clo (clo) wrote in clofic, @ 2008-06-27 20:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | andy roddick, andy roddick/roger federer, pg, roger federer, series, verse:pcti |
Series: Out of Mind (verse:Pretty Close to Invincible, PG-13, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer)
Title: Out of Mind (Pretty Close to Invincible series 5/10)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer
Summary: Roger’s made a decision. Getting Andy to agree may be a little more difficult.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be, never happened, own themselves.
Notes: Set in Toronto on the second night of the 2004 ATP Masters Series at the Rexall Centre (I'm hazy on dates...). Part five of the Pretty Close to Invincible series, taking place between (4) Softer Than Feathers and (6) Closer Than This.
The Fox and Fiddle is a real place in Toronto and *is* located on John St. but having never visited it I took liberties with certain – all - features. Like suggesting they have waiters who would spit in a customer's drink. Uh. Sorry guys.
Out of Mind
‘We need to talk’.
Andy hadn’t known Roger could be so melodramatic. The note had been delivered discreetly to his hotel by a non-descript courier; the handwriting was unremarkable and the neatly signed ‘R’ could have belonged to anyone. Andy felt almost spy-like as he left his hotel and turned right up the street, straightening his hat against the light rain. He was almost tempted to stop at a joke shop and buy a pair of dark glasses and a false moustache. He resisted only because he didn’t think Roger would see the funny side; in this note there was none of the light-hearted mockery of the message delivered to his house a few weeks ago along with Roger’s briefs, incidentally now tucked away safe at the bottom of his tennis bag. This note was short and to the point, crumpled in his pocket with half-moons of anxiety torn through from bitten nails. As he crossed the street Andy ran his fingers over the letters he knew were inked in brief, precise English, the neat, black letters pretty much spelling out the end of something they’d barely started. He’d half been expecting something of the sort since he’d arrived - it was almost a relief to have physical proof at last.
Since he arrived he’d been planning on finding out Roger’s number, calling the Swiss to maybe get together for a drink and see where things went. Roger had got there first but this wasn’t a friendly drink together, not even close. Andy had been ‘dumped’ before and the sickening, sinking sensation before it happened was always the same.
Roger was going to end it. Them. End it finally and totally and there’d be nothing in future but hyped up matches and occasional handshakes on court.
It made sense when considering logically as Andy had forced himself to do in his room earlier, note clenched in his fist. Roger had a girlfriend, a beautiful, loyal girlfriend and as far as the paparazzi were concerned Andy had his latest blond model - who in truth was just a friend doing him a favour by misdirecting the press. They had careers most players only dreamed of, highly devoted respective fan bases not to mention sponsors who worshipped the ground they walked on. Keeping the entire relationship, if it could even be called that, going was metaphorical suicide for whenever they were found out.
And they would be. Andy knew enough about PR to understand that even the slightest hint of illicit affairs with other, male players would give the paparazzi a field day. His blood ran cold just thinking about it and he paused by a shop window, pretending to study the display until he could force the various scenarios out his mind; press swamping his house, the newspaper headlines, the complete and utter chaos there would be every time he faced Roger in a match… No, better to end it and be done. It was the only way and made perfect sense.
Totally perfect sense.
So why did he feel like he’d been hit by a 150mph serve in the stomach?
So he’d almost-fucked the guy a couple of times! Andy kept his head down as he manoeuvred through a crowd at the crossing and narrowly avoided being flattened by a woman with a double stroller, leaping out the way almost as an afterthought. Almost-fucking, it wasn’t even actual sex, so it didn’t really count right? He could walk away from this, no problem. He wouldn’t be woken up by dreams of Roger every night, gasping beneath his hands, his mouth, his… Fucking focus Roddick! He bit his lip and glanced at a street sign, turning left and hoping he was going the right way. It was dark by now and the rain was cold, trickling down his neck like icy fingers. Roger had been warm, no, hot against his mouth, his chest, his… For fuck’s sake!
Andy realised he was about to walk into a lamppost and hastily dragged his mind back on track.
So no actual sex had taken place. Technically. Mardy had taught Andy the basics of the practical a few years back and he was even better at the theory; fucking Roger Federer was a thought that had made him shiver in anticipation over the last month, occupied his thoughts and dreams for weeks. He’d longed to get to Toronto to get his hands on the Swiss, wondered what sort of sounds Roger would make, what it would be like waking up next to him every morning, wondering…
And now it wasn’t going to happen. Ever. No kissing, no blow jobs, no tanned and supple Swiss writhing and pleading beneath his hands. Andy could taste the same bitter disappointment as from his previous defeats by Roger, because that was this unequivocally was; Roger was making the move to call it off and once again robbing Andy of any control of the situation. It made him mad but more than that it hurt like a knife in his back, that Roger had the willpower to make the decision while Andy would’ve seen the problems, known the consequences then gone and fucked him anyway.
It really fucking hurt that Roger was the one to turn him down.
The note had named a local restaurant as a meeting place; Andy had had to look it up because although he’d been to bars in Toronto before that one hadn’t been mentioned. He discovered it was out of the way, quiet and more frequented by locals than tourists from the concierge in hotel reception. The ideal place to ‘break up’ with a fellow minor – if he let his ego inflate a little, more than minor - celebrity in private. Andy could almost be impressed by the planning Roger must have put into this little meeting.
Almost.
He was soaked by the time he turned the corner onto John St., spotting the Fox and Fiddle named by the note halfway down, a red and blue striped sign displaying a grinning, stylised fox clutching a fiddle. How quaint, Andy thought sourly and hurried towards it through the rain. He found the fox’s smile irritatingly mocking and kept his eyes down as he shuffled inside, only to be greeted by a waiter with a grin uncannily like the fox’s.
“Heellllll-o!” The man drawled the greeting out to sound almost like “yellow”. “Welcome to the Fox and Fiddle, will it be a table for one or two sir?”
Andy shifted uncomfortably, painfully aware of his clothes dripping puddles onto the floor and of the busy restaurant around him. He hadn’t bargained on having to navigate through staff to find Roger. “Actually I’m looking-“
“He’s with me,” said a quiet voice at his elbow. Andy glanced back with unspeakable relief to see Roger in spotless jeans and a grey shirt, shaking out his umbrella.
Fuckit, did the Swiss have to show him up every time they met?!
“Ah Mr Federer.” The grinning waiter straightened abruptly, all trace of the drawl gone. “Of course, we were expecting you. Your usual table is free.” He produced two menus apparently from thin air and handed them to Roger, ignoring the speechless Andy. “I’ll have the wine brought over immediately.”
“Thank you,” Roger smiled absently as he took Andy’s arm and steered him purposefully towards the staircase to the first floor. “The wine list too, for my friend please.”
“Yes sir!” The waiter vanished and Roger half pushed, half dragged Andy up the stairs.
“Mr Federer?” Andy remarked when he finally got his voice back on the tenth step.
“Quiet.”
“Yes sir, Mr Federer sir!”
“I’m warning you.” The quirk of Roger’s smile was gone almost before it appeared, replaced with the same blank calm Andy knew so well. “We need to talk.”
“So your note said.” Andy let the Swiss guide him across the upstairs room, winding through a few tables, to reach a secluded two-seater alcove, half hidden in the shadows. “I assumed disguise was optional; dark glasses are so Hollywood don’t you think? Anyone ever mention you should have directed spy movies instead of playing tennis?”
“You’re babbling,” Roger commented calmly, sliding onto the bench. Andy sat opposite him, absently knotting his fingers together under the table.
“I’m aware of that. It’s because I have funny feeling about why we’re here and it’s not going to end with you returning the blow job you owe me.”
Roger didn’t flinch but he did rub his eyes tiredly, leaning back in his chair. The calm exterior cracked, just a little as he spoke again. “You worked it out.”
“It wasn’t difficult. You’re at your most obvious when you’re trying to be subtle.” Andy picked up his menu, wincing a little as it stuck to his fingers. He put it down and reached for Roger’s instead. “Bet that bastard didn’t give Mr Federer a sticky one dammit, - hey-“ Roger’s grip on his wrist was abrupt and strong. “If you break my wrist I’ll claim you were trying to incapacitate me in the tournament and I’ll take the trophy by default.”
“Andy.” Roger’s tone was low and frustrated. “Can you not just shut up-“
“The wine list sir!” The waiter appeared as suddenly as he’d vanished and Roger let go of Andy as if he’d been stung. Andy sat back in his seat and put on his most irritating smile. If Roger was going to do this, Andy could at least make it miserable for him. “And your usual…”
“Hhhmm, that looks good. What is it?” Andy intercepted the glass before Roger could and took a sip. Instantly he pulled a face, choking a little as he swallowed. “God Roger, do you come here often?”
“That sir, is our most excellent Cabernet Sauvignon,” the waiter said stiffly, rescuing the wobbling glass and placing it tenderly before Roger. “Perhaps it is a little too cultured for your tastes; we have a wide choice of American beers available-“
“Good for you.” Andy bit back a curse when Roger kicked him under the table but got the hint and toned down the ‘Rude-and-stupid’ act. “Just bring me a coke please.”
“Of course sir.” The waiter’s tone suggested Andy would get a lot more than coke in his glass. “I’ll bring it over.” He smiled politely at Roger and left.
“You are terrible,” Roger remarked quietly after a moment, watching the waiter retreat across the room. “I like this place. Play nicely.”
“Oh, this would be the playing nicely while you dump me or the playing nicely while the waiter spits in my drink?” Andy shot back then bit his tongue as the Swiss did flinch. He’d been on the defensive since the moment he’d walked in and Roger had barely had a chance to open his mouth. “Look… I’m sorry. I guess I just….” He shrugged helplessly, reaching out to play with a loose plastic corner on his menu. “You wanted to talk?”
“I did.” Roger watched the American’s restless hands for a moment, sitting motionless with his typical patience. “We need to stop this.”
Andy’s heart plummeted into his sneakers. Knowing what was coming didn’t make it any less of a shock to hear it spoken aloud and he was surprised to hear himself sound so calm with his next question. “Any reasons why?”
“A thousand. A million. You know exactly why Andy.” Roger’s sigh had a slight edge of frustration. “I can’t- I can’t keep thinking about you. You’re in my head; you’re my shadow even when you’re on a different continent! It’s not fair to Mirka and it’s- it’s not right.” He leaned forward across the table, dark eyes pleading with Andy to understand. “Please. We have to stop.”
“So you say no and I have to say ‘fine’, that’s how it works right?” Andy ripped the piece of plastic free and began to fold it between his fingers without watching, his eyes locked on Roger’s and flat disgust in his voice. “You’re the champion, you’re the number one and when you say jump I ask how high. Great. Wonderful. Nice to have my inadequacy confirmed, now if you’ll excuse me-” He started to get up.
“That’s not what I meant but if you’re going to be stupid, fine, leave.” Roger took a sip from his wine, staring down in the crimson depths. “This isn’t about rankings or points or who’s better you know,” he added softly as Andy hesitated, on the verge of walking away. “It’s about me and you and what we shouldn’t be doing.”
Andy hesitated a moment longer. “There are no ‘shouldn’t’s in life Roger; it’s not that black and white.” He sighed and sank back into his chair. “I get why you’re doing this. I get your reasons. But this is a two-person gig and it’s not your call whether we play or not understand? You said talk, so fine, we’ll talk.” He fought down the edge of anger to his tone because he knew this couldn’t end the way he wanted it to. “First reason-“
“Here you are sir, one coke. Would you like to order your food?” The waiter was back, complete with bright, false smile and a glass of coke which he set on the table in front of Andy. Before the American could speak up Roger leaned hastily forward to interrupt him.
“No, thank you. We’re fine for now.”
“Certainly sir.” Once again the man retreated, this time glancing over his shoulder a few times. Andy caught the gesture and looked at his glass with a sigh of regret. “I’m not drinking that.”
“First reason,” Roger prompted quietly, ignoring the comment. Andy frowned.
“Obviously, Mirka.”
“What about you? Lauren isn’t it?” Roger asked and there was something odd about the words, a trace of sarcasm beneath the seemingly innocent question. Andy shot a sharp look across the table.
“Lauren’s a friend tagging along for a few days. Nothing more.”
“Right.” Roger didn’t need to smirk; it was in his tone. Andy sat bolt upright in his seat, fury racing through him.
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He ignored Roger’s alarmed glance towards the bar as his voice rose. “You can fucking dump me Roger but don’t you ever call me a liar. Lauren’s a friend, for fuck’s sake! I’ve spent the last god-knows-how-many weeks wondering what a certain guy in Switzerland - you may know him - is doing and it may come as a surprise for you to know that I don’t fuck every pretty blond girl I meet. Alright?”
“Alright!” Roger’s stunned tone matched his expression, hands held up defensively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Okay I did mean to suggest it,” he corrected himself hurriedly as Andy’s expression darkened. “I didn’t think before I spoke. I’m sorry.”
“Well.” Andy was still annoyed, partly at himself for having not explained Lauren to Roger before now. He had a goddamn phone didn’t he? Finding out Roger’s number and simply calling would’ve solved this fight before it started and maybe, just maybe the Swiss wouldn’t have had time to decide to dump him if they’d been talking. Andy stored the thought away to kick himself about later. “Okay, apology accepted. So Mirka. She could never find out.”
“Never,” Roger agreed. Wistfulness mingled with something like confusion in his voice as he stared into his drink, slender fingers laced together around it and Andy had to fight down the memory of what those fingers had felt like on his bare skin, touching, exploring… He shook his head, because that line of thought wasn’t helping. “The rest of the world probably wouldn’t welcome it with open arms either,” he suggested pensively. “Reason number two.”
“Career suicide?” Roger suggested ominously and Andy shrugged.
“Probably.” He thought back to a mirror, showing them half naked and twined together, the memory enough to send a shiver of arousal racing through him. God he wanted the quiet, gorgeous Swiss sitting across the table from him, wanted it so badly it hurt. “It might be worth it,” he offered warily. “Us. Might be worth trying.”
Roger was quiet for several long moments, watching his wine as if fascinated. Eventually, and so quietly that a stunned Andy thought he had misheard, the Swiss admitted, “It might be.”
“So then, screw everyone! Screw the world.” Andy sat bolt upright in his seat, reaching out to brush suggestive fingertips along Roger’s arm, desperate to grab the slightest ray of hope. “Us together, Roger. You said yourself you wanted more and we could have it; it’s not about girlfriends or careers or what people think of us-“
“No?! Then what is it about?!” Roger demanded, abruptly irritated. He shook Andy’s hand off his arm with an annoyed flick of his wrist. “It’s about fucking, pure and simple - that’s not a good enough reason to destroy my life. Forget it Andy. It wouldn’t be worth what we got out of it.”
Stung, Andy snatched his hand away and pushed his chair back. “You think that’s all I care about? You think I just want this so I can screw you in between matches?” He leaned in towards Roger, abrupt clarity washing over him like a freezing shower. He wanted this to be more than just fucking. He wanted more than hasty blowjobs in hallways and snatched kisses that were all tongue and teeth and no substance.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he did want, but he knew it wasn’t that.
“I once told you,” he hissed. “That I’d never use you like that. And I meant it. Guess you weren’t paying attention.” He jumped up, turning to leave. “Your opinion of me Federer is breathtaking, it truly is.”
Before he could take another step he found himself grabbed around the waist and hauled back onto the shadowy bench, almost out of sight of the other diners. Roger’s breath was hot against his neck as he tightened his grip to keep Andy still, the American trapped between Roger’s knees digging into his thighs and the death grip around his waist. It was the closest they’d been since Wimbledon and all Andy could think was that he hadn’t wanted it to be like this. He hadn’t wanted fights and insults and arguments; he’d just wanted Roger. Had that really been so much to ask?
He kept the thought to himself as Roger moved to bring his mouth level with Andy’s ear. “Do you know what I was doing earlier this month?” he growled, his voice low and venomous. “I wasn’t celebrating my success. I wasn’t being happy with my beautiful girlfriend. I was out on a tennis court, at midnight, thinking about you and how much I want to fuck you.” He held on tighter as Andy tried an ineffective struggle. “If anyone one had heard me or seen me I’d have been ruined. ‘Federer Fantasises About Rival’ would’ve been everywhere by morning. What would Mirka do? What would my fans do? You go figure it out Andy but I need you out of my mind. Starting now.”
Andy was pressed back hard against Roger; the corner of the alcove hid them from everyone in the room but if the waiter came back… He threw caution aside and ground back hard between Roger’s legs; the Swiss let go with a gasp.
“If you think ending it will get rid of me then fine. It’s over,” Andy hissed in reply, twisting round to glare, his face only inches from Roger’s and oh god, even when he was this mad at the Swiss he wanted to kiss him. Anger kept him from giving in, needing to get the words out before he completely lost it. “But don’t forget Roger, everywhere you go I’m going to be there anyway. Every match you play, every final you’re in, there’s a better than good chance I’ll be there. If I’m in your head then I ain’t getting the fuck out anytime soon so either deal with it on your own or get lost because you’ve made your decision.” He pulled away, sliding towards the end of the bench and keeping his head down to hide his flushed face and threatening tears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this but he forced the thought away. “Coming back is not an option Roger.” It hurt to say the words. “This is it.”
He leapt off the bench and stalked towards the staircase, feeling dark eyes bore holes in the back of his neck the entire way. He didn’t let himself realise Roger wasn’t following until the door of his hotel room slammed behind him and he crumpled to the floor with his head in hands.
What the hell did I just do?
~Fin~