Series: Closer Than This (verse:Pretty Close to Invincible, PG, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Closer Than This (Pretty Close to Invincible series 6/10) Rating: PG Pairing: Roddick/Federer Summary: After his match against Benneteau Wednesday night of Toronto, Andy meets Roger on the stairs. Notes: Set the evening of Wednesday 28th July in Toronto. Inspired by a post-match interview in which the interviewer asked Andy, “what have you done since the match ended because you obviously haven't had a shower yet?” and Andy replied tersely, “I walked in. I put my bag down and I came up here. “
I think he left something out.
Part six of the Pretty Close to Invincible series, following on from Out of Mind.
Closer Than This
He was too tired for this, Roger reflected, leaning back against the wall. His muscles ached with months’ worth of exhaustion that got banished with adrenaline during each match only to return for vengeance later. He was playing mediocre – for him – tennis, in a foreign country, with no sign of a break in the near future… and Andy wasn’t speaking to him.
If it hadn’t been childish and immature and utterly inappropriate for the number one seed, Roger would have burst into tears and gone home.
Mirka had vanished off somewhere to arrange interviews or meetings or PR or something, Roger hadn’t really been paying attention after she said she’d meet him in the hotel later. Right now all he wanted to do was stand – actually sitting sounded good, so he sank down on the stairs, still leaning against the wall – on this spot and not have anyone ask him to move or speak or whack a ball around solely to get another trophy that wouldn’t fit in the display case. His body agreed with the new position and he closed his eyes and drew up one knee to rest his arm on. Hhhmm. Nice.
Approaching footsteps were an irritating distraction from his blank calm and he silently willed them to go away. Go on. Keep moving, turn the other way. Leave me alone. The owner of the footsteps seemed quite energetic, bouncing up each step rapidly until Roger knew they were going to pass right by him. Even worse they slowed as they came closer, sounding almost hesitant. Resignedly Roger opened his eyes to meet the hostile glare of Andy Roddick.
Of course. Why should anything about this day be easy?
“Hi,” he offered tiredly, coherent conversation beyond him. It occurred to him that if Andy was here he must have finished his match against that Frenchman, Benneu or Bennetau, Roger could never remember. “Who won?”
“He did,” Andy retorted acidly. “Kicked my ass. Best tennis I’ve ever seen. Think you’d better watch out.”
Roger closed his eyes again. “You lie terribly. Congratulations.”
He could feel Andy’s presence just a couple of feet away, body heat mingled with sweat radiating from him. God, he hadn’t even stopped to shower. Roger determinedly kept his eyes shut tight despite an urge to look, to admire the flushed skin and restless energy. Andy never stopped moving even when he was still; always he was glancing around, tugging at his shirt, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. It was beyond Roger how he managed to keep it up without collapsing. It drew attention to him no matter where he was; you had to watch him even out the corner of your eye to see what he’d do next, who he’d watch, smile at, touch. Roger couldn’t help himself. It drove him crazy. For a while that energy had been directed at him and he hadn’t realised until he lost it how addicted he’d become. Andy was like a living, breathing drug and having him so close yet out of reach was torture, enough to make Roger wonder how he’d ever thought he could simply walk away from the American.
He’d been overestimating his own willpower. All he wanted to do was beg Andy to forgive him and the one thing standing in his way was his pride.
Andy was hesitating still, jiggling his weight from foot to foot. Go away Roger thought desperately. He didn’t have the energy to deal with this now, not in the middle of the tournament, not when Andy’s words from last night still stung, fresh and sharp. Just being this close to the American was like drinking strong liquor; Roger felt a wave of dizziness wash over him as Andy took a slow step closer.
“You fuck with my head, you know that?” the American said abruptly.
Roger cracked an eye opening, frowning. “Excuse me?”
Andy crouched without warning, leaning in so there were only inches between them. Roger could smell the American’s mint breath, musky sweat and the unique, coffee-gum scent of Andy that he’d learned through just a few brief encounters. It caught in his throat, forced his eyes open wide. Andy smiled, bitter, humourless.
“I wanted nothing more than to spend as much time touching you as I could. Every time I saw you, it drove me crazy y’know? Not being able to slam you against the wall and kiss you senseless.” Both hands slid up the wall, coming to rest on either side of Roger’s head. The Swiss was frozen, motionless, breath coming in short bursts. Andy leaned in another inch.
“And now you say I can’t ever touch you again. Fine. Whatever.” His smile vanished. “So why the fuck are you lying in wait for me?”
Roger was pinned between the American’s arms and body; it was impossible for him to do anything other than sit straighter in anger – bringing his face so close to Andy that the tips of their noses touched. The shiver of arousal the closeness sent thrilling through him was ignored in the wave of fury building beneath it.
“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you Roddick?” he hissed. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait for you to pass by? Think that just because you want to touch me, I feel the same? Think again. I was here first and it had nothing to do with you, or with anyone. Go away and. Leave. Me. Alone.”
“You’d love that wouldn’t you?” Andy sounded a little shaken by the Swiss’ vehement tone. “To know you could tell me to fuck off and I’d obey, like a good little puppy.” He pressed his forehead to Roger’s, smile sharp as he regained his balance, out of focus this close. “Well I ain’t nobody’s pet Federer, especially not yours. Stay the fuck out of my way in future, understand?” He leapt to his feet and turning to continue up the stairs. Pure fury drove Roger to his feet; he grabbed Andy’s arm and swung him back against the wall hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Roger pinned his shoulders to stop him moving, ignoring the surprise warring with wariness in Andy’s eyes.
“How dare… I ended us, not that there ever was a ‘us’, because it was the right thing to do!” He realised he was almost-yelling and lowered his voice. “I never told you what to do. I never would. I can’t believe you’d think…” His arms ached from pinning Andy against the wall and he let them go limp, let himself sag forward without really thinking. The energy to fight with the American drained out of him as he rested his head against one sweat-soaked shoulder. “Please...” he whispered tiredly. Hot tears were burning his eyelids and he was close, closer to Andy than he’d ever meant to be again. He wanted to move, wanted to pull away; but he was too tired and if he let himself admit it, it felt good to be touch the American. “Please… just stop.”
Andy was still beneath him, chest rising and falling under Roger’s palms. One of the American’s hands rested on Roger’s waist; the other on his shoulder. Heat from them burned into the Swiss’ skin; branded handprints of touch that he knew he’d feel for the rest of the week. There was nothing in their past relationship like this; it was close, comforting and Roger found himself wondering if he really had made the right decision. There was nothing about Andy’s closeness that seemed wrong – instead the itchy, tense feeling that had irritated him all day was gone, to be replaced by calm.
I don’t know if I can walk away from this again.
Then footsteps in the corridor below had the American pushing him violently away, stepping aside. Forced to catch himself from falling with a hand on the wall, Roger glanced up in shock and found himself staring into a hazel glare.
“Stop fucking with me,” Andy snarled. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t- I’m not a fucking toy!” He seemed to search for something else to say, but as the footsteps drew closer and Roger simply stood silent, he lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness and left without a backward glance, taking the stairs two at a time.
Roger opened his mouth to call after him but couldn’t find the words. Instead he just stood and watched the American vanish around the corner, clenching his hands at his sides for lack of anything to hold onto.
“Hey Rog! I finished early. Ready to go?”
Mirka sounded cheerful, calling up from the bottom of the stairs. Roger glanced down, her smile tearing pieces in his soul as he felt Andy get further and further away in the opposite direction. Forcing an answering smile to his face and taking a deep breath, he turned to go down.