clo (clo) wrote in clofic, @ 2005-06-10 22:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | andy roddick, david ferrer, marat safin, marat safin/david ferrer, one-shots, pg, roger federer |
One-shot: Looking For Everything (Marat Safin/David Ferrer)
Title: Looking For Everything
Written for: greeniebach
Pairing: David Ferrer/Marat Safin
Required Line: "We've been training together and playing against each other for most of our careers, David. So how would this make anything different?"
Rating: PG
Notes: My fic for the Break Point Challenge 1. I still say Greenie was laughing at me when she gave me this pairing. I don’t know if Safin and/or Ferrer were actually at the Wimbledon Player’s Party. On the basis that they were both at Wimbledon I assumed they would be, on which further basis I wrote this.
Another Note: And um, I apologise for the minor B-plot of Andy and co. They were my thing to lean on if everything else went disastrously wrong. Hopefully it didn’t.
Looking For Everything
There was something ridiculous about it all in Marat’s opinion. Something terribly British too; standing around in a large room, making polite conversation with people who would become your sworn enemy once on the opposite side of a net, drinking too much Pimms to cover your boredom. A woman wailing away on-stage and press threading their devious way through the crowd, immortalising every embarrassing moment on camera. Everywhere players, smiling, the forced, fake smiles of pretend-fun or the alcohol-widened grins that promised more antics for the press any minute now.
Marat could see through each and every one of them. He’d been watching for over an hour, here because he’d been talked into it by Peter, ‘you’ll enjoy yourself when you’re there’ sounding an emptier promise now he was here and miserable. Perched by the bar, he was leaning back against the wall with his feet balanced on the stool beside him so no one would think to sit there.
Because he wasn’t in the mood for company. It showed; only the bartender had come within a few feet of his scowl in the last forty minutes and that was probably only with the incentive of how much the Russian was spending on cocktails. Half the room was terrified of him and the other half -- the tour half, the ones he spent most of each year playing tennis against – had written him off as ‘Marat being cranky again’ and knew if they left him alone, he’d probably be all smiles tomorrow.
Marat knew he didn’t bite, not even in the metaphorical sense, but that wasn’t the point. It was making everyone in the room believe they’d lose a hand if they reached out to touch him.
“You know your face will stick in that frown if the wind changes,” a voice commented, American, mocking, the faintest trace of a slur to the words. Marat glanced up to Andy Roddick, leaning over the Russian’s legs to get to the bar.
“Never heard of personal space Andy?” Growled, a pointed glance at the stretch of empty bar in front of him. “Though from the way you’ve been rubbing yourself against Federer’s girlfriend for the last hour, I’d guess not.”
“You’re such a jerk when you’re cranky.” Andy tossed him a smile, careless, open, not in the least offended as he waved a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. “For your information, I’m trying a new thing. It’s called enjoying myself. You might want to try it out sometime.” He leaned harder against Marat’s legs as the bartender came over to take his order, nothing malicious in it but Marat had to swallow a hiss of pain at the sudden stabbing agony of his bad knee.
“I can enjoy myself better without you rubbing yourself over me,” he informed the American waspishly. “Go back to your Swiss girl. Maybe I’ll get to see Federer punch you before the night is over.”
“Maybe you will.” Another smile and Andy patted his bad knee with a cheerful lack of regard for Marat’s wince before collecting his drinks and heading back to the corner sofa where Federer and his girlfriend were, from the look of their intent whispering, in the midst of a serious conversation. Marat spent a few seconds staring fiercely at the American’s back because if he tried hard enough, looks might just kill. It was with mild disappointment that he watched Andy make it safely back to the two Swiss with barely a wobble to his walk, and even that was more likely due to drink rather than Marat’s Glare of Death. He returned to frowning contemplation of his cocktail glass, disappointment doubling when he realised it was empty.
The problem was, he decided as he glanced over at the bartender, that he simply didn’t want to be around the other players right now. He was tired of his knee hurting and of losing matches he thought he could win, that he knew he could’ve won if only he could find his form. He was tired of tennis.
Not that tennis alone was making him this miserable but he preferred blaming it – and the fact that his knee was aching again, fucking Andy Roddick – to going any further down that line of thought.
“Penny for them?”
Marat’s frown deepened at the heavily accented voice from behind him, looking back to see a guy whose name he knew, he did and sometimes he really hated the sheer amount of guys on tour. Once you hit the top ten all of them knew your name, understandably but for the top ten to know every guy in the top hundred was asking a little much in Marat’s opinion. He must have stared blankly just a fraction too long because the guy – probably Spanish and definitely cute, not that Marat felt like going near guys in that way after… well, at least not for a while -- suddenly looked apprehensive behind his smile.
“David,” he offered and Marat was kicking himself before the second syllable. He’d known that.
“Marat,” he replied with a twist to his smile, making it a joke and David relaxed enough to laugh. “Sorry. Not at my best tonight.”
“I… seen you sitting.” David grimaced and switched to Spanish. “I’m sorry. My English-“
“Don’t worry about it.” Marat didn’t care which language he spoke, especially not when he wasn’t going to carry the conversation on for long. David was cute, nice enough from what Marat remembered of him from locker room chats and brief hellos at ATP events, but not what he wanted right now. Though at least the guy was keeping a polite distance, hovering at the edge of the few feet of space the entire crowd was giving Marat tonight, so maybe the Russian wouldn’t brush him off as sharply as he had Andy. “Can I help you?”
Sharper than he’d intended and David shuffled back another inch. Damn. Andy had a natural resistance to sarcastic comments, giving as good as he got without taking Marat’s bad mood personally but a lot of the guys who hadn’t spent so much time around him weren’t so resilient. Cranky or not, he didn’t want to be too rough on a guy who was only trying to be nice.
“I thought-“ Hesitant and Marat deciding not to be too rough might have come one snapped remark too late. “I was worried, about you sitting here on your own. I didn’t mean to intrude… I’ll go.”
Definitely too late and Marat snarled at himself because now he needed to do some damage control, the last thing he felt capable of doing in his current state of mind. “Wait,” he said, shifting his feet from the seat beside him with a sigh as the Spaniard was turning to vanish into the crowd. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“No, if you want to be left alone-“
“David.” It came out almost as a growl and had Marat not been so irritated, he’d have been amused by the Spaniard going a few shades paler through his tan. “Sit.”
A hesitation, David weighing up the directive with a measured wariness in his brown eyes. Pretty eyes actually -- ‘dammit Marat, don’t you dare start that’. It took a long second for him to come closer, moving cautiously, as if Marat might be luring him into a trap – not that there had been much luring in that last demand – and he eased himself onto the seat beside the Russian with a wary sideways look. Marat returned it with a raised eyebrow.
He really didn’t bite. There was no need to look at him like that.
“What are you drinking?” Kept his tone calm, polite, perhaps just to prove that he could. David looked startled and Marat almost smiled at the wide-eyed innocence of the surprise.
Almost. Not even pretty Spaniards fluttering their eyelashes at him would make him happy tonight.
“You don’t have to buy me a drink.” David’s smile was sudden, genuine enough to shine through the caution. “I came over to cheer you up, so I should be buying one for you.”
“Believe me when I say the last thing you want is me to get drunk tonight.” Marat shook his head at the tentative question clearly poised on the Spaniard’s lips, not bothering to explain as the bartender finally reached them. “Same again for me and…?” He looked questioningly at David, who sighed.
“Whiskey and coke, on the rocks.”
“You struck me more as a cocktail person,” Marat murmured but nodded to the bartender who moved off to get the drinks without comment. The man’s one attempt to strike up conversation had been met with only grunts as replies and he’d given up in favour of spending his time at the opposite end of the bar with more friendly players and press. Marat didn’t care as long as it meant he got to drink in silence.
Which apparently, since he now had a Spaniard he only vaguely knew sitting beside him, he didn’t.
“So, do you think Roddick will get his hands on Federer before the end of the night?” It was said casually, a trace of searching for something to say to the faintly desperate tone but Marat rocked back on his seat in shock, speechless because he’d never considered that Andy was after anyone but the Swiss’s girlfriend. David shot him a glance, curiosity, a hint of surprise beneath it and all covered neatly with a polite smile. “He’s been flirting with him all night.”
“He’s been flirting with Federer’s girlfriend,” Marat pointed out, casting a covert look towards the couch where the American was absently running his fingertips up and down the blond girl’s arm, apparently unaware he was doing it as he listened to something Roger was saying. “He hasn’t been able to keep his hands off her.”
“Tactics. He’s making Federer see him as something other than just a fellow player.” David glanced towards the threesome and Marat’s gaze followed, catching for the briefest of seconds a flick of Andy’s eyes towards Roger when he laughed. It was flirting, more subtle than Marat would’ve given the American credit for, too subtle for him to notice had it not been pointed out. He was more than a little impressed with David’s observational skills, not that he’d admit being impressed by anything tonight. His bad mood was beginning to slip away, slowly but he could feel the steady build of a genuine smile beneath his frown, impossible to resist for long.
“Flirting or not, I still think Federer will hit him before tonight is over.”
“Maybe.” A flash of brown eyes in his direction, a smile along with them, more relaxed now they had a conversation going. “I wouldn’t put money on it though.”
“Roddick’s not being his usual obvious self. You must have been watching them all night to pick up on it,” Marat remarked, sitting straighter in an attempt to loosen his jeans enough to free his wallet from his pocket as their drinks arrived. David beat him too it, wallet out and money on the bar before Marat could blink.
“I was paying,” he reminded the Spaniard, not as insistently as he meant to. With a shrug, David handed him his drink with caution Marat thought might border on excessive, hand withdrawn as soon as the Russian had a safe grip on the glass, as if he might actually get it bitten off if it stayed there too long. Marat considered growling in return, tempted to make the Spaniard flinch but his better nature -- reluctantly – intervened and he simply leaned back against the wall again.
“I haven’t been watching them that much, not tonight.” Rocking his glass from side to side, David looked down into his drink rather than at the Russian, a semblance of shyness that had Marat wondering about its sincerity. David had been nothing but shy politeness since he came over but that he’d come at all suggested a kind of bravery. That or not having the sense to know when to leave something alone, like not poking an injured bear with a pointy stick. “People don’t see me so much, not like some of the guys.” The smile that was becoming familiar, glanced quickly in Marat’s direction before David looked back at his seemingly-fascinating drink. “You get to see more of people when they aren’t looking at you.”
“Or avoiding you.” A little shrug when the Spaniard looked at him hesitantly, switching his drink to one hand so he could wave the other dismissively. “I’m not blind. I can see people avoid me when I’m annoyed. I like it, gives me the time to cool down.”
“And lets you watch everyone run in terror from you.” If there was a hint of teasing in David’s eyes, it vanished the moment Marat glared at him. “…Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” A drawn out silence, broken only by the increasingly desperate chink of ice cubes in David’s glass and Marat was starting to remember why he didn’t like talking to random people at parties. It always seemed to end in awkward silences or sex, neither of which he felt like tonight and which he guessed, from the increasing tension in David’s hunch over his drink, that the Spaniard didn’t either. “So…”
“So.” A slow smile, flickered across David’s face, tentative but amused and Marat found himself returning it before he could stop. “Want to hear what else I’ve seen tonight?”
“Surprise me,” Marat said dryly, covering a spark of enthusiasm because he wasn’t going to let the Spaniard cheer him up completely. At least -- not yet. “Anyone else secretly flirting besides Roddick?”
“Nadal and Lopez.” Marat’s disbelief was met with a wide-eyed look of honesty. “I’d place money on them sleeping together tonight.”
“So much for Moya,” Marat murmured, shocked though he wouldn’t have admitted it. He found Rafael in the crowd, not hard to do with the appalling shirt the young Majorcan had decided would be his latest fashion statement. It definitely stated something, though Marat wasn’t sure that something was what Nadal had intended. Lopez was beside him, fingers caught in the hideous shirt at the small of Rafael’s back as he leaned in to whisper something to the other player. David was right; once Marat looked past the swarm of cameras around them, not to mention the blinding glare of Nadal’s outfit, the flirting was obvious. “I thought better of Rafael than that.”
“Open relationship.” David replied to Marat’s look of disbelief with a flush, staring into his drink again. “I spend a lot of time watching people.”
“I thought I did too and I’ve missed half the things you seem to have noticed.” Marat was starting to be glad David had braved his legendary temper to come and talk to him, as much as he would rather have been left alone to nurse his black mood. “What else did I miss because I was too busy making everyone run in terror?”
“Well.” David didn’t look up, voice hesitant and Marat knew what he was going to say, feeling his annoyance come rushing back as if it had never slipped away. “Marat Safin’s been sulking in the corner all night and everyone’s too scared of him to go and ask why.”
“Except you.” Marat tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Thank you for the drink. I’d greatly appreciate you going to bother someone else now.”
“Marat, please. I didn’t mean to-“
“Now.”
David was silent a moment longer and Marat could feel the Spaniard watching him, helplessly, maybe a little hurt. It was only after there was the scrape of wood across the floor, David getting down from his bar stool and walking away with slow footsteps that were quickly lost in the music, that Marat opened one eye to check. There was no sign on the Spaniard in the crowd and Marat rested his feet back up on the vacated stool with a pang of regret through his anger.
So what if it had been nice to have someone distract him from his bad mood for a while? It wasn’t as if David had been doing it out the kindness of his heart, not when he’d been so clearly fishing for gossip. Marat was smarting enough without his humiliation being spread around the tour.
“Excuse me, sir?” The bartender was frowning at him when Marat opened his eyes, holding out something that it took the Russian a moment to recognise as a wallet. “Is this yours?”
“No, mine-“ Was in his pocket, since he’d never taken it out. David must have left his when he paid for the drinks. “The guy who was just here, I think it belongs to him.”
“Right.” The bartender glanced down the bar, at the growing crush of people trying to attract his attention for drinks. “Look, can you hang onto it in case he comes back for it? He’s your friend right?”
“Not exactly.” The bartender was gone before Marat could even begin to explain. Swearing under his breath in Russian, Marat moodily hefted the wallet in his hand as if throwing it at someone was an option and wondered how his night could get worse. All he needed was—
“Hello Marat.”
-- that.
“Hello Joachim.” Marat didn’t look up, playing with some frayed stitching along one edge of David’s wallet. “Having a good night?”
“Fine.” An awkward silence and then the Swede dropped the stiff, distant tone for one of despair. “Marat, please talk to me. I’m sorry about what happened in Halle. If you hadn’t surprised me, if you’d told me-“
“I did tell you. Not in so many words but clear enough.” Still without looking up, Marat flipped open David’s wallet out of a desperate need to do something with his hands, change chinking softly inside. There was nothing unexpected at first, a few British notes mixed with Euros, some credit cards and a phone number, scribbled messily in smudged biro. Marat was about to close it again, Joachim standing too close and demanding attention, when the first couple of scrawled numbers caught his eye. He read the phone number and then read it again, sure he’d imagined it. It took him a few seconds to believe he wasn’t just misreading the scrawl but after the fourth re-read, he was certain.
Which only left the question of why David Ferrer was carrying Marat’s phone number around in his wallet.
“Marat, are you listening to me?” Joachim had edged even closer while the Russian was distracted. “I really am sorry. I honestly didn’t know that you liked me like that or I would’ve said something sooner. I want to stay friends Marat.”
“Whatever,” Marat muttered, sliding off his stool with hardly a wince as he put weight on his knee. “I’ll think about it Joachim but right now, there’s something I have to do.”
“Marat.” Incredulity in the Swede’s tone, a hand grabbing Marat’s arm as he walked past. “Don’t be like this.”
“Like what?” Turning, gritting his teeth on the insults he wanted to snarl. “You made your feelings as clear as I did mine. They didn’t match, that’s okay. Just leave me alone for a while Joachim.” He jerked his arm free from the other man’s tight grip and pushed his way into the crowd without a clue where he was headed. He hadn’t even been watching to see which way David went and the encounter with Joachim had shaken him, to the point where his vision was blurred, featureless faces flashing past as he pushed through the crowd, desperate. David had seemed nice, was nice from what Marat knew of him and he’d had Marat’s phone number in his wallet, something that demanded explanations and reasons and, now he thought back, maybe the Spaniard had been really concerned. Marat kept threading through the crowd, ducking a few camera flashes and heading determinedly towards the stairs which would give him a view of the whole room. He had to find David, had to know why—
“Marat.” Someone stepped in front of him and Marat’s first reaction was disappointment, because it was Roger Federer and not the Spaniard he was looking for. “He’s getting his jacket in the cloakroom. If you run, you’ll catch him.”
“What?” Marat was lost for a moment, not following the Swiss at all. “Who?”
“Marat, sometimes you can be so…” Roger trailed off, sounding about as exasperated as the placid Swiss ever got and caught Marat’s hand instead, to drag him through the crowd. People’s shoulders and elbows bumped past, Marat mumbling automatic apologies left and right between trying to work out what was going on.
“David?”
“Yes. He likes you Marat but he’s shy. He wouldn't even call you. I finally get him to buy you a drink and you ruined it.” They reached the bottom of the stairs, crowd thinner here and Marat could breathe after the tight press of people. Roger was looking at him with a slight smile, quirked up at one corner in amusement and maybe frustration. “Go. Or you’ll miss him.”
“But—“ Marat hesitated, looking over at the cloakroom. It was still early, so not many people were going in and the man on the door looked to be half-falling asleep. “I don’t even know him Roger.”
“You will. You’ll like him, if you give him a chance.” Roger got a hand around his waist and pushed him, stumbling, towards the door. “Tell him about Joachim. He’ll understand.”
“How did you—“ Marat didn’t need to finish as he met the Swiss’s dark eyes, full of understanding and knowing sympathy. It seemed he and David weren’t the only ones who watched people.
“Be nice,” was Roger’s hissed instruction as Marat looked back at the door, part of his mind still back in the corner of the bar and he only realised he was half-crushing David’s wallet in his hand when the sharp edge of a coin dug into his palm. He was on the very edge of stepping forward when something occurred to him and he glanced back at the watching Swiss.
“Roger, Andy’s—“
“Hitting on me. I know.” Roger’s smile widened into something approaching wicked. “He’s coming home with us. Only he doesn’t know it yet.”
“Oh.” Marat thought back to earlier, when he’d been thinking he understood everyone in the room and decided maybe he should start looking harder. Then the next time a gorgeous Spaniard bought him a drink, maybe he wouldn’t scare them away. “Have fun with him.”
Roger grinned. “We will.” He made shooing motions with his hands and Marat got the hint, walking past the doorman with a smile he was sure didn’t look at all convincing. Either the man was too tired or not paying enough attention to notice, because he returned it and stepped aside for Marat to go past, closing the door behind him.
David was in the far corner of the small room, crouching to look under the hanging coats with an air of desperation. Waiting a few seconds without being noticed, Marat had to clear his throat to draw the Spaniard’s attention.
“Oh, can you-?” David glanced up and the words trailed off when he saw Marat, switching to Spanish. “…Hello.”
“Hi.” Marat shifted his weight between his feet. “I-“
“I’m sorry I sounded like I was being rude,” David interrupted, earnest and so pleading that the final traces of Marat’s irritation instantly faded. “I didn’t know what to say and Roger told me you needed someone to talk to, so I tried because… because I like you. And it’s okay if you don’t—“
“David.” Firm, Marat carefully keeping away from sounding harsh, not that he knew what else to say now he was here. “I- The barman found your wallet.” He held it out, a peace offering and the relief that crossed David’s face could be from either knowing he hadn’t lost it, or from the implied forgiveness in Marat bringing it to him. “I apologise for looking inside.”
“Oh.” David stood slowly, not as tall as Marat thought he was as he straightened up. “Did you see—“
“Yes.” Marat looked at him for a long moment and asked, honestly confused, “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”
“Because you’re Marat Safin.” The smile David gave him was crooked, still uncertain and he made no move to come close enough to take his wallet. “You eat people like me for breakfast.”
“Unlikely,” Marat replied, amused and letting it show. “Eating people that early in the morning is terribly bad for my stomach. Lunch maybe.” He waved the wallet a little. “Are you going to take this or should I keep it?”
David walked forward with clear reluctance, staying at arms length. “Marat I am sorry I asked you what was wrong. It was none of my business.”
“No but you’re the only one who asked.” And he had been, Marat realised. Nearly everyone else had adopted a policy of avoidance when he was upset, to the point where he couldn’t have talked to anyone even if he’d thought he wanted to. He’d chased everyone away, even the one person who’d cared enough to actually show an interest in how he felt. “So I should tell you.”
“You don’t have to,” David said softly. Marat shook his head.
“I want to.” He paused to take a deep breath, part of him unable to believe he was confessing this to someone he hardly knew. “After Halle I went drinking with Joachim to help us forget we’d lost. I got… very drunk, more than I’ve ever been. I told him I’d loved him for months and kissed him in a very public, very crowded bar.”
“Oh.” David’s wince was heartfelt. “He didn’t react well?”
“Suffice to say he taught me some new names for fag that I didn’t even know existed.” The memory still hurt, Marat fixing his stare blankly on the floor to focus on keeping the shouted words from echoing through his mind. “I didn’t see him again until we got to London. He’s been trying to apologise but…”
“No going back?” David’s voice was quiet, knowing. “You should give him time. He could have reacted better but it was a big thing to surprise him with.”
“I know,” Marat murmured, still staring at the floor. “But like you said, no going back. I don’t think I could ever… It’ll always be there when I’m with him, even as friends. Wondering if he really feels like that or-“
A hand touched his chin, cool, lightly callused fingertips pushing it gently up. Brown eyes dark with sympathy, David was close, just inches away and Marat leaned towards his warmth almost hungrily, wondering absently if the difference in their heights would prove a problem if they were to kiss.
“Marat, I’m not him.” David was looking up at him with that open, honest expression Marat was becoming familiar with, and starting to trust. “I won’t ruin what we could have by agreeing to be a substitute for Johansson.”
“I won’t ask you too.” Marat studied the shorter Spaniard, taking in the soft fall of dark hair, the brown eyes that shone paler when they caught the light. David was beautiful but more than that, he’d shown he actually cared. There was something there, an attraction that Marat thought could be good, if they explored it. “But I would like to get to know you better.”
“I’d like that.” The Spaniard’s smile was slow at first until it grew, lighting up his face. “I’d like that a lot.”
“Good.” Leaning down, the height difference not to much of a problem because David stretched up at the same time and they got to meet somewhere in the middle, the Spaniard’s mouth hovering close enough for Marat to feel the wet tip of a tongue when David licked his lips.
“Marat,” he murmured and the Russian suppressed a groan, desperately wanting to finish with talking. “This will change everything you know.”
“We've been training together and playing against each other for most of our careers, David. So how would this make anything different?" Marat bent his head to bring their lips together but the Spaniard moved back just far enough to keep them apart. “David.”
“I mean everything. Where we play, how we play, where we go between tournaments.” The Spaniard met his eyes, difficult when they were this close because it was close to impossible to focus. “Everything Marat.” The insistence faded into uncertainty, David taking a quick, desperate breath. “Please?”
Marat didn’t even have to consider it. Everything meant talking about his problems instead of glaring at them until they went away, meant rearranging his life and his tennis. Would mean difficulties when he had to take the time off to fix his knee after Wimbledon but it was what he wanted, or thought he might want, once he got to know David better. “Yes.”
“Sure?” David breathed. It was hard to glare this close too but Marat managed it, drawing a soft chuckle from the Spaniard.
“Shut up and kiss m-“
Warm, wet lips, David’s tongue pushing past them to meet Marat’s and the Russian smiled into the kiss, curled his hands in the Spaniard’s soft hair and tilted David’s head back to deepen it. He’d wanted this all along and if it hadn’t come from quite where he’d been looking for it, well. That didn’t make it worse, though it might make it better.
He just hadn’t been looking in the right place.
~ Fin ~