) Roddick/Federer, hints of Andy/Mardy and Roger/Mirka Summary: Mardy and Mirka are pulling the strings while Roger and Andy are just trying to understand why they’re wandering, seemingly aimlessly, through the streets of Paris. Notes: Sequel to Ficlet N. Set in December 2004. Opening/closing quotes and title from Charles Baudelaire’s poem Parisian Dream.
“That marvellous landscape of my dream- Which no eye knows, nor ever will- At moments, wide awake, I seem To grasp, and it excites me still.”
~
There was always going to be a scene in the airport.
Deep down Mardy knew he’d been fooling himself into believing he’d escape unscathed - though how he’d managed to even contemplate that after years of knowing Andy was beyond him. Andy Roddick doesn’t like to be coerced and he doesn’t like not knowing what's going on.
And he’s always happy to let the world know about it.
“I’m not moving another inch until you tell me what the fuck is going on Mardy!”
Ah. Right on cue.
Mardy casts an apologetic look at the woman at the security gate, waiting for them to hurry up - after all, no sense in alienating the officials. Too late it seems since all he gets in return is a frosty glare, dammit, that’s the last thing they need- “Andy please, don’t start.“
“I’m not a fucking three year old Mardy!” Mardy resists the temptation to make a sarcastic comment along the lines of’ really, because you fucking look like one.’ Andy has his arms folded and his best pout locked in place. The weekend was going to be a disaster at this rate and they haven’t even left American soil.
“You cancel my plans, you make me pack a suitcase and won’t even tell me where we’re going! For fuckssake, give me something.” Andy’s pout wavers into despair for the briefest second and Mardy’s heart aches. He’s going to spend the next thirty six or so hours manipulating the man he’s loved since he was seventeen and he hates it; hates that it’s the only way and that it could ruin everything for them both. There’s the briefest second when he considers calling it all off and walking away but he can’t, not now. He can’t go back to being happy with friendship. It’s been too long of turning away, keeping quiet and sitting on the sidelines. He won’t turn down a chance at something more.
The moment to walk away passes. Mardy turns his back on Andy and hands his passport to the glaring official.
“Mardy don’t you fucking dare-“
“Andy.” There’s steel in his tone. “I don’t ask much. When I do ask, you know I always have a good reason. I’m asking you now to stop causing a scene and trust me.” A moment of silence then he adds “Please.”
The weekend, the future, happiness – Mardy can feel it all hanging in the balance as Andy hesitates. If he walks away it’s all over; the entire point of this trip is for all of them to be there, even if only half of them know it. He risks a glance back to see indecision in the hazel eyes; Andy torn between anger and curiosity and Mardy inwardly sighs in relief. Nothing is greater than Andy’s curiosity - there’s plenty of long-running jokes on the tour about dead cats to prove it. Sure enough the other American is stepping forward a millisecond later, grudging defeat in his tone when he speaks.
“You owe me an explanation Fish.”
“I do,” Mardy agrees, stepping through the security gate without it beeping. “And you’ll get one. In due time.”
~
Of all the flights to be delayed, it had to be this one.
Mirka finishes counting the squares in the carpet pattern and moves on to ceiling tiles. Beside her, curled like a cat into the cramped airport seat – with all the people using them you’d think by now someone would have realised just how goddamn uncomfortable they were – Roger turns the page of his book, lost somewhere in the Fifth Circle of Hell. Mirka isn’t sure if he chose Dante’s Inferno to bring as a subtle comment on her cancelling his plans to see Andy, but years of loving Roger has taught her two things; one, nothing he does is by accident and; two, when he loves, it’s completely. He trusts her too much to fight the cancellation of his plans, beyond a few pointed remarks… but she’d seen the weekend outlined with red on the calendar in his kitchen, 'Andy' scribbled across it in the swirled hand she remembers from birthday cards and shopping lists stuck to the fridge, back in the days when they shared one. He would never tell her how much he was looking forward to this rare time spent with the American but she knows it anyway and regrets the deception so much it hurts. Almost enough to tell him what they’re doing sitting in Basel Airport, waiting for a flight to Paris that keeps getting moved back another hour.
Almost.
But that would ruin months of careful planning and no fleeting regret is worth passing up a chance at happiness that’s not just for herself.
She keeps her gaze on the ceiling, letting herself watch him from just the corner of her eye. A curl of hair falls forward as he tilts his head, flicks over a page with slender fingers. He knows she’s watching him and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth in response but he keeps dark eyes fixed on the book. People have called his patience unnatural and she’s heard Andy muttering something about a curse on more than one occasion, but to her it’s just Roger. She used to hate playing games like chess with him because she always got frustrated before he did and ended up storming out the room but now she misses it; misses quiet evenings curled together on the sofa and the careful, almost possessive brush of his hand against hers every so often in any of the countless foreign cities they visited. It’s all she has to remind herself of when she starts to question why they’re sitting here, waiting in silence.
“At that she turned and did not speak, but had the look of one who is obsessed by other cares than those that press and gnaw at those before her,” Roger murmurs almost inaudibly and Mirka glances from the repetitive ceiling tiles to him in surprise, only to be met with a teasing smile. “You were miles away. If you want to sleep I’ll wake you when the flight arrives.”
“Thanks but I’m fine. You can sleep if you want.” Mirka runs a hand through her hair that’s tangled from hours of trying to get comfortable in one airport chair after another. The waiting lounge they’re in now is huge and echoingly empty, a few people she suspects are also Paris-bound draped over the chairs in various states of sleep or boredom at the far end of the room. Friday night and most of Switzerland seems to have decided to stay home. Mirka can’t decide if she’s grateful or resentful that more people aren’t stuck here like her, caught in the unique limbo of an airport.
Grateful for the peace she decides, and resentful of it at the same time. It’s the longest time she’s spent with Roger off-tour in over a year and she’s already run out of things to say in the broodingly quiet lounge. The next day or so looms ahead of her, waiting to be filled when she can’t even hold his interest for a couple of hours. On an impulse she turns and finds him still watching her, book hanging loosely from one hand.
“Did I completely ruin your weekend?” she asks with a note of despair. A startled blink before he looks away with a sigh.
“No.” Slender fingers toy with the torn corner of the book cover as if to help him think of an answer. “I was… surprised. That you wanted this particular weekend.” The quickest flash of deep brown in her direction, laced with depths and shadows even under the fluorescent airport lighting. “But it hasn’t happened yet. I may enjoy it more than what I had planned.”
“Or not,” Mirka points out a little dryly then sighs, sinking down in her seat. “I’m sorry Roger. There is a reason for all this you know.”
“I know.” A half-smile as he goes back to his book, resettling his legs across the chair opposite. “I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t.”
~
Mardy has become quite an expert on hotel lobbies in the last couple of years, after he’d decided it was time to move away from economy rooms and splash out a little. In higher class hotels there is always marble, as if some secret hotelier rule decreed that patrons should be able to use the polished floor as an ice rink if they so desire. Andy was taking them up on that right now, leaving streaks of black from his sneakers on the gleaming white. Towering pillars tended to suggest a vaguely Romanesque perspective on life, some designer dreamingly longingly of Caesarean budgets and the more rigidly uncomfortable the waiting chairs, the more stars would be on the tastefully discreet sign near the door. The lobby they’re standing in right now has it all, down to the very last unidentifiably exotic flower in an outsize vase, but Mardy isn’t in the mood to appreciate it. He’s too busy arguing with the concierge.
“But two rooms; I booked two superior class rooms see-“ He offers his booking confirmation to the flustered man behind the desk who is getting redder in the face by the second. The screech of Andy ruining the polish on the marble isn’t helping. “It says it there, black and white! Two!”
“Apologies sir,” the concierge tries to interrupt, his strong French accent making Mardy concentrate to keep up, wincing a little every time Andy’s shoes hit a particularly strident note behind him. “A computational error I’m sure. I can offer you an extra junior room free of charge or-“
“Junior room?!” Mardy’s manages to keep his outraged response to a whisper. “I didn’t book-“
“Oh for fuckssake Mardy!” Andy is suddenly beside him, snatching the booking papers. “You don’t snore and I can cope with even you for a couple of nights.” He ignores Mardy’s hurt look and directs his glare at the harassed concierge. “Just give us the one room. At least I can soothe my pain with the mini-bar.” He glances at the silent Mardy as the man taps their confirmation into the computer. “Don’t look like I just stole your favourite racquet Fish. We lived together for a year, I’m sure we can share a room without killing each other for a weekend.”
The concierge is handing over their key and waving bellboys over to take their luggage before Mardy can answer and as Andy’s stalking away towards the stairs, Mardy leans hastily across the desk with a half-disguised smile.
“Merci,” he whispers, a fifty euro note tucked discreetly between his fingers. “I owe you.”
The note disappears, the answering smile making the concierge look ten years younger under his thick moustache. “You’re welcome.” His eyes go to the ruin of the floor and he sighs, snapping his fingers. Mardy has to dodge the resulting army of porters restoring the polish to follow Andy up to their room, still inwardly grinning.
So far, so good.
~
When Mirka comes out the bathroom, Roger’s sitting on her bed. She blinks; they hadn’t planned to share a room and she didn’t give him her key. It isn’t until she notices the connecting door standing open that she relaxes and walks across to him, wrapping a towel around her wet hair. Roger doesn’t move as she sits next to him, gaze fixed on the lights of Paris outside the window.
“Is your room okay?” she asks cautiously after a minute. He nods.
“It’s fine.”
Uncomfortable silence and Mirka rearranges her dressing gown with quick, nervous tugs, Roger’s warmth tingling against her side. Roger was always going to be the dangerous one. Not that Andy was stupid but Mardy had been confident of his ability to handle his long-time friend. Mirka is nowhere near as confident of her ability with Roger when he doesn’t want to cooperate.
All the signs right now are pointing to him not wanting to cooperate.
“Why did you take my phone?” he asks unexpectedly and Mirka almost groans out loud. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice until at least the morning. “The one from my room is gone too.” No accusation in the quiet words, just a simple statement of fact. He doesn’t need to voice the implicit question; ‘who are you trying to stop me talking to?’. Mirka knows that’s what he means.
“I’m sorry.” If she lies he’ll know and that’ll be the end of the weekend because nothing annoys Roger more than being lied to. The first time Andy tried it, the resulting fight ended in two broken windows. She has to walk the fine line of truth without giving too much away and she has to do it at two in the morning after a tiring flight. Of course. Why should anything about this weekend be easy?
“I said we’re here for a reason.” He shifts a little as she says it but she can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. “I know I’m doing things that seem to make no sense but I promise, I do know what I’m doing and you’ll find out what sooner rather than later. Please Roger. Just go along with it?”
A long pause and Mirka feels her heartbeat quicken, pounding in her ears as she watches everything she’s planned these last few months hang on Roger’s acceptance. He frowns, tucks his hair back behind one ear - a habitual gesture when he’s thinking hard - and even in the agony of waiting Mirka longs to run her hands through it again, soft and warm against her fingertips. Roger’s glance is sharp, sudden and she almost flinches because it’s as if he’s heard what she was thinking but deep down she knows not even Roger can read minds.
“What has this got to do with Andy?” he asks bluntly and she takes the mind-reading thing back, because that was the one question she was praying he wouldn’t ask - she has no idea how to answer it without lying. Roger’s frown deepens as he watches her struggle for words.
“That’s not fair Roger,” she says at last. “To explain that, I’ll need to explain it all.” There’s a brief panic when she thinks she’s said too much already but Roger’s gaze doesn’t even flicker so she brushes past it hastily. “Will you be happy if I promise you this isn’t about hurting you and Andy? Because you know we-“
And there, that’s crossed the line of what she should have said because for just an instant dark eyes light up in realisation and Mirka’s left mentally cursing herself. “You know I,” she corrects too late, “would never do anything to hurt the two of you. I promise that’s not what this weekend is about.”
Brief contemplation from Roger, she can see him working through it in his mind and fuck, sometimes she wishes he wasn’t so smart. Sure enough when he looks back at her there’s something in his expression that suggests he at least suspects what’s going on.
“Then I won’t ask anymore,” he says quietly. “As long as you tell me soon.”
“I will, I swear.” Mirka almost flinches in surprise when he takes her hand and presses it to his lips in a brief, chaste kiss. It’s enough to shock her until silence until he’s left the room, the door closing behind him without the snickt of the lock being turned.
“What just happened?” she asks herself and although it keeps her awake for hours she can’t come up with an answer.
~
Mardy’s lying awake watching Andy sleep.
He may be biased but he’s always thought there’s nothing quite as beautiful as Andy Roddick sleeping. It’s peaceful watching the immense energy wind down; there’s no fidgeting or moving, just a faint curl to the corner of his mouth, suggesting contented dreams. He started off with his back to Mardy but he turned in his sleep a little while ago and Mardy’s been studying him ever since. It’s a shivery kind of ache to be this close to the sleeping Andy, sharing blankets and pillows, listening to the younger American sleepily murmur something under his breath. There’s a hand lying loose and half curled on the pillow beside Andy’s face; Mardy touches it with his eyes, running his gaze caressingly along each crease and scar. Andy’s sleeping. It won’t matter if he actually touches it, lets the fingers curl sleepily around his… half asleep, Mardy’s better judgment doesn’t interfere. He slides his own hand across and tangles his fingers gently in Andy’s, closing his eyes as the other man tightens his grip a little.
“Mardy.”
Oh… shit. Pretend to be asleep, pretend you did it in your sleep and Mardy keeps his eyes closed, keeping his hand loosely in Andy’s so as not to draw attention to it. There’s a sleepy sigh from Andy and the hand tightens around his.
“Mardy stop fucking around. I know you’re awake.”
“Oh,” Mardy mumbles, opening his eyes. “Sorry.”
“What’s this?” Andy demands, tightening his grip on Mardy’s fingers until the older American has to stifle a cry of pain. “I’m getting a little tired of the mystery Fish. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Mardy mutters, burying his face in the pillow. “I’m tired Andy, leave me alone.”
“So that’s what this weekend is about is it?” Tired and irritated Andy takes sarcasm to new levels. “You say jump and I say how high? You say shut up and I stop talking. What’s next? You say 'fuck me' and expect me to do it?”
Mardy jerks his head up, staring wide eyed at Andy in the gloom. Their hands are still tangled together, Andy’s grip crushing Mardy’s fingers. He refuses to let go when Mardy tugs frantically at his hand, wishing he’d had more sense to start with.
“No fucking way Andy, what do you think I am?!” he hisses. “I’m treating you like a child because you’re acting like one!”
“Oh really?! So why is my phone missing? Why has our room phone been disconnected?!” Andy sits up, fierce grip still locked around Mardy’s hand. He throws the words at his friend, knife-edged accusations. “Why are you trying to stop me talking to Roger? That’s what this is about right?” Mardy flinches at the accuracy of the guess and Andy catches his breath in a sharp hiss. “Are you- Mardy what the fuck is going on? What have you got against Roger?”
“Nothing.” Mardy frees his hand with a sharp twist, rolling out the bed and standing up. He’s shaking with anger mixed with fear at how close Andy’s getting with his guesses, and a little hurt at the other American’s reaction. When did everything start to fall to pieces? “There’s a reason we’re here Andy and it’s not- it’s not about you and Roger, not really.” His voice cracks and he’s stunned to feel a tear trickle free when he blinks, moving over to the window. “I swear you’ll find out soon just-“ He leans his forehead against the cool glass, tears leaving salty-wet streaks down it and the bed creaks behind him, Andy getting up. “Just give it a rest? Please?”
“Hey Fish, I didn’t- hey,” Andy says softly and his hand on Mardy’s bare shoulder is a shock of warmth in the cool room, gentle pressure as he turns Mardy from the window. Mardy goes without a fight, tired and upset at their plans seemingly coming apart around him. “It’s okay. I trust you.” His arms go hesitantly around Mardy’s shoulders as if he might break, pulling him close. “I’m sorry I yelled, I didn’t mean... I do trust you.” Mardy feels a hand tangle in his hair and rests his head on Andy’s shoulder, tears drying. “I’ll stop being an asshole, I promise. Just- tell me soon?”
“Tomorrow,” Mardy says in a small voice. “Tomorrow I swear Andy, I’ll tell you.” He lets his own arms come up round Andy’s waist, so much bare skin to touch sending shivers through him. Andy’s always been tactile, hugging, touching, the occasional friendly kiss but this is almost- different somehow. They’re entwined together in a dark room, the lights of Paris painting everything in faint yellow-grey twilight and Andy’s not letting go, his breath warm against Mardy’s skin. When he speaks, he’s close enough for his lips to brush the blond hair.
“Back to bed?” he suggests in a whisper. “If you’ve got stuff planned for tomorrow…?”
“Yeah.” Mardy pulls back a little, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. “Yeah I do.”
“Okay.” Andy leads him back to the bed, climbs in after him. He’s a warm presence at Mardy’s back, fingertips brushing the back of his friend’s neck as they drift into sleep. “Sorry Fish,” he says softly. “Good night.”
Mardy swallows. It had been close, more close than he liked. All he could hope now was that Andy would keep his word and behave tomorrow. “Good night Andy,” he whispers and closes his eyes, remembering warm skin pressed to his and the brush of lips across his hair.
It’s enough to make him dream that this whole plan may just work.