One-shot: Winning and Losing (PG-13, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Winning and Losing Rating: PG-13 Pairing: Roddick/Federer Summary: Roger thinks he’s lost Andy after beating him. Notes: Post-Wimbledon 2005. My reaction to some of the things Andy and Roger did and said. Disclaimer: So very not mine, never happened.
Winning and Losing
The material of the suit hasn’t quite lost that just-bought feel yet. The faint itch of it, never having been through a wash to soften it to comfort – it’s been driving Roger crazy all night. He tugs his collar straight uncomfortably and stares out the car window, watching unseeing the almost deserted streets of London passing by.
“I had fun tonight,” Mirka says quietly from beside him and Roger glances at her across the back seat of the car, seeing the strain to her smile even through the darkness, only broken by the flickering shafts of yellow from the occasional passing headlights. She’s looked stunning all night but, after the initial compliments, he’d barely noticed and she knows it.
“So did I,” he replies, knows too that she sees the lie for what it is -- a barely veiled apology for his mind being miles away since he walked off Centre Court -- and sees her accept it with a nod. “Thank you for coming.”
“Always,” she murmurs smoothly and looks away, Roger knows to hide the sadness in her eyes. Everything tonight, the stunning dress; the flush of golden shimmer applied with the precision of an artist over the shadows of eyeliner; the polite laughter and smiles - all for him. She never stops trying and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s hopeless, not again. They’re friends still and it was hard enough to see the heartbreak in her eyes the first time.
He can’t help thinking that he’ll need her comfort by tomorrow anyway. His phone -- a constant presence in his pocket all night with part of him always listening for it -- hasn’t rung since his sister called with congratulations. The messages left at the house varied from polite to ecstatic, one superlative after another scrawled across expensive card and the colourful tags of gifts but the writing Roger knows by heart was missing. They haven’t spoken beyond a few tense words since this – after a glance at his watch he amends that to ‘yesterday’ – morning and it’s tearing Roger to pieces slowly, more the not knowing than anything.
"I want to win this tournament so badly… but this guy is the best in the world for a reason." Not even able to say Roger’s name out on court, the bitter edge of disappointment to the words even worse than the avoidance. It had been all Roger could do to stand still and keep the smile painted across his lips, listening to the man he loved refuse to even say his name. He always knew he risked losing Andy if they had to play this final. It just hadn’t hit home until the voice he’d heard moan and gasp and whisper “I love you” more times than he could count murmured ‘Congratulations’ in tone so cold, all the warmth and joy of winning froze to ice in Roger’s blood.
Andy had wanted this win more than anything, more than Roger had thought anyone could want something. And in taking that away, in crushing the American so soundly, Roger had made his choice between Andy and winning clear.
“You can call him you know.” Mirka’s whisper is filled with tired exasperation, both of them glancing towards Tony who’s asleep beside the driver up front, automatic wariness whenever they bring Andy up ingrained deep by now. “You’ve wanted to all night.”
“I don’t know if he wants me to call.” Roger rubs his palms over his knees and feels the calluses snagging the fine material of his suit, not that he can’t bring himself to care if it gives him something to do with his hands. Anything other than going for the phone that could be burning a hole in his side, he’s so aware of it. “He might be drunk by now. Or asleep.”
“Or he might be curled up in bed crying because you haven’t called,” Mirka points out and damn her for sounding so reasonable because Roger suddenly can’t breathe through the guilt. Andy’s dark eyes, wide in a face that was too pale as the American stared determinedly at a spot just beyond Roger to avoid eye contact, flashing through his mind like an accusation and he could cry again. It had been hard enough holding back the tears on court in front of countless eyes, knowing they thought he was emotional over winning when really, all he could think was that he’d just lost Andy forever. Here in the car with only Mirka, an impassive driver and a softly snoring Tony to see, he’s closer to crying than he’s been all night.
“Was I supposed to lose?” he demands, trying to sound calm and failing at merely confused. “Was I supposed to let him win? He didn’t want that Mirka. He—“ He’d wanted to win. Wanted to have something he could hold up beside Roger’s so-called brilliance to cast a tiny glow of his own and Roger had denied him even that. Yet Andy wouldn’t have been happy if Roger had played less than his best and today had been his best, untouchable and perfect. Should he – could he? – have done any less?
“There are some things that even winning isn’t as important as.” Not a trace of accusation in Mirka’s quiet words but Roger feels the tears well up a little closer to falling, because he knows what she thinks. No matter that she loves him, she loves Andy too, though Roger’s never understood why when Andy had effectively replaced her. “No, you shouldn’t have let him win Roger but you should call him. You should have called him hours ago.”
“But what-“
“When he picks up the phone, you’ll know what to say.” Mirka reaches over, pulls his cell phone from his pocket and holds it in front of him. “Call him.”
Taking the phone with hands that tremble, Roger grips it tight enough to make the plastic creak until he gets control of himself and takes a deep breath. The speed dial more than automatic, made easy by endlessly dialling the numbers at all hours of the morning and night depending where Andy is in the world in relation to him. Pressed to his ear harder than he needs to but he can’t help it, can’t make himself relax. On some level he’s aware of Mirka looking tactfully away, of Tony’s slightly grunting snore from up front, of the itch of his suit and trickle of sweat down his neck but it’s like seeing through a haze, nothing real except the ringing on the other end of the phone. Every shrilling tone feels like a hundred and he’s fighting not to flinch when it’s picked up halfway through the fourth ring.
“Hey Rog,” Andy says before the Swiss can speak and his voice is hoarse, the muffling sound of tears familiar after so many tournaments, so many bitter losses but never one like this. For an endless, aching second Roger loses his voice until he realises Mirka, as always, was right and he knows exactly what to say.
“Hey Andy. Can-- can I come over?”
~~~
Ten minutes later, standing outside the rented house Andy is sharing with Dean and the others in his entourage, Roger’s almost shivering with nerves. Mirka had kissed his cheek, whispered that they’d pick him on the way to the airport in the morning and she’d think of something to tell his parents before pushing him out the car. Roger’s learning fast that he really doesn’t appreciate her enough.
Maybe he should work on that. He’s going to need her if Andy throws him out.
The American had been brief on the phone, nothing but flat neutrality in a voice rough with tears. Roger had wanted to say more, ask if he was okay -- which, thinking back, would’ve been a really dumb thing to ask when Andy sounded like willpower alone was holding him together, but after a short “Don’t knock, you’ll wake everyone up” there’d been only dial tone sounding in Roger’s ear. The coldness had hurt even when he realised Andy had agreed to see him. Which, after all, was what Roger had asked for.
It still hurt.
Waiting in the chill of the June night outside the front door, he closes his eyes briefly. He has no plan of what to say, no magic words that’ll explain his crushing of Andy in a way the American can accept. Saying he didn’t mean to do it would both be a lie and the truth -- he wanted to win, wanted it like air when he’s drowning in a crowded room or like a lifeline, something to cling to and prove he’s not lost his touch. Andy saw him after the Opens in Australia and France; he knows how close Roger was to completely losing faith in himself. He knows how much Roger wanted this but—
-- But Roger knows Andy wanted it more.
“I would give anything to win this tournament.” Honest words, spoken to crowds and press that would never understand the true depth of feeling underneath the quietly despondent tone. Andy lives and breathes winning, always has and Roger’s never been able to tell how much of it stems from the pressure of being the lone American making finals. Andy is expected to succeed and with every failure, the need to prove himself increases. More than once, Roger’s privately compared it to the way the British tear Tim to pieces every year; he knows it’s the same thing, that the Americans are cruel to Andy because they’re simply disappointed. Andy can’t handle that like he could handle malice or anger or even pity because he knows it’s solely his fault, ruining his country’s hopes by failing. There’s nothing Andy hates more than being a disappointment.
You’re the cruellest to the ones you love, Roger thinks with a trace of sadness. The Americans probably don’t even know they’re tearing Andy apart with how they feel.
“Are you going to stand there all night or are you coming in so I can close the door?”
A tone of bitter tiredness to the words, so unlike Andy that it has Roger flinching away, opening his eyes to see the American standing in the open doorway with the darkness hiding his face. He moves back when he sees Roger stare at him, tiny, shuffling steps that suggest exhaustion and misery as he turns back into the house. It’s an invitation with reluctance and Roger has to steel himself to step into the dark hallway, catching the door as it swings behind him and easing it gently closed. Andy’s already disappearing into the lounge, a soft glow illuminating the hall from inside the room.
It’s hard for Roger to follow, that bitter tone in Andy’s voice echoing through his mind. ‘Congratulations’ said in a way that means anything but and he can’t help remembering the blank look in Andy’s eyes after the match, misery hidden behind a mask of good sportsmanship. The only thing that makes him move is the thought that Andy let him in. He didn’t just hang up when Roger called or worse, tell him it was over.
It’s that – and only that -- tiny thread of hope which carries Roger down the hallway and into the lounge.
He’s seen the house before so the eccentric mix of modern leather, rustic tables and a wooden floor so polished he could – and Andy has – skate across it in socks doesn’t come as a surprise. Neither do the beer bottles covering the coffee table or the mass of pillows heaped in disarray over the nearest sofa because Andy always likes to surround himself with comfort after he loses. It’s only on a second look that Roger realises none of the bottles are open and the twisted shreds of white scattered through the pillows are the remnants of tissues, most of a box by the sheer amount of scraps but he could be wrong in the dim light, just the one lamp switched on. A sudden urge to yell at Andy for being so melodramatic probably isn’t helpful and it fades as fast as it came when he looks at Andy sitting hunched on the couch.
He’s perched on the edge of the pillow-nest, staring at his hands with the unseeing blankness of exhaustion. Old grey Austin Haymakers t-shirt that Roger’s worn more than once just because it feels like Andy, cotton washed to the paper-thinness of comfort and the Swiss is abruptly aware that he’s still painfully tidy in his suit, everything that Andy could have been tonight when instead the American’s in a threadbare t-shirt, jeans that are torn across the knees. He wants to undo his bowtie, slide off his jacket but knows Andy would see through it in seconds, recognise it as an attempt to hide where Roger’s been and be hurt. So he just stands by the door, digging trimmed nails into his palms under the sleeves of his jacket.
“Was it nice?” Andy asks without turning his head and there’s nothing malicious in his tone. Perhaps something wistful that twists in Roger’s chest till breathing becomes a concern but nothing angry, nothing even remotely spiteful. He genuinely sounds like he wants to know.
“Not that nice.” It’s not even a lie; the parts of the night that Roger didn’t spend being bored, he spent forcing himself not to dial Andy’s number, desperately knotting his fingers together under the table or in Mirka’s shawl behind her back when they posed for pictures and he’d be surprised if there aren’t holes in the rich material by now. He doesn’t like dancing or talking to people in a language that he speaks just perfectly enough for them to notice the imperfections, where a slip that would never matter with Andy becomes a crime when he sees it register in the eyes of yet another important guest. With Andy’s cold congratulations echoing through his mind, nothing about celebrating his win had seemed nice.
He’s never understood the term ‘hollow victory’ before but he thinks he’s starting to.
“Suppose it’s getting old now, right? Third time.” Still not looking at Roger, Andy’s voice flat to the point of being emotionless and Roger really can’t move. While there’s no anger in the words, there’s equally nothing to suggest any move towards the American would be welcomed and as much as he desperately wants to hug Andy close, he doesn’t want to make everything worse. Tears burn behind his eyes because Wimbledon isn’t supposed to be like this; it’s meant to be wonderful, amazing tennis, all the unique Britishness of it, Andy curled around him in the large bed upstairs and helping to cover for Roger with his parents in the morning. Roger’s meant to be celebrating right now and all he can think is that he’d give it all up for Andy’s voice to sound less flat, for a single smile.
“You know it never gets old,” he whispers, wishing it could be the truth. “Andy—“
“Going home today?”
The question rocks Roger back a step, unexpected and harsh. “Yes. In the morning. But Andy-“
“You should be getting to bed then, get some sleep.” A pause and there’s the barest hint of sarcasm when Andy speaks again, the curl of a lip that’s not quite enough to be called a sneer but just enough for Roger to know he’s not imagining it. “I expect you’ll have celebrations to go to when you get home.”
Making himself bite down a hurt reply is hard but Roger does it, breath hissing through his teeth in a sound of helpless frustration. “Andy, please-“
“No, Roger.” Cracks that overwhelm the flatness and Andy bows his head a little further, the hunch to his shoulders stiffening until his shirt is pulled tight over every muscle, stretched to the point of tearing and Roger can see the American’s knuckles turn white as he locks his hands together. “I shouldn’t have let you in, I’m sorry. Just—please, just go.”
“No!” Roger startles himself with his hiss, Andy flinching like he’s been struck and remorse is the bitter tang of blood when Roger bites his tongue on his anger. Remembering he did this to Andy is harder when he’s hurt and confused but he makes himself remember it, forces his voice to be calmer. “No Andy, I’m not leaving. I’ve been worrying about you all night and then I get here and all you can do is act like this. I know I won and I don’t know if I should be apologising for that. Should I?”
“You haven’t been worrying about me.” Ignoring the question and the sneer is back along with an accusation Andy doesn’t voice, liar whispering itself through his tone. He still hasn’t so much as glanced at Roger, closing his eyes with his next words. “I know when I’m an afterthought, so don’t lie to make me feel better.”
“I-“ Confusion setting in again, no way to follow what Andy’s thinking and Roger wishes he could sit down. “I’ve worried about you all night Andy, I swear. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because you didn’t call!” Suddenly raised voice, to the point of shouting but neither of them glance towards the stairs, neither caring who they wake at this point because it’s all Roger can do to stay standing as Andy glares at him, the accusations edged like knives. “You didn’t call and you didn’t care about anything but winning. And you won! You smiled for the press, you took the congratulations, you fucking went dancing and then thought of me, pathetic little Andy left behind because he wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t important enough to think about earlier Roger, so don’t tell me you were worried!”
Ground suddenly unsteady under Roger’s feet and he puts out a hand to brace himself against the wall. It’s him who can’t look at Andy now, staring at nothing on the floor with tears stinging behind his eyes because he hadn’t thought, hadn’t even considered— he hadn’t wanted to call in case Andy didn’t want him to, thought the American would want to be left alone. Mirka’s words come back to haunt him, “curled up in bed crying because you haven’t called” and she’d been right, again while he’d been wrong. He’d been trying to give Andy some space and had made it seem like he didn’t care.
“I wanted to call.” Through the daze of regret Roger sees Andy hear his cracked whisper, sees him start to reject it in the curl of another sneer. “I promise Andy, it’s all I wanted all night and I didn’t know if you wanted me to or if you wanted to be left alone and I thought—“ Tears right on the edge by now, fiercely hot behind his eyes and he can’t cry now, not when Andy’s actually listening to him at last. “It’s all I’ve wanted to do all night.”
“But…” and the coldly miserable Andy is gone, replaced by childlike bewilderment and a tone that Roger could only describe as pathetic, Andy staring at him with wide, hurt eyes. “…You didn’t. I waited all night and you didn’t.”
The bewildered words are all it takes. Roger feels the first tears fall with something like surprise and before he has time to think, he’s leaning against the wall with his hands pressed hard to his face in a futile attempt to muffle his sobs. Gasps for air shuddering through him and this is how he’d wanted to cry on court, wanted to and hadn’t dared. Nothing about the day had been how he’d imagined it would be, from the tennis he’d played to Andy; Andy unsmiling as they walked on court, Andy still managing to raise a laugh at the end, though his eyes shone with the tears he’d never allow to fall. Andy who he’d let down all day and Roger just lets the frustration and guilt come spilling over in a flood of tears that he can’t stop.
Andy’s hand on his shoulder isn’t welcome, embarrassment at his lack of control when it’s the American who should be upset and he shrugs it off, turning away. The heartbeat of a pause, a drawing of breath that suggests hurt and Roger just has time to think that he’s got it wrong again when arms go around him tight, pulling him into a hug and he curls against Andy with a sound like relief. He cries himself out into the t-shirt that he thinks he might steal after today, snuggle into it and never take it off because it’ll be like having Andy wrapped around him constantly, the scent of aftershave and sweat and everything uniquely Andy more comforting than any words could be. He buries his face in the scent of one shoulder, lets the last tears soak into grey cotton that’s now damp beneath his face and Andy’s chuckle is a shock.
“Which one of us won here?” A whisper, and it’s the Andy Roger recognises from countless teasing moments over the last weeks and months, coldness and misery gone as if they’d never been there. The tone even more than the words makes him gasp out a laugh that’s nowhere near amused but is closer to it than tears and that’s an improvement in his mind, face still wetly slick and curls of hair that catch between damp fingers, clinging to his skin. A moment longer when they’re pressed together hard enough to bruise and then Andy draws back slightly, gets a hand under Roger’s chin to tilt it up as the Swiss blinks salt-sore eyes.
“You okay?” Andy asks gently. There’s an infinite number of answers Roger could give to that and all he can think is that he finally feels better, feels like he’s really in the moment and not watching it from a distance while he goes through the motions. He’s still shaken, still guilty over what he’s done to Andy but for the first time all day, he lets himself relax.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” Tears still clog his voice, masking the humour but Andy catches it, smiles. It gives Roger the confidence to keep talking, to say what he’s been trying to work out in his head all evening because he’s never had to apologise for winning before.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to beat you like that.”
Callused fingers brush the wet curls of hair loose from Roger’s skin, Andy tucking them neatly back and glancing down to meet Roger’s eyes, the first time he’s done so all day. They just watch each other for an endless moment until Andy smiles, startling and bright.
“I didn’t think you cared.” A lightening quick kiss, pressed soft to Roger’s lips. “Thank you for proving me wrong.”
It’s the forgiveness as much as the kiss that sends shivers through Roger but it’s the kiss he chases, leaning into Andy and opening his mouth in a way that begs without words until Andy kisses him again, both of them needing the contact. It’s a relief when Andy guides them over to the sofa without breaking it, Roger sinking down off aching feet with relief and if Andy’s hands are a little desperate, the kiss a little hard, then it’s only what he needs after one of the strangest days of his life. They’re already curled around each other in the tangle of cushions before they realise that neither of them want to move.
“Are you staying?” Question breathed warmly into Roger’s mouth and the Swiss nods. “Good.”
“Andy, I’m too tired for-“
“I know.” Andy’s hands, pressing him down into the nest of cushions that are more comfortable than they look and the American curling up alongside him, half on top of him in a position that’s nothing but comfortable since Roger thought he might never have it again. “I’m glad you’re here Rog.”
A flash of guilt again, slicing through the haze of sleep and relief starting to surround him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”
“It doesn’t matter.” A last kiss and Andy lies down beside him, head pillowed on Roger’s shoulder. “I am proud of you Rog. You were too good.”
“Proud of you too,” Roger murmurs on the edge of sleep. “I need to ask you something.”
“Ask me in the morning.” Andy sighs and it’s a sound of contentment, heavy with tiredness. “Night, champ.”
~~~
There’s the quiet sounds of someone moving around at the edge of his hearing, the pad of socked feet across the floor. Roger listens to it through a fuzz of half-sleep and laziness, Andy’s warmth pressed to his side and the cushions so comfortable that never moving again is a serious option. The footsteps fade for a few minutes before returning and Roger just has time to worry about which one of Andy’s camp is going to find them tangled together on the couch before a quiet clink has him opening his eyes curiously.
Dean’s just shifting beer bottles one handed, one mug of coffee in his other hand while a second steaming cup sits by his feet on the floor. The moment Roger’s eyes slide open, as if sensing the Swiss’ stare, he glances over with a smile.
“Morning. It’s one sugar in your coffee right?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Roger blinks and decides it’s too hard to think through the stubborn remnants of sleep, though Dean’s still watching him expectantly so he tries. “What—what time is it?”
“Just gone seven thirty. Mirka called, said to let you know she’ll be by in about an hour to pick you up.”
“She called?” Confusion has Roger fumbling for his phone, jacket discarded during the night over the back of the sofa and he’s not even found the pockets of it before Dean’s touching his wrist and shaking his head.
“She called me. So organised it’s a little scary sometimes, that girl.” A pause and Roger sees Dean lean back, take in the loose limbed sprawl of Andy amongst the cushions and Roger. “Did you work everything out?”
From anyone else it would be intrusive; from Dean it’s genuine concern and Roger drags himself upright just enough to accept the mug of coffee the coach hands him. “Yes. At least I think we did.”
“Good. He plays better when he has you.” A rare, broad smile directed at Roger and the coach is moving away before the Swiss can react, surprise and pleasure making him flush. Dean’s always supported them – Andy had looked hard for a coach who would, checking countless people out with wariness after Brad almost ‘outed’ them both to the press – but this is the first time Roger’s appreciated the man’s full support, the coffee in his hand an implied vote of approval. He sips it happily as Dean disappears back into the kitchen.
It’s amazing how something as simple as coffee can make the day seem brighter. Even the twinge of nerves at Andy stirring with a groan beside him can’t harm Roger’s mood. He leans across to the table and has the other mug of coffee ready when Andy blearily raises his head, hands going to the mug like a magnet.
“I’m going to give that man a pay-rise,” he mumbles, taking a gulping mouthful. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Roger shifts his coffee to his other hand, rubbing the freed hand over Andy’s back. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Like I lost.” The flash of a grin is all Roger needs to know that the American’s teasing. “Pretty good though, considering. You?”
“Better.” Roger steadies his coffee as Andy wriggles into almost-upright, still leaning heavily against Roger’s chest. “It all hasn’t quite sunk in yet.”
“I’ll bet.” A jaw-cracking yawn from Andy and he glances at his watch, brief outrage crossing his face. “I may have to cancel that pay rise. What’s Dean doing, waking us up this early?”
“I’ve got a plane to catch,” Roger says and wishes he hadn’t a moment later when Andy’s face falls. “No Andy, listen. Are you awake enough for me to ask you something?”
“No. But I won’t be for a while, so you may as well ask anyway.” Andy rubs his free hand hard over his eyes. “Shoot.”
“I have a spare plane ticket.” Roger gets straight to the point, knowing Andy when he’s sleepy and knowing he’ll appreciate bluntness more. “I bought it for… well. It’s yours, if you want it.”
Too blunt; he can see the frown deepening on Andy’s face and wishes he’d explained himself better. “What I meant was-“
“Me coming home with you?” Andy demands softly. It’s not without a shiver of anxiety that Roger nods. He’s seen Andy’s house in Texas a few times in the last year, but for the most part they’ve kept their relationship on tour, sharing hotel rooms or rented houses and nothing away from that, being together during tournaments and parting at the end. Andy going home with Roger suggests a seriousness that the Swiss hasn’t been sure Andy would be willing to accept but he only needs to see the broad grin spreading over the American’s face to know he’s made the right decision.
“I would love to come home with you.” Andy stretches up to kiss him, coffees wobbling precariously in their hands and Roger’s not sure how he keeps his upright until Andy pulls away. “What will you tell your parents?”
“The truth maybe. Or come up with something, if you’d rather not.” Biting his lip against his happiness bubbling over, Roger smiles softly at the brown eyes barely an inch from his. “I just want you there with me.”
“That’s good, because it’s right where I want to be.” Andy rests his head on Roger’s chest again, sleep-mussed blonde hair tickling his neck and one hand rubbing idly over the Swiss’ stomach. “So Rog, we’re okay? After yesterday and… and everything?”
“We’re okay.” Roger can’t help an inane smile at the words because they are, winning and losing suddenly in perspective and for the first time he feels the flush of happiness because he’d won and he hasn’t lost Andy after all. All the worry and the despair and guilt of yesterday are gone and he’s happy, curled around the man he loves, still Wimbledon champ, soon to be heading home with Andy be his side.
Yesterday he’d never have thought he’d be thinking it but life was… pretty perfect after all.