Ficlet: Isn't Everything (PG, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Isn’t Everything Rating: PG Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer Summary: Roger’s thoughts out on court after Andy (eventually, hypothetically) beats him in a final. This is my way of saying it’d be nice to see Roddick get his ass in gear and start evening their rivalry out a little bit. Set at the end of a hypothetical 2005 US Open final. Disclaimer: Own nothing do I, not the tennis players or anything to do with Flushing Meadows/the US Open. And I’m not claiming any of this has or will ever happen. Though I’d be a happy bunny if it did. ;-)
Isn’t Everything
Andy does happy like a hyperactive three year old on a sugar rush; every part of him is slammed into the bouncing, the laughing, the tears. He’s hugging his family now, actually lifting his mother off the ground and twirling her in shrieking, laughing circles. People are spilling out on court and the officials are too busy joining in the celebration to care. Everyone is cheering, clapping, screaming with joy - yet no one can quite match the sheer, utter happiness shining out from the blond tennis player in the midst of it all, babbling ecstatic nonsense to his family.
Roger sits back a little in his chair, knowing cameras are on him. The first Grand Slam final he’s lost this year; the first time he’s ever gone down to Andy Roddick in such spectacular fashion. They’re all waiting to see his reaction. How Fantastic Federer Handles Defeat, he can see the newspapers now. So he smiles slightly and loosens his ponytail. He’s not had to be a not-bad loser in so long he’s almost forgotten how it goes.
Over in the crowds, Andy leapfrogs the barrier back on court and kisses the chair umpire on the cheek, crushing him in a happy bear hug, regardless of the man’s muffled, laughing protests. From watching Andy you’d think no one has ever wanted to win so much before. You’d be right. For weeks, months, everything was concentrated on this Slam, this final and Roger woke up in a cold sweat countless times last night from dreams of endless 152mph serves. It was unnerving to walk out on court a few hours ago and find they’d been prophetic. He’s got bruises from the few times he didn’t get out the way fast enough.
It helps to know Andy will kiss them better later.
Roger smirks, and he knows the commentators up in their box will be going crazy over him ‘smiling’ after having his ass handed to him on a plate. Maybe getting beaten doesn’t sting so much as it used to because it’s the first time in a long time, or maybe knowing you’ll have the winner screaming your name later is worth more than trophies. Even more than a million dollars. Andy Roddick on a winning-high and using sex as a tacit apology is worth more than all the prize money in the world combined.
It makes Roger smirk even more to think of the commentators’ reactions if he told them what he’s thinking about.
He’d expected to feel more upset though. Cautiously, afraid of perhaps bursting into tears if he thinks too hard, Roger contemplates his feelings. He’s disappointed sure. Winning is a drug that’s hard to quit and even getting the high stolen by *Andy* doesn’t lessen the sting much, but he’s okay with it. He played a good match, he was simply outclassed and if he had to lose anywhere, he’s glad it was here. This has always been Andy’s turf; the hysterical, tearful crowd of fans, officials and press surrounding him screaming ‘Roddick, Roddick!’ proves that. The noise is deafening and if happiness has a sound it’s this; the roar of thousands of voices in unison, celebrating, echoing through the stadium and the city.
Roger pauses to look around, the late evening sun slanting down into the court, painting the celebration in shades of gold. His gaze meets a pair of brown eyes, filled with tears of happiness. Congratulations, Roger thinks and knows Andy understands because the American’s fighting his way through crowds of well-wishers towards him, pausing to hug everyone he recognises and everyone he doesn’t. Roger closes his eyes for just a second against the glare of the lights and almost gets knocked unexpectedly backwards by a lapful of enthusiastic, appreciative tennis player. Andy tangles both hands in the Swiss’ hair and drags him in for a kiss, full on tongues and wet lips and sharp teeth; Roger hears himself make a wordless noise of shock which Andy muffles with his mouth. It lasts all of a few seconds before Andy’s gone again, turning cartwheels across the court, leaving Roger dishevelled and surprised in his chair. The cameras are flashing and when his mind starts functioning again he wonders absently what the headlines will be tomorrow. ‘Roddick Consoles Loser with Tongue’ or perhaps ‘Kissing; the New Prize Money’. The media are probably fainting with glee over the prospects even now.
He can’t bring himself to care. Andy’s almost-dancing across the court, arms raised in victory and slowly, Roger begins to realise he’s not upset about losing at all. It’s impossible to watch Andy right now and be upset. Rising to his feet with a broad smile, Roger joins in the applause from the rest of the stadium, eyes fixed on the bouncing, gold-lit tennis player living a dream.