Work Text:
Wollerau, December 8th, 2017
“So, Rafa, do you know what you’re getting me for Christmas this year?”
It had become a running joke between them. Every year Roger would text the question to Rafa, and every year Rafa answered something outlandish. Last year it was a submarine. The year before that, it was an emu. Three years ago, he told Roger he’d get him La Sagrada Familia. So Roger didn’t know why he kept looking at his phone and rereading this year’s answer as if it held some deep, hidden meaning.
He took his phone out of his pocket and looked again. Obviously it still said the same thing. “A diamond necklace.”
Not like it said a diamond ring. And why was Roger’s brain even going there? They’d kissed one time. Sort of. Roger still wasn’t even sure that it hadn’t been an accident.
*
Shanghai, October 8th, 2017
The player party before the Shanghai Masters was always lavish, but this year they’d really gone over the top, renting out the 120th floor of the Shanghai Tower and serving course after course of gourmet Chinese food. Roger was used to spectacular locations, but he found himself particularly enthralled by the view of the sprawling city sparkling beneath them like a sultan’s jewel box. He blamed the stunning view and the lingering high from the success of the Laver Cup for why he had so far exceeded his usual limit of two glasses of wine. There’d been multiple toasts, and he’d lost count of how many times the waiters had refilled his champagne flute. The alcohol and his exhaustion were combining to give everything a pleasantly light, fizzy quality, like the bubbles had entered his blood stream and were making him buoyant.
He and Rafa hadn’t been seated at the same table originally, but by the time dessert and coffee were served, the VP of something or other who’d been seated to Roger’s right was gone and Rafa was there instead.
Rafa’s wrist was resting on Roger’s shoulder, but for the last several minutes, he’d been speaking in animated Spanish to Rob Agut who was sitting a few seats away. Roger could understand enough to know that they were talking about Rafa’s new yacht. Rafa had texted him a few pictures. It looked awesome.
“Hey, when are you going to invite me out on your boat?” Roger asked, interrupting something Rob was saying.
Rafa turned to him and flashed his usual playful smile.
“Roger, you know that you are always invited.” He patted Roger’s thigh to emphasize the point and then left it resting there, companionable and warm as he turned back to Agut saying, “Como estaba diciendo.”
Roger didn’t realize his eyes had closed until he felt a tap on his arm, and heard Rafa saying, “Right, Roger?”
Roger pulled himself upright, as his eyes flew open. “Hm? Yes, totally agree” he said, trying to cover up for the fact that he’d been falling asleep at the table.
Based on the amused look on Rafa’s face, he didn’t think he’d done a very good job.
“You know,” Rafa said, “I think it’s time for me to be going to bed.”
“Yes, me too,” said Roger. “Early practice tomorrow.”
They were all staying in the hotel on the upper floors of the tower that night and would move to lodging closer to the arena in the morning. So there wasn’t the usual scramble of assistants calling cars, and security guards, and all that nonsense. They could just wander over to the bank of elevators and go to their rooms.
Roger was pleasantly surprised to hear “Under Pressure'' as they stepped Into the elevator instead of crappy muzak.
“This was my favorite song when I was fourteen,” he told Rafa.
“Oh yes?”
“Yeah. I still love it.” Roger automatically started humming along as the song crescendoed. A few seconds later he realized his eyes had closed again as he got lost in the music. “‘Love is an old-fashioned word.’ I guess that’s true,” Roger said, opening his eyes to find Rafa looking at him with his head cocked to one side and a faint smile on his face.
Roger was about to ask Rafa what had been his favorite song when he was a kid, but then he noticed something felt off. “Hey, shouldn’t we be moving?”
Rafa’s eyes widened. “Oh. I no press the button.” Rafa’s smile got wider as he said, “I think I am a little bit drunk.”
“Can I tell you something? Me too.” Roger erupted into giggles at the admission.
Rafa bit down on his lower lip, until it escaped from between his teeth and he burst into laughter.
Roger laughed harder which made Rafa laugh more as well. Big, gulping laughter that seemed to leave him breathless as he tossed his head back and then leaned forward, resting his forehead on Roger’s shoulder.
Roger’s right arm came up automatically, hugging Rafa to him.
“It’s not that funny,” Roger said.
“I know,” Rafa answered, but Roger could still feel his shoulders shaking under his hand.
“One of us should probably press the button,” Roger said. Or tried to say. He couldn’t get the full sentence out before he was giggling again, and Rafa was shaking even harder.
“Stop, stop,” Rafa said. He’d turned his head now so his face was against Roger’s neck and Roger could feel the movement of Rafa’s lips against his skin, the warmth of his breath tickling Roger as he spoke.
“You stop,” said Roger, moving his hand to Rafa’s chest, but not really applying any pressure to push him away.
Rafa’s cheek brushed against Roger’s, a rasp of stubble prickling his skin as Rafa lifted his head.
Rafa had stopped laughing, but he was still smiling. His warm, brown eyes full of happiness and mirth, and Roger was struck with a sudden stab of emotion, an intense gratitude for the amazing year they were both having after so many injuries and setbacks. He couldn’t believe that not only had he gotten to achieve all of his wildest dreams, but that he’d gotten to do it with this man. When he was a kid dreaming of being a champion, he couldn’t possibly have imagined any opponent as perfect for him as Rafa.
The feelings came welling up, and Roger said, “You make me better. You know that, right? I don’t just mean at tennis. I mean everything. You make me better at everything.”
They were still half holding on to each other. Rafa’s face was close enough for Roger to smell the coffee and whiskey on his breath.
Rafa started to say his name, but then suddenly his whole body tensed, and he jumped away from Roger at the exact same moment that Roger heard someone say, “Oh! Disculpe.”
The elevator doors were opening, still onto the hallway of the 120th floor, and del Potro was standing there with his tie in his hand and his suit jacket over one arm. “Disculpe,” he said again. “Sorry, I just–I–”
“Hey, Juan Martin.” Roger said to him. “We forgot to push the button. We’re drunk,” he added in a whisper, a little bit of the hilarity from before returning, but Rafa didn’t laugh.
“Whoops,” Roger said, rushing forward and sticking his arm out as the elevator doors started to close again. “Well come on,” he told Juan Martin who was still standing there staring like he’d never seen an elevator before. “What floor are you on?”
“97,” he answered, finally stepping inside.
“Oh, that’s funny, Rafa and I are on 90. You’re on a higher floor. J.M. must have been nicer to the tournament officials than us, ay, Rafa?” Roger gave his arm a playful tap, but Rafa was still looking down at his feet, not paying attention to him. Maybe Roger had spoken too fast for Rafa to follow.
Roger pressed both buttons and the elevator finally started to move.
Juan Martin asked Rafa a question in Spanish. Roger didn’t catch any of the words, but the irritated snort that accompanied Rafa’s terse response was clear in any language.
The sudden negative vibe left Roger baffled. He’d always thought of Juan Martin as an easy-going guy who got along with everyone. He’d had no idea there was bad blood between him and Rafa.
“What was that about?” he asked after Juan Martin got off on his floor.
“Is nothing,” Rafa said. He took a deep breath and shook his head, clearly trying to let go of whatever had just happened. The elevator dinged for their floor, and Roger decided to drop it.
The carpets in the hallway were thick and plush enough that Roger felt himself sink in with every step as they made their way down the hall.
“This is me.” he said when they reached his suite. “I guess I’ll say goodnight.” But he made no move to unlock his door, and Rafa only stood there looking at him. Roger cleared his throat. “You know, I meant what I said before. And it was so great getting to play together and be teammates last month. I feel like we didn’t really get to talk about it that much because you had to catch your flight to Beijing. And congrats on the China Open title, by the way. Did I tell you that earlier? I watched the final. You played amazing.”
Rafa blinked at him a few times. “Thank you,Roger," he said.
“Sorry, I tend to babble a bit when I’m drunk.”
“What is babble?”
“I talk too much.”
“Ah. It’s okay.” Rafa was looking at him with a gentle expression. “You make me better too,” he said.
Roger’s heart lifted at that. “Yeah? Really?”
“Of course.”
They looked at each other, both smiling. Roger wanted to ask Rafa if he’d like to come in, but they had both already had too much to drink, and a car was picking him up in six hours to go to his morning workout.
“Okay, well, thank you,” Roger said after a few more seconds. “For all of it. Good night.”
`
“Good night, Roger,” Rafa said.
Rafa took a step towards him, Roger assumed to give him a hug, and he began to open his arms. He was taken completely by surprise when Rafa tilted his head, leaned in and pressed his mouth against Roger’s.
The contact couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds. Too fast for Roger to react but not so fast that he didn’t notice how warm and soft Rafa’s lips were.
Rafa withdrew, and without thinking about it, Roger pressed his fingers against his lips.
“Good night,” Rafa said again and turned back down the hall the way they’d come.
By the time Roger took his hand away from his mouth and told him to wait, he was already too far away to hear.
*
Wollerau, December 8th 2017
In the intervening months, Roger had managed to convince himself that Rafa was aiming for his cheek, and Roger had messed it up by not turning his head the right way. Mostly managed.
Nothing else out of the ordinary had happened that week. He’d beaten Rafa in the final, and Rafa had seemed normal, congratulating Roger and smiling and joking with him like he always did. They hadn’t been alone together at all, but Roger didn’t know what he thought would have happened if they had.
Did he think Rafa might have kissed him again? Did he hope he would have?
The necklace thing was just part of their silly joke. Roger had no reason to obsess over what to text back.
“Will you deliver it yourself?” Roger typed. Then he deleted it. Then typed it out again. Then he started to worry that maybe Rafa had the app open and could see that Roger was typing but nothing was coming through. So he typed out “That’s a very nice gift,” and hit send.
The response was almost immediate.
“I’m glad you like.”
Again Roger started to ask Rafa to bring it in person, and again he couldn't quite bring himself to send it.
“Ahhh!” He let out a frustrated roar at his own indecisiveness. Then, “fuck it,” he yelled aloud.
“Will you deliver it yourself?”
Again the response was immediate: “Yes.”
“When?” Roger wrote without giving himself time to think about it.
His heart was pounding like they were trading groundstrokes instead of text messages. He wasn’t quite sure where this rally was taking them, but he knew he wouldn’t be the one to miss his next shot.
*
Valbella, December 22nd, 2017
Roger put on his leather jacket because he thought it made him look younger. Then he changed his mind and put on his Brunello Cucinelli sports coat instead because he liked the way the tapered cut made his chest look broader. Then he switched back to the leather jacket because he thought more casual was better.
He couldn’t decide if it was weird or not that Rafa was coming to visit him. He knew he wouldn’t want it to get reported in the press. Hell, he hadn’t even told his parents about it, saying instead that he was going to do a little skiing (which he had done), and that he’d be back in time for Christmas Eve dinner.
On the other hand, he and Rafa were always saying how it would be nice to spend time together away from a big event or tournament. At this point, he thought they definitely qualified as friends, and friends went to visit each other sometimes. Roger was trying not to read too much into it.
Roger’s phone buzzed with a text: Rafa, letting him know that his car was pulling into the driveway. Roger definitely walked at a totally normal pace to open his front door.
Rafa was wearing a black, puffy jacket and a matching grey knit scarf and hat that looked very soft. His breath made clouds in the air as he thanked the driver and grabbed a small duffle out of the back.
Snow crunched under his feet as Roger walked down the front steps to greet Rafa, stopping a few feet in front of him.
“Hello. To what do I owe the honor of the world number one tennis player showing up at my door?” Roger tried to force more humor than he really felt into his tone.
Rafa had one eyebrow raised, and his smile was pulled to the side, like he was amused but also asking a question. “You ask me to come,” he said.
They stayed like that, a few feet apart with Rafa looking at him with that crooked smile. Roger wanted to think of a joke, something actually funny that might make Rafa laugh and break this weird tension, but he couldn’t so finally he just said, “Yes, I did. Thank you for making the trip.” Which sounded weird and formal.
“You’re welcome,” Rafa said, equally serious. He took a step forward and wrapped Roger in a hug.
Rafa smelled like travel, that musty airplane smell that even private jets have, and the fake pine of car air freshener, but there was also the faint and familiar smell of his sweat. Roger had never thought about it before, but after so many post-match hugs, he could pick that smell out anywhere. The idea that Rafa must know Roger’s exact sweat-scent too made his heart do something weird. The next beat seemed to come too fast and the one after that came too slowly, and without meaning to, he tightened his arms around Rafa who responded by hugging Roger tighter back and resting his forehead against Roger’s temple, the way he often did after a long, hard-fought match against each other.
“Happy Christmas,” Roger said. “Really, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” Rafa said softly.
Roger took another deep breath, still oddly enchanted by the smell of Rafa. He didn’t want to let go, but it was definitely getting a bit weird, so he took a step back and invited Rafa in.
*
Rafa made polite comments about how nice the chalet was and got adorably excited by the Christmas tree in the living room. He said his family never had one. Roger felt a pang of regret that this one had been put up by the housekeeper with ornaments ordered off Amazon a few years ago. He wished he could show Rafa the tree back in Wollerau that they decorated with the same family ornaments they’d been using since Roger was a child. He imagined how Rafa would smile at the ceramic star ornament Roger had made in kindergarten and his grandmother’s hand-made doily angels.
Roger opened some wine, and they settled in by the fire, trading gossip about people on the tour and making each other laugh with stories about their most awkward fan experiences and some of the crazier questions they’d gotten from reporters lately.
There was a lull in the conversation, so Roger poured them both some more wine and raised his glass, “Here’s to the end of a great year for both of us.”
“I think, maybe a better year for you,” Rafa said, smiling. “You beat me every time we play.”
“The rankings tell a different story.” After all, it’s Rafa finishing at number one, not Roger. “And you’d probably have beaten me if we’d played on clay.”
Rafa shrugged. “We will never know.”.
Of course they both knew that Rafa was 13-2 against him on clay courts, but Roger said, “Fine. Here’s to us playing another French Open final against each other next year.”
He raised his glass again. Rafa inclined his head in agreement and this time he clinked his glass against Roger’s saying, “Salud!”
After that they were quiet again, sipping their wine and watching the fire.
Roger turned to watch Rafa instead. He must have spent the last few weeks on his boat because he had an even deeper tan than usual. The firelight made his skin glow like brushed gold.
Rafa turned his head, and Roger realized that he’d moved closer to the middle of the couch without meaning to.
Rafa met Roger’s eyes and gave him a small smile.
Roger’s heart stuttered in his chest again as Rafa shifted, bringing them even closer together, but then Rafa stood up and asked, “I should give you your present here by the tree, no? Is why I come.”
Rafa crossed the room to where he’d left his bag. He came back and handed Roger a white cardboard box about half a meter long with only a red bow on it for decoration. Roger lifted the lid to reveal a pair of cowboy boots nestled in tissue paper. The leather was a deep, shiny black, with a star on the front and elaborate scroll-work in burgundy on the sides. Looking closer, Roger realized that the markings were a highly-stylized R and F, a play on his own logo.
“These are from the best shoe-maker on Mallorca,” Rafa told him.
Roger stopped listening as Rafa excitedly explained about the history of the family and their many generations of artisanal shoe-making. He looked over the boots. They were undeniably beautiful and obviously custom-made, the kind of thoughtful gift he’d expect from Rafa. And yet, Roger felt oddly bereft. Did Rafa really come all this way just to give him some shoes?
Rafa had stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly. “Thank you,” Roger said. “They’re great.”
Rafa squinted at him and his shoulders fell. “You don’t like them.”
“No, of course I do.” Roger tried to put more enthusiasm into his voice. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
Rafa was still studying him, almost frowning in concentration. “You didn’t really want a diamond necklace, did you?”
“What? No. Of course not.” Of course he didn’t. It was just that jewelry was the kind of present you got for someone who–well, someone you wanted to–
“Was it an accident?” Roger asked. Mortifyingly, he could feel his eyes welling up, and it was audible in his voice.
Rafa’s expression got even more confused. “I’m sorry. I think I miss something. Can you repeat more slowly?”
Roger took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to get himself under control.
“No, sorry,” he muttered. “This is stupid.” Roger got up and added another log to the fire. Then he took the poker and stoked the embers pushing the logs around.
“Roger,” Rafa said.
Roger had to put the poker down and turn around and face him.
Rafa was standing there with a concerned expression on his face.
“Please tell me what is wrong.” Rafa reached out and took his hand. Rafa’s hand was so warm but somehow not at all sweaty.
Roger pulled his hand away and pressed his fingers against his eyes. Keeping them closed he said, “In Shanghai. You kissed me. Was it by accident?”
Rafa was quiet for long enough that Roger eventually opened his eyes and looked at him.
“You have many people kiss you by accident, Roger?”
Roger’s laugh tasted bitter. “No, people mainly kiss me on purpose.” In fact, it had been almost 15 years since Roger could go anywhere without someone slipping him their phone number, or the key to their hotel room, or their underwear. Sex came easily, but making a connection was much harder. So few people could really understand the life he led or why basically every minute of his day was structured around his athletic performance. His parents were always dropping hints about settling down, and grandchildren, but he rarely met anyone who seemed worth making the time in his schedule. Roger hadn't dated anyone for more than a few months in years. Right before Wimbledon was the last time he’d even bothered to accept the sex.
Rafa didn’t say anything more, so Roger asked a third time. “Did you mean to kiss me?”
A line appeared between Rafa’s brows. It was the expression he got when a reporter asked him a complicated question, like English was a minefield that he had to navigate carefully lest he lose a limb. “I did mean it, but was also not exactly on purpose. I do not plan it. I–does it make sense to say ‘I surprised myself?’”
“Yes, that makes sense.” Roger looked into the fireplace. There was a pop and a few sparks flew up as the flames hit a pocket of water in the log. “You surprised me too,” he said quietly. “I wondered if it was an accident, but then, I guess, I was hoping that it wasn’t.”
“I did not know I would do it, but I wanted to for a long time. I’m not sorry I did.”
Roger turned back to Rafa. The reflection of the Christmas lights made tiny dots of red, green, and blue dance in his brown eyes. “I’m not sorry either.”
“Would you want to do it again?” asked Rafa.
“Yes.”
Rafa leaned forward slowly until their lips were just centimeters apart. Roger felt Rafa exhale, and then he gently kissed Roger once, and then a second time, each one a little longer than their kiss in Shanghai. Roger changed the angle of his head and brought his hand up to the back of Rafa’s head to hold him in place and deepen the kiss, pushing his tongue into Rafa’s mouth.
Rafa made a noise of encouragement, and then pulled Roger toward him so that their bodies pressed up against each other.
They stood there trading kisses. They broke apart to breathe and Rafa rubbed his nose against Roger’s, and then against his cheek, a sweet tender gesture that made a sudden joy bubble up from deep inside Roger and escape as laughter.
“What is funny?” Rafa asked. He pulled back a little so he could look at Roger, and Roger could feel his own huge grin reflecting the one on Rafa’s face.
“Oh, Rafa,” he said. “I like you so much.”
“That is funny?”
“No, but I’m just so happy.”
Rafa kissed him again, and then Roger felt Rafa tugging at his shirt, and Rafa’s hands found the bare skin of Roger’s lower back, pulling him closer.
The next time they broke apart Roger asked, “Aren’t you going to say you like me too?”
Rafa rolled his eyes. “Roger, I’m saying all the time about how much I like you. They ask me about you all the time and every time I’m saying, ‘Roger he is the greatest tennis player and also the greatest person. He is amazing.’ The whole world know that I wanna be your boyfriend.”
Boyfriend. That word made Roger feel like there was a fireworks display happening in his heart. “Really? You do?”
Rafa sighed. “The whole world except you, I guess. Yes, I want to be your boyfriend. Do you want to be mine?”
“Yes,” said Roger, and then they were kissing again, but much harder this time. Rafa’s tongue was in Roger’s mouth, and then he moved to kiss Roger’s ear saying, “Oh Roger, Roger. I want you for so long.”
Roger was already hard, but he got even harder. Painfully so, and he said, “I have an excellent bed here. I should show it to you.”
“Mmmm,” Rafa said, nibbling on his neck in a way that made Roger have to stifle a moan. His knees felt weak, and he was actually panting so hard he could hardly speak as he said, “Rafa, please. Please let me take you to bed.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Rafa answered, but they didn't move toward the bedroom. They went down onto the floor practically collapsing in their frantic need to rut against each other like Roger hadn’t done in 20 years, not since his first girlfriend in high school.
Rafa pulled Roger’s shirt off and began kissing Roger’s collar bones while his hips continued to grind down against him, his hard dick pressed against Roger’s. Roger had stopped even trying not to moan, and he could hear himself getting louder.
Rafa rolled off of him so that he was lying on his side next to Roger.
“Is okay?” Rafa asked, his fingers on the button of Roger’s pants.
“Yes,” Roger cried, and then Rafa’s hot, hot, racquet-calloused hand was on him. Every nerve in Roger’s body was on fire as Rafa stroked him with his hand and kissed him with his mouth. Rafa set a perfect rhythm, letting Roger thrust up into his hand at the same time as he brought it down, and stroking up as Roger’s hips fell. The pleasure built until Roger’s back arched, and his toes curled, and everything went white as he shouted and came and came.
His heart was still racing, and the shocks of pleasure were still going through him as he moved his hand down to press his palm against Rafa. A feeling of raw power surged through him as Rafa cried out and rocked against him until he gasped and went still, one hand tightening on Roger’s thigh to the point of pain. Rafa whined and said Roger’s name in a rough voice that cut through Roger like a knife, and then he could feel Rafa’s dick pulsing and a slight dampness seeped through the fabric of Rafa’s pants onto Roger's fingers.
The sound of their breathing was loud, layered over the sound of the fire, and the deeper silence of the empty house.
Rafa nuzzled his temple, and they traded a few more kisses, gentle and slow before Rafa sighed and flopped over onto his back beside Roger.
Roger propped himself up on his elbows and surveyed the disheveled mess they’d made of themselves. His dick was hanging out, and there was come drying in the hair of his stomach. Rafa’s sweater was rucked up to his midsection, and the dark stain on the front of his pants was obvious. Normally, Roger would be horrified by such a state of disarray, but he felt oddly satisfied by the sight of them so visibly marked by what had just happened.
Still. “That was ridiculous,” Roger said.
“Was like in high school,” Rafa agreed.
“Definitely in a bed next time.”
The smile Rafa trained on him was sweet and bright. “Si. Next time.”
Catching sight of the forgotten boots out of the corner of his eye, Roger said, “Really, thank you for my present. It's a very thoughtful gift. I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”
“It’s okay.”
A happy thought occurred to Roger, and he said, “Well, I guess I gave you my heart.”
Rafa just laughed and then kissed him, definitely, absolutely on purpose.