louiselux | Tennis rps - Seeing other people, Rafael Nadal/Roger Federer, NC 17

Title: Seeing other people
Fandom: Tennis rps
Pairing: Rafael Nadal/Roger Federer
Warnings: not worksafe, explicit m/m
Notes: the power of tennis compelled me. Thank you

emungere for betaing this.
Disclaimer: I actually made it all up.

Summary: they're getting to know each other a little better off court

There were four production assistants on the shoot, three gofers, about ten people hanging around being… something, he wasn't sure. They were all perfect looking. The photographer had taken Rafa aside and explained the concept of the whole thing at one point, something about capturing the essence of masculinity, but Rafa really was not able to focus on the words.

Roger was sitting in the make-up chair getting his hair done, something to make it heavy and glossy. They hadn't spoken much yet, apart from to say hi. Roger had smiled at him a couple of times though, and given him a little wave, looking kind of sheepish at being primped and made up like he was a real model. He could be a proper model, Rafa thought. Roger was definitely nice looking enough, and well dressed.

The clothes they'd given Rafa were okay, but not something he'd ever actually wear, he was sure. It was the kind of thing that suited Roger though, very well cut and plain. It was by some young American designer Rafa had never heard of, although Roger seemed knowledgeable. The designer had been on set a little while ago, chatting to Roger intently about seams or buttons or something. He'd shaken Rafa's hand and had hung on way too long. No matter, Rafa was used to it.

He watched Roger from the corner of his eye, and his heart gave a little skip when Roger finally was let up from the make-up chair. They hadn't spoken at all since London and the match that had wanted never to end. Rafa picked at a thread on his cuff and watched Roger make his way over to where Rafa was being dressed. Roger had been so crushed. Winning could be harder than losing, but he wondered if Roger would agree.

"Hi again, Roger," he said. The assistant patted his shoulder and let him stand up.

"Hello, Rafa." Roger gave him a smile, warm and genuine, like he was properly pleased to see him.

"How are you?"

"I'm good, thank you. Looking forward to Beijing."

"Yes. Me also."

Not speaking the same language sucked a lot. They stared at each for a moment, and then Roger laughed, dipping his head in an almost shy manner. There was a lot they could say about Beijing, probably, but maybe it was better left alone. Rafa smiled.

"How's the knee?" Roger said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and managed to look elegant while doing so, which was impressive. His suit looked so natural on him. On Rafa, it felt like an ill fitting sack. The assistant had had to re-stitch some of the seams to make it hang properly at the back.

"Oh, it's good. Not hurting now."

"What a pity," Roger said, with another smile, a little bit wicked.

"Maybe you can help me damage it again, no?"

"Maybe, yes, I'm going to do that." Roger even looked a little embarrassed. He cleared his throat and looked Rafa over.

"Only maybe?"

They both laughed again, just a little awkward. A little thread of worry stirred in Rafa's chest.

"Oh, hey," Roger said. "Your tie's not right."

"Huh?"

"Let me."

He put his hands to Rafa's neck, and Rafa felt the light brush of fingertips on his skin. He shivered and almost stepped back.

Roger Federer was seeing to his tie. It was so kind of him. He hoped someone was taking a picture with a camera phone so he could show his team later on. He smiled and made himself stay utterly still.

"Did you tie this?" Roger said, frowning.

"... Yeah?"

"Well, it's pretty much all wrong."

"Oh… "

"Can’t you tie a tie?" But Roger was smiling, mixed in with his sharp and knowing look.

"I don't wear it often. Ever."

"You wore a bow tie at the champions' dinner last month. I saw the pictures," Roger added.

"That was fake one."

Roger shook his head and looked faintly appalled. After the third attempt, the tie, made of heavy embroidered satin, was still not right, apparently.

"40 love," Rafa said, solemnly, at Roger's frown.

"Very funny."

They had drawn a little giggling crowd by then, and then the photographer came over and took shots. It all turned out to be ridiculous and funny and a good time. Maybe Roger didn't hate him after all. No, of course he didn't. He wouldn't. He was a professional and hate didn't really get them anywhere, except to lots of stupid errors and indigestion. Uncle Toni said that a lot. He was big on having a good digestion.

When they were both ready, the assistants took them outside to a tennis court.

"Couldn't they think of something more inventive?" Roger muttered, but he was all smiles and polite handshakes and nods to the photographer's instructions.

Rafa liked the court-- it was tiny and overgrown, like a relic from another age, almost like a piece of archaeology. It was cracked and potholed asphalt with a sagging net and leaves lying in drifts in the corners. If anyone tried to play on it they'd probably break an ankle.

It was a little odd to be on a court in shiny handmade shoes and an overexpensive suit. He smiled and nodded and posed with Roger, but he was thinking ahead to the rest of the week and everything he had to do. He'd left his team back in Toronto and had come alone, just for one night. It was nice. Not that he was actually alone now. He smiled at Roger, and the photographer snapped it.

Roger's suit shimmered a little under the sun. They were probably going to be playing each other soon. Very probably. He got a little nervous twinge at the thought, as he gazed at Roger's profile, quite close now, on the other side of the net.

"Lovely. Will you move closer together, please?" the photographer said, waving her hand at them. "Over the net, like you've just played a match."

"But who won?" Rafa said, and Roger made a noise of amusement.

"Does it matter?" Roger said.

"Yes, of course. For motivation, no? Like actors."

Roger gave him a bemused look, like he hadn't expected Rafa to think such things. "You could be overcomplicating this," he said.

"Turn away from me a little more, Rafa," the photographer said. "That's great, so I can see more of the back view."

"You see," said Roger, smiling right into Rafa eyes. "She's not really interested in your personality."

"The personality of my ass, right?"

Roger looked at him with raised eyebrows and laughed again, and the photographer caught that too, which Rafa was glad about. Roger looked happy.

"Okay. Let's say I won, if you insist," Roger said. He had his hand on Rafa's arm, holding tight through the suit. His fingers were so strong. They squeezed a little.

"Okay, you won."

They clasped hands across the net and met each other's eyes.

"Ooh, lovely. Can you hug too?"

"I suppose we would," Rafa said, so they did, in several different positions until the photographer found one she liked most, them pressed close over the net with Rafa's arms practically round Roger's neck and his chin resting on his shoulder. Roger's hair smelled of shampoo and he smelled faintly of cologne too. Roger's hand was warm against his waist, resting there lightly.

Next up were some shots of them lounging around in a summer house, with a change of clothes behind a screen, then up to the house for interior shots in the ballroom and one of the bedrooms. Rafa was made to wear silk pyjamas, and then to take the top off and pretend to shave at an old fashioned bathroom sink. There were a lot of gilt-framed mirrors and carved wood and heavy satin. It was not Rafa's style at all, but it suited Roger.

It was dark by the time they were driven back to their own hotel, a small and modest place that was apparently in the middle of nowhere. They were a way out from the city, still, and the roads were quiet.

They talked about tennis. It was mostly what they did, whenever they met, as much as they could manage. No one could talk about tennis quite like Roger, about techniques, about the future, and Rafa soaked it up like a hungry sponge, nodding, smiling, encouraging every word, even if he got a bit lost sometimes when Roger forgot and went too fast. They talked about the Olympics for a while, although it was a bit awkward to be talking about matches where they were likely to meet.

They finally fell quiet over dinner. Roger might want to go to bed soon, or make phonecalls or something. He thought with faint worry about the calls he should be making, although Xisca would be probably asleep by now, and anyway, well. He poked at his fish.

They were dining with the hotel manager, who was a chic middle aged woman with a greying mass of blonde hair. Rafa didn't have much to say, but she gave him two helpings of chocolate cake and patted his hand in a motherly way. It was kind of her.

"We have a court here, if you wanted to play each other in the morning," she said.

"Oh, really?" The place was full of old people. It probably didn't get used much.

"Yes, really. Feel free."

"Thanks," Roger said. "That's very kind." He met Rafa's eyes for a moment. "But we won't have time."

There was a little pause.

"Well, I'll leave you two boys to it," she said.

With her gone, it was strangely hard to begin the conversation again. Rafa scraped the last chocolate off his plate and sucked his spoon clean.

"Hey, you like those clothes?" he said.

"They were fine. I don't need any more though, this year. I've spent enough already on them."

"Oh?" said Rafael, who didn't know how much he'd spent. His mother and Xisca liked to get him stuff, so he mostly let them organise the buying, and Nike gave him lots of clothes. He abruptly felt like that wasn't good enough. "You looked good."

Roger paused, then raised his hand and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. "Thank you. So did you."

Rafa felt a stupid sort of smile creep across his face as they looked at each other. "I had enough food. You want to walk?"

"I'd like that. In the gardens?"

"Great!"

Possibly he sounded overly enthusiastic. The gardens were cool and dimly lit. No one was around much, and those that were weren't paying any attention to them. It felt good to be anonymous and free of obligations, at least for a few hours. They were leaving at 8am. A deserted golf course spread out behind a long wooden fence. They stopped and stood in front of it, looking.

There was a lot he wanted to say. He couldn't think of the right words.

"About that match…" he began.

"Rafael," Roger said. "Let's not."

Roger was probably right. He was older and wiser. Sometimes talking about something just made it all seem worse, anyhow. He stared at the overgrown putting green until Roger nudged his arm.

"Do you want to play now? I've got rackets in my room."

"Now? After dinner?"

"Yes." Roger looked amused.

So they did. The court was dark and deserted; no one was watching them. He couldn't remember the last time he'd served with only one other person watching. The ball thwacked into the net three times, and Roger smiled.

"Hey, I can't see a thing," Rafa called. Except, he could see Roger as a pale blur. A ball came slicing out of nowhere. "Ahh, wait!"

The court was concrete, cracking a little, the kind of surface where people wrecked their knees if they played too long, maybe like how Rafa was going to wreck his knees one day.

The whole thing reminded Rafa of a kids' match. They only had two balls, one of them scrounged up out of the undergrowth, and they ran around too much, missed shots, had a ridiculous rally at the net that was more football than anything else. He could hear Roger giggling.

He lost track of time, until he finally tripped and rolled on the crappy surface.

"Ow."

He laid his head back on the concrete and gazed up at the hazy sky, fogged with light from the hotel. Some stars were out, silver points over his head. He heard the kick and scuff of Roger hurrying towards him and turned his head to look up at him.

"Who wins?" he said. He realised he hadn't even been keeping score, which was weird, because keeping score in tennis was what he did.

"I am." Roger had his hand out and was bending forward. "You're all right?"

Rafa had a horrible gut-deep stab of annoyance that he was losing, even this ridiculous game, and then it melted away when he saw the look on Roger's face, that particular softness in his dark eyes. "We leave it there, okay?" he said.

"Yes, let's," Roger said.

He pulled Rafa up quickly, with effortless strength, until they were standing close, toe to toe, just like in the shoot earlier.

Roger didn't let go of his hand, and for a moment that was funny and cute, but then that moment passed and they were still holding hands. Rafa slid his palm along Roger's wrist, fingers settling tight around the iron-hard tendon and muscle in his forearm. That wasn't funny, or cute. He became far too aware that the space between them was narrow and filled with heat. Their eyes met and a lot of things became plain, just in a moment.

"Roger… "

"We don't want to do this," Roger said. He didn't sound convincing at all. He hadn't known Roger Federer could even be unconvincing, but here it was.

But Roger didn't let go, despite what he'd just said. His thigh brushed against Rafa's.

"We don’t?" Rafa asked, even as he slid his hands further up Roger's arm, to the dip of his elbow and the hard curve of his bicep.

They leaned closer, and then closer. It wasn't much of a kiss, more like a moment of sliding, tumbling shock. Roger's lips were so soft. He hadn't expected that. They were silky and warm and they opened against his. He dug his hand into Roger's hair, the soft, cool weight of it sliding between his fingers.

Somewhere he heard a car door slam, and voices. Roger pushed him away, so quickly that Rafa stumbled.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," Roger said. He looked stricken.

"Don't worry," Rafa said, wishing so hard he had better words. "Please. Please. It's okay. It is."

They picked up the rackets and balls and straightened their clothes, cooled down, didn't speak, stood far apart. Roger pushed his hands through his hair and shot Rafael a wide eyed look.

They walked back, side by side. Roger's arm brushed his, and neither of them moved away. At the reception desk there was a message waiting from Benito; it was for another photo call tomorrow afternoon.

"I meet Novak and we ride horses," he told Roger, and Roger laughed a little and shook his head. He looked so good, even under the horrible fluorescent lighting of the reception desk. His face was flushed and his eyes were too bright.

They stood there staring at each other for several moments until Roger took over, smooth and efficient, thanking the receptionist and taking Rafa by the elbow to lead him upstairs. It was weirdly comforting. They went quickly. People recognised them, of course, in a quiet and polite way, and Rafa went hot and then cold with the thought of what they'd just done outside, in public, even if it had been dark and in the middle of nowhere.

"Are you coming in?" Roger said at the door to his room, his voice as steady as ever.

"Should I?" Rafa stared at the door. It was easier than looking at Roger right now. He jumped when Roger put a hand on his arm.

"It's your decision."

He'd kissed boys before, back when he was a lot younger, had fooled around a little. He knew this side of himself, but he hadn't known it about Roger, not really. He bit his lip.

"What about Mirka?" he said, swallowing round his dry throat.

"I don't think—" Roger began, then stopped, apparently at a loss, which wasn't like him, ever. "I mean, you know. It's complicated. Things are." Rafa knew how that went. Roger sighed. "Shouldn't I ask you the same thing about Xisca?"

Rafa shook his head. "Please," he said. "Not now."

Roger's room was just like his, except Roger's stuff was all neatly hung up or laid out on the dresser, not tossed on the floor. Roger closed the door and then locked it.

They stared at each other again. Roger gave an odd little shake of his head, which meant he was nervous. Rafa wiped his hands on his thighs and sucked in a breath. They were really going to do this. There was a bed and everything, neatly folded back. It had a pair of pyjamas laid out on it. He closed his eyes for a brief dizzy second. When he opened them Roger was right there, as tall as Rafa, slimmer than him, better dressed. Rafa leaned into him and slid his arms around Roger's waist. They were the same height, exactly. He kissed the smooth skin behind Roger's ear.

"We don't have to," Roger said, holding him. He squeezed Rafa's waist gently. "We can agree to ignore…this."

"We could," Rafa said. He could feel Roger getting hard against his thigh. His own breathing was getting thicker. Roger's arms tightened around him again and they shifted, fitting more closely.

"I don't want to ignore it," he said, finally.

"What if I want to fuck you?" Roger said, all low. His voice had gone rougher and it sent a kick of heat down into Rafa's belly.

He slid a hand flat around Rafa's waist, skimming right down to his ass to stroke and to touch. Rafa pressed his face to Roger's shoulder and sucked on his neck.

"Yeah. You-- You can."

Roger kissed him then. It was so different with a guy, so much power under his hands, no one waiting to be led. He shivered, opening his mouth wide. He ran his palms flat down Roger's back, down to his ass. Roger moaned and slid his arm around his waist with crushing strength. Rafa felt the soft bite of teeth on his lower lip. His pulse spiked. There was the bed, waiting.

They stumbled there, hands tangled in each others' clothes, until Roger pushed him down.

There was a moment, with Roger half on top of him, one hard thigh pressing in between Rafa's legs, pressing them open with unstoppable force, when Rafael almost lost it. It was a second of deep hot panic and maybe Roger felt it, because he stopped and raised himself on both arms and stared down.

"Okay?" he said, breathless.

"Uh, shit. Um, God, yeah. Too much okay."

Garbled crap, but Roger smiled, suddenly sweet. "Yes."

He shifted his weight onto one hand and pushed Rafael's hair back out of his eyes, watching him for a moment. He stroked his thumb along Rafa's cheekbone, an unexpected gentle touch.

It was just them, now. He didn't need to think about all the other stuff, everything that said this was a bad idea. Rafa was really very good at controlling his thoughts. Probably Roger was too. He slid his hand up under Roger's shirt at the back. His skin was smooth, muscles tensed and so hard, like touching warm steel.

"S'nice," Rafa whispered, right against Roger's mouth.

He felt Roger's lips curl against his. "Understatement," Roger whispered, and kissed him, licking slowly into his mouth. He was hard; it was pressing along Rafa's thigh.

Rafa dragged Roger's shirt up at the back, heard a seam tear. He didn't care. "Off," he said, almost forgetting to put any air behind it, so it came out like a whisper. Roger did it, in a hurry too, just because Rafa said so.

It ended up half over the bedside lamp, dimming the light. Rafa hooked his leg around Roger's and rolled them, forcing himself on top, maybe a little too cruelly, because Roger groaned as he was pressed down into the bed.

"Don't fight, baby," Rafa said, peering at him, and Roger just laughed, a soft and beautiful sound.

"I'm always going to fight you."

"Yeah, that true?

He grinned, probably looked a little mad. It was so good, almost the best feeling to have Roger like this. His stomach was fizzy with excitement, shaking with it, and all the while there was a little voice telling him that this was a crazy thing to do. They rolled together, half wrestling, chest to chest, legs tangling tight together. Roger dragged at his jeans, pushing them down until they were around Rafa's knees.

"Can I?" Roger said, gazing up.

"Yeah, oh yeah."

Roger touched him, stroking him with his warm hands; skimming over his ass and his thighs and touching his cock through his underwear. He traced the length of it with his thumb, and Rafa had to moan. Just watching such a thing was almost unbearable. He arched his hips forward.

More clothes landed on the carpet, Rafa's shirt and underwear dragged off, Roger's trousers yanked down so they slid finally to the floor. Then it was just naked skin everywhere.

Rafa pushed himself back and they knelt on the bed, facing each other, both panting.

"I just wanna look," Rafa said. This was Roger. The bed seemed to tilt a little under him, just from that thought.

Roger was staring too, eyes so dark and wanting, and Rafael became too aware of his own lack of experience. He wished he'd had a chance to practice more first, maybe on some guy who didn't matter. He swallowed and heard his own throat click because it was so dry, and reached out to run his hand down Roger's chest and stomach, following the path of dark hair there, down until he could curl his fingers around the silky hot shaft of his cock. He ran his thumb over the head and watched Roger's eyes sink shut.

"You like?" It was even harder to manage to make any sense now, with all his blood pumping into his dick and not his brain. He was so hard, standing up against his own stomach. He bit his lip and watched Roger's face and the way his mouth opened a little. The room seemed very quiet all around them.

"Yes, I like," Roger said, his mouth curving up.

He reached out and took hold of Rafa's cock, touching him with fingers that absolutely knew what they were doing. Rafa shuddered and leaned into him, kissing along his jaw, right to the corner of his mouth.

"You haven't done this before," Roger said. He said it like he knew. He sounded so damned kind and understanding, even now.

"Hardly never. Crazy, right?"

"Only as crazy as I expected from you."

It wasn't much more than muffled words against Rafa's mouth, funny and sweet, and then Roger kissed him again, pulling him back and down. Rafa lost his balance and they fell sprawling together, all tangled up and breathless. He couldn't keep his hands off Roger's skin, touching everywhere he could until Roger was making small noises and moans at everything, even the smallest touch. The head of his cock rubbed a sticky patch over Rafa's hip, wet and insistent, the head dark red and swollen and burning hot on his skin. Rafa's heartbeat was a dull thump in his ears, inescapable. Roger began to jerk him off in quick sharp strokes.

"No, no, wait. Too—too fast," and he grabbed Roger's wrist.

Roger was staring at him up close, breathing hard. He raised his hand, fingers slightly sticky from pre-come, and drew the pad of his forefinger along the line of Rafa's mouth, the tip of his nail just dragging along the skin, tickling.

"Oh," said Rafa, his voice hitting a cracked note. He sucked it into his mouth and
curled his tongue around it, tasting salt and a slight bitterness. He opened wider when Roger slid another one in alongside.

They were quiet, gazes locked and held, hardly moving now except for the slow thrust of fingers. Roger's lips were damp and glossy and redder than usual, his face flushed, hair curling into his eyes and against one cheekbone.

"Rafa," he said, when he finally slipped them out and reached down behind him, pressing slick fingers between Rafa's cheeks.

"Oh, Jesus," Rafa said, and squirmed closer, right against Roger's chest until they were locked tight, fitted together so close that every part of them touched. He moaned aloud against Roger's shoulder as Roger pushed a fingertip inside him. Sweat broke out along his upper lip.

"More," he said.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"No, you can't. Oh. Oh-- yeah..."

Roger's fingers were long and for a moment, with one of them sunk deep and rubbing inside him, he couldn't move or speak or think. Roger sucked at his mouth, teeth grazing his chin, and groaned. They moved, shifting fluidly until Rafa was on his back, thighs pushed apart and back. It was awkward and exposing and he didn't care at all.

"Do you know how good you look?" Roger said, above him, so dark and heavy solid. Rafa just shook his head and reached out to run his hand down Roger's neck and over his chest. His fingers collected dampness from sweat, and he put them to his lips to taste.

"You too. Like, incredible."

"Wait."

Then Roger was gone, climbing off the bed and moving over to his bag where he dug around, coming back with a pack of condoms and something else.

Rafa rolled over onto his stomach and felt the bed dip behind him. Roger stroked his ass, fingers digging a little, palm cupping the curves. He did that for a long time, just silently. "You don't have to be on your front," he said, finally, in a low voice.

Rafa looked over his shoulder. Their eyes met and Roger seemed to forget he'd just said anything, because he moved much closer, so that his cock rubbed down hard against Rafa's ass. He stroked his hand down the back of Rafa's thigh, squeezing.

"It's not like a sports massage?" Rafa said, giddy.

Roger muttered something what was probably Swiss, because Rafa didn't get any of it. There was so much he didn't get, but there was no place in his head to think about that now. Roger lay down right on top of him, solid heat on his back, and slid his finger in. It was coated this time with something cool and very slippery.

"Ahhh," Rafa said, pressing his face to the pillow.

"Is that good? Tell me."

"Gnnh. Yes."

More cool slippery stuff and then Roger put another finger inside him, at least one more. They felt so huge. He moaned into the pillow and raised his hips, spreading his knees to open himself. Roger said something again, he didn't know what, but it sounded urgent and breathless. His took his fingers away and something much bigger and hotter nudged against his opening, pushing in so slowly. Roger braced a shaking hand on his hip.

"Tell me if it's— okay.

"Ahhh, ahh," Rafa said. He was making a lot of noise, he was dimly aware. There was no pain, only a shocking invasion and heat. He squirmed, not knowing whether he wanted more or less of it, and Roger moaned again and gripped his hips hard.

"All right?" he said, shifting up close. It made him sink in deeper.

"Oh, yeah," Rafa whispered. He'd clenched both his hands in the sheets. "Is that— all?"

Roger laughed, almost soundless. He stroked his hand down Rafa's spine, touching each bump. He leaned down and kissed Rafa's shoulder. "No, not all."

Rafa moaned and pushed back, because he didn't want to wait or be careful.

"I'm not going to last," Roger said in a hot rush, right in his ear. "You feel so good. So good." Roger gasped and thrust a little and slid in more. He stroked one hand over Rafa's ass, squeezing.

"Nnnnh. Please," Rafa said, before his jaw clamped shut. He shook his hair out of his eyes and pushed back, feeling the tight faint burn, staring down at the perfect white sheet and his own white knuckles, then he tossed his hair to one side and looked over his shoulder. Roger was staring at him.

"What?" Rafa said.

"Nothing. Just— You." He touched Rafa's shoulder, an odd gesture, almost like he was checking Rafa was actually there.

Then Roger began to move, slow at first, but he got faster, his thrusts getting powerful and hard, so much so that Rafa was pushed down against the mattress. The faster he went, the more noise Rafa began to make, a lot of noise, until Roger fell down on top of him and clapped a hand over his mouth, still fucking him.

"Shhh," Roger said. "Don't— ahh, yes— wake everyone."

It was almost too funny. Roger's mouth was wet and hot against the curve of Rafael's neck. He worked his other hand between the bed and Rafa's hip, and curled his fingers tight around Rafa's cock. Roger ran his thumb up the length of it, pressing hard along the vein right to the head.

"I'm going to come," Roger said, in his ear. He pulled out and slid back in, hard and deep so that Rafa felt it in every nerve and muscle. He tensed and moaned. His voice was so hot and low. "Soon."

Rafa might've lost it then, for real. It was hard to take account of everything, but, yes, he might've thrashed and made truly embarrassing sounds, and Roger might've sucked so hard on his neck that it stung, fucked him hard and fast so that the bed banged against the wall and Rafa's hair went flying around his eyes. He felt the faint pulse inside him, heard Roger's low grunt.

Rafa came a few moments later, silent and with his eyes squeezed tight, almost surprised by it and by the sharp tangling of sensation inside him.

His back was wet with sweat and so was Roger's chest. They stuck together, and actually Roger was really heavy. Roger was still breathing hard in his ear and now things were beginning to sting a bit.

"Roger—" he began, and then almost immediately, Roger was easing off and back, pulling out very carefully and slowly with one warm hand braced lightly on the small of Rafa's back. "Ohhh," he sighed. He couldn't help it.

"Sorry," Roger said, softly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, is okay."

He felt another light touch on his back, almost tentative. There was a rustle of something and then Roger got up and padded over to the waste basket.

Rafa turned onto his back to watch him. Everything about his body felt heavy and his stomach was a mess of drying sticky fluid.

"They check your garbage for things like this?" Rafa said. "I heard it happen to Andy Murray last month."

"What did they find?"

"Many protein bar wrappers. Come back."

Roger smiled, but he seemed less sure as he sat down on the bed. Rafa stroked his arm. It should feel strange to be touching him like this, but it didn't.

"What's wrong?" Rafa said. There were possibly lots of things wrong now, because of this. Rafa was well aware.

"It's going to affect how we play."

"Hey, I still gonna want to beat you. Don't worry."

Roger's eyes crinkled when he smiled. He had nice skin, with the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes that tennis players got from squinting at the sun so much.

"That makes me feel so much better," he said, all dry.

"Come down here," Rafa said, and drew him closer by his arm. "I'm going up to my room soon."

"Okay," Roger said, settling down next to him with his head pillowed on one arm. He was warm and close and his eyes seemed to hold such a soft expression. He spread one hand over Rafa's stomach, which was an oddly familiar gesture. "We shouldn't fall asleep like this. Won't-- your people be phoning your room?"

"Oh. My people. Yeah. That would be bad, I agree."

They lay on the bed, not touching that much really, considering what they'd just done. It seemed enough to just lie still and let his body relax.

"This is nice," Rafa said, after a while. Nice was probably not the right word in English, because Roger snorted out a little laugh and brushed his hand lightly over Rafa's stomach.

"Nice is not accurate."

"What should I say, then?"

"Amazing."

"Amazing. Amazing. Hmm. Is what you'd say?"

"Yes," said Roger. "It probably is."

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

inlovewithnight.livejournal.com

(Wandered by off friendsfriends)

This is sweet and hot and just absolutely lovely. I grinned all the way through it. Well done.

From:

the Iberio-Swiss divide

Tennis rps - Seeing other people, Rafael Nadal/Roger Federer, NC 17

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