Archive of Our Own

[It started as a problem…]

Roland Garros, 2006

"Rafa. I think we may have a problem, kid."

Rafa straightened up as he was putting the rackets back in his bag and turned to Toni who was entering the locker room with an unusually gloomy look on his tanned face.

"What?" Rafa said, frowning. "My foot isn't that bad, I already told you... "

Toni leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I'm not talking about your damn foot" he said. He adjusted his baseball cap to his head, putting a thumb over his shoulder. "There's a guy out there training. I'd like you to come and have a look at him, if you don’t mind."

Rafa shrugged, twitching his lips, but followed Toni out of the locker room without complaining.  

He had just finished his daily training session with Tommy Robredo and David Ferrer – and it had been a particularly tough one, so he’d had neither the time nor the desire to take a look at the other players around, busy as he was trying to breathe steadily.

Toni led him to one of the court surrounding the Chatrier and stopped when he finally found what he was looking for.

"That’s him" he said, pointing with his chin at a skinny boy wearing a cap, a white T-shirt and black shorts, who was hitting a good forehand at that moment. Looking at his face, Rafa vaguely remembered to have glimpsed him somewhere, but couldn’t tell anything more.

"Watch carefully. Watch his footwork...” whispered Toni to Rafa’s ear, leaning towards him while keeping his eyes fixed on the court. “Do you see? His legs?”

"Yeah” mumbled Rafa. “I see, Toni.”

He crossed his arms in an almost-perfect clone of his uncle while both of them kept on watching. It took only a few minutes for Rafa’s gaze to cloud, and his forehead to wrinkle with worry.

"What's his name, by the way?" he asked.

“A funny one” was Tony’s reply. “Something ending with –avic or –ovic. A kid from East Europe, I heard. It’s the first time I see him.”

"Novak Djokovic. That must be him.”

Toni turned to Rafa, looking puzzled. “So you know him?”

“No. His name has just come to my mind. If he gets through Monfils, I might have to face him in the quarterfinals.”

There was a few seconds of stunned silence.

“Well, in that case”, said Toni at last, turning his gaze back to the court, “I think I’ll remember the name.”

*

Cincinnati Open, 2009

"Hey, listen… I’d like to ask you something. But you have to promise me you won't get upset, okay?"

Rafa looked warily at Novak Djokovic's elongated face, his light green eyes fixed on him. He was standing in front of Rafa, fiddling with one of the cuffs of his thin blue striped sweatshirt, like a very nervous schoolchild.

"Okay," Rafa said. "Speak."

Novak looked down for a second, then lifted his gaze, his eyes wider than ever.

"Are you and Federer together?"

Rafa's expression didn't change, as if he hadn't even heard the question. The only thing that betrayed him was the sudden emptiness of his gaze, which seemed to go strangely out of focus, as if he were staring — but not really seeing — at a point in the air at some distance.

"I don't know what you talk about, Novak."

"Sorry, it's just that it seemed to me..." Novak was fumbling, unable to find a proper end to his sentence. "I often see the two of you together, and I had the impression that... you and him… I mean, you two look very close."

"Close doesn't mean 'being together,' if I understand English," said Rafa in a flat tone, still with that fixity in his gaze that turned his features to stone.

"No! Of course. Of course not," assented the Serb hastily. "I said bullshit. I was wrong. Sorry, Rafa... I can call you Rafa, can't I?"

Rafa had turned to put his gear in the bag, from which the handle of a pair of rackets was sticking out.

He pulled it up over his shoulder and shot a glance at Novak.

"Yes, it's fine."

Novak's shoulders relaxed imperceptibly in relief, though his expression remained alarmed and somewhat remorseful.

"Great. You can call me Nole, if you want."

Rafa nodded. "Okay, Nole" his eyes were darting behind Novak, toward the locker room door, "see you, then."

Novak nodded shyly and stepped aside to let him pass.

Rafa had almost arrived at the door when the Serb's voice – a little desperate – called him back.

"Hey, hold on! I wanted to ask you one more thing... If I may. Nothing personal this time, I swear."

After the gaffe he had just made, Novak was trying hard to be even kinder to Rafa than usual, but he could tell from Rafa’s face that he wasn’t really succeeding.

Rafa looked at him with his hand on the doorknob. It was obvious that he was making an effort to control himself and not to walk out on the younger lad. "Yes?"

Novak's Adam's apple moved up and down as he swallowed loudly. He had stopped fiddling with his cuffs and had put both hands in his pockets, as if he wanted to hide their trembling.

"I was wondering..." Now he was rocking on his heels, carefully avoiding looking at Rafa. "If you wanted to... If you have nothing better to do, obviously... to go get a beer somewhere... maybe tonight..."

Rafa slowly arched an eyebrow — which was his way of indicating surprise — and said nothing, but this time his look didn't turn as glazed as it did when Novak had asked him about Roger.

"If you like," continued Novak, who seemed unable to bear a prolonged silence, "I thought it might be a… a good idea."

"I like," Rafa said suddenly, interrupting him with a shrug. "Tonight I’m no busy. At 9 is okay for you?"

Novak just blinked and nodded, utterly speechless.  

“Well. Hasta luego.”

Rafa pushed the bag over his shoulder and walked out of the locker room, leaving behind a Novak Djokovic literally petrified with surprise.

*

Manacor, 2028

"It took me three years to find the courage to ask you out the first time, you know?"

Rafa turned with a start, when the voice behind him abruptly snatched him from the contemplation of the magical setting sun on the beach. The whole sky was tinged with pink and violet, and a cool breeze blew from the horizon, while the shadows stretched over the sea, brushing against the outer edge of the kiosk under which, on a wicker chair, Rafa was sitting. An empty glass of beer was on the table in front of him. Rafa was wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, sneakers on his feet – but he had all the air of someone who still had his swimsuit underneath. The brick pink hue of his skin betrayed a well-established relationship of mutual interest with the sun and sea of Manacor.

"Nole.” Rafa stood up and pushed his chair back to welcome his old friend. He had his usual smile, the one that made the corners of his eyes sink into wrinkles of joy.

Novak noticed. "Time never seems to pass for you," he commented jokingly. With one hand he grabbed Rafa's outstretched one while with the other he encircled his shoulders. He held him close for a few seconds, and was the first to pull away, looking at him at a short distance.

"Well, I wouldn't say so," Rafa said. He pointed to the empty chair in front of himself. "Please, sit down. Beer?"

"Sure." Novak took his cell phone out of his back pocket and placed it in front of him before taking his seat.

He waited for Rafa to order for both of them. The barboy looked very little surprised to see two world-famous tennis players swooping down in front of him – Rafa must have been a regular customer of that kiosk on the beach, Novak thought, otherwise he couldn't explain himself – and in the meantime he took the opportunity to study his old rival’s face.

When Rafa turned back to him, Novak was still looking at him with that amused smirk that made the fans in the stands so nervous all around the world.

"What?" asked Rafa, noticing.

"Nothing." Novak shook his head softly, without changing his expression. "Look, I meant it before."

Rafa rested one elbow on the table, scratching the back of his head with one hand.

"Did it really take you three years to ask me out?"

"Yes, sir," said Nole. "Maybe you don't remember, but I do. I was terrified of your rejection. But now that I'm asking you, twenty years later, I don’t have to do it twice. Because… here you are. Easier than expected."

Rafa burst out laughing. He still looked slightly embarrassed.

"I didn't expect your message," he said, shrugging his shoulders. He leaned back and crossed his arms. "Not after such a long time."

"Well, you know, I have a lot of free time left after retirement. I hardly know what to do," Novak joked. "In fact, that was one of the things I wanted to ask you: what have you been doing since you stopped playing, Rafa?"

Rafa laughed again. "Is that why you wanted to see me?"

Nole shrugged, imitating one of Rafa's typical gestures and making him smile even more. "Sure, to know how you're doing, old man."

The boy arrived with two ice-cold beers. He placed them in front of them and waved away.

Novak noticed the cold condensation fogging up the glass, dripping silently onto the wicker shelf.

"Well, you see what I'm doing," Rafa said, nodding to his beer. "I go boating and drink beer. Sometimes I play golf. That's it."

"That's it?" Nole repeated, shaking his head. "All right. Keep your secrets, matador. You haven't changed on that either."

"What are the other secrets I've kept?!"

Nole didn't answer. He leaned forward to grab his beer and lifted it towards Rafa.

"Cheers. To life after tennis."

"Cheers." Rafa touched Novak’s glass with his and took a sip. "You also call it ‘life after tennis’? Funny..."

"Well, I don't know how else to define it." Novak lowered his beer and shrugged. "There was a life before and a life after tennis. As for everything in between... well, that's history."

Rafa looked at him with his head tilted slightly over one shoulder. "Do you miss it?"

Novak pretended to snort and ostentatiously rolled his eyes.

"God, Rafa, don't start. I didn't come here to get depressed, or to dig up the past." Noticing Rafa's hurt gaze, Novak burst out laughing and leaned forward to give him an affectionate tap on the arm. "I was joking, man. Of course I miss it. How could I not miss it? I miss it as much as you do, at least I think."

Rafa smiled mildly. He looked down at the glass and followed the rim with a finger. Novak remembered that it was something Roger often made when he was lost in thought, and wondered when exactly Rafa had started doing it too.

"You're right, I don't want to talk about tennis either," Rafa said, looking up. "It's boring."

"Indeed." Novak waited a few seconds. "You're not going to ask me about my family, are you, Rafa? Because it would be a wrong choice."

Rafa's teeth flashed into a fleeting smile. "You can read my mind," he admitted. "In fact, I was just going to ask you. I heard Stefan reached the quarterfinals at the junior championships this year."

"He's getting very good," Novak said, his voice vibrating with paternal pride. "And I'm not saying that because he's my son. I follow his workouts whenever I can. Sometimes he still hits that forehand your way. He was a big fan of you when he was little. You don't know how much he made me cursing."

Rafa smiled, almost shyly. "Yeah, it must not have been easy. I don't know how I would react if my son grew up imitating Novak Djokovic's game."

Novak grinned. "You'd probably force him to hit with his left arm until he gets used to it and doesn't look much like me anymore. Just like Toni did with you, no?"

"Hmm, that legend is as old as I am." Rafa took another sip. "And what about Tara? Does she still like dancing?"

"Well, she actually quitted a few years ago. Now she's practicing horse riding. She loves horses. But she's also very good at school. She could become someone."

Rafa nodded. In the silence that followed, the surf on the beach was as slow and monotonous as a lullaby. The sun had sunk completely below the horizon line, half the sky was an iron-gray color as the darkness thickened.

"I know you want to ask me about Jelena," Novak began, but Rafa interrupted him.

"No. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"It doesn't matter." Novak shrugged. "She’s still waging war on me. I knew she hadn't gone down well with the divorce story, but I expected things to get better after years. Instead..."

"I'm sorry, Nole. Really."

Novak looked up as Rafa's tanned fingers wrapped around his forearm, just above his wrist. His eyes were full of concern and compassion. You could tell from them that he was sincere. In that, at least, he had always been.

"That's life," the Serb tried to play it down. "There are worse things than a wrecked marriage, after all."

"Yes, there are, of course," Rafa agreed, without taking his eyes off him, "but stop play tough. It's no use."

"And what would you like me to do? To burst into tears telling you how divorce is absolute shit and so are the lawyers, the joint custody of the children and whatnot? You wouldn't understand anyway, luckily for you."

Rafa was silent for a second, thinking. "I'm just saying that not having to hold back your emotions all the time can only do you good. At least I think so."

Novak stared at him, so intensely that Rafa, perplexed, slowly withdrew the hand he still held on his arm to his own lap, trying to decipher his expression.

"It's funny that you're the one saying that to me," Novak murmured. "I remind you of what happened the first and only time I expressed my emotions with you, Rafael Nadal. How you made me feel."

Rafa was now frankly unsettled. "Are you referring to...?"

Novak nodded. His fingers closed again around the half-full beer glass. "Yes, I'm referring to that time, Rafa." He threw his head back and the rest of the beer disappeared in one fell swoop down his throat.

When he lowered it, his eyes were a little shiny; a slight blush on his bony cheekbones.

"Do you remember that famous time, yes?" He continued, and leaned towards Rafa, resting his forearms on the table, pinning him down with his gaze. "Or was it so unimportant to you that you forgot about that too?"

Rafa looked at him with a silent plea in his eyes. "I remember, yes," he said after a few seconds, in the tone of one who hopes not to have to deal with that particular subject. "I'm sorry I made you feel uncomfortable."

Novak stared at him for a few seconds in silence. Then, suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, he threw his head back in loud laughter. Rafa frowned, waiting patiently for the outburst of hilarity to end, silently questioning him with his gaze.

"Sorry," Novak said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "It's just that… it's awfully easy to make you feel guilty, Rafa. I couldn't resist."

"You've always had a sense of humor of your own," Rafa snorted. "That’s way it was really hard to like you."

"I know it very well, why do you think I was arguing with the crowd every other match? By the way, I have to admit it: you're really cute when you make that concerned face."

"You're really a dick," Rafa said. "You do everything you can to embarrass me. Even giving compliments."

"Those are sincere, I swear" Novak replied, bringing mockingly his hand to his heart. "The ones about your face, at least. I've always told you that."

Rafa fidgeted slightly in his chair. He puffed out his chest in a deep sigh, something between weary and bewildered.

Novak did not fail to notice. "You see, I'm doing it again. Embarrassing you. Sorry. If you want me to stop, I'll do it."

"You'd make my life easier, surely, if you did so" Rafa said, jokingly. He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged imperceptibly. "I never really knew how to be around you, Novak. Yet, when everyone called you arrogant, I was one of the few who defended you."

"I know. In your own way, but you did."

Rafa frowned slightly. "In my own way? What does that mean?"

Novak snorted again into laughter, this time bitter.

"Come on, Rafa. There is no need to go back to the past. We've never been friends. It's always been you and Roger, just the two of you. And then there was me, Novak Djokovic. That is the truth."

Novak's voice had suddenly lost the light-hearted note.

Rafa sensed it. "I thought you hadn't come here to talk about tennis," he said, speaking his words cautiously.

"No, indeed," Novak said. "I didn't come to talk about tennis, or my family. Let alone Roger Federer." He leaned towards Rafa, again. "I'm here to renew an offer I made to you some time ago, Rafa. Twenty years ago, to be precise."

Rafa looked at him with his mouth open in surprise. "What are you talking about?" he finally managed to say, after a few seconds.

Novak's gaze was so intense that it was impossible to get rid of it, like a spell.

"Do you remember what I asked you the one time we went out together, just the two of us?"

And that's when it happens – and for Novak it's almost like being catapulted back in time, as if not a second had passed since that fateful evening. Rafa's eyes go blank – just like that time when Novak had asked him about Roger, making it so clear that he knew everything about them. And it's Rafa's way of defending himself, erecting armor around himself when something threatens to harm him or someone he particularly cares about. In that case it was Roger, today it's probably Rafa himself.

Matter of priorities , Novak finds himself thinking, while his green eyes don't stop sinking into Rafa's brown and inscrutable ones, and the memories just overwhelm him.

*

Cincinnati Open, 2009

He said yes... He said yes!

Novak had spent all day tossing and turning around, while those words wouldn’t stop echoing in his mind. He was so happy that Rafa had said yes that he almost couldn’t believe it was for real. He felt like he could touch the sky with his hands; even tennis seemed to have miraculously receded to the back of his mind.

Obviously, Novak hadn't mentioned it to anyone. No one was supposed to know about it – least of all could risk it reaching Roger Federer's ears. Novak hadn't had many opportunities to come face-to-face with the fearsome Swiss off the pitch, but something told him he wouldn't be too happy to hear that he had asked Rafa out.

When asked about Federer, Rafa had denied it with words – his body told another truth, though. And that's why Novak decided to play cautiously. Except that the excitement made the blood go to his head, preventing him from staying lucid and focused on the plan. But then again... did he really have a plan? Or did he just want to be alone with Rafa, away from everyone, let him loosen up a bit over a drink, hear him talk about himself, talk to him about himself, and then –

And here his thoughts stopped suddenly, as if faced with the dizzying edge of a ravine into which he dared not go.

Yes, and then what?

Novak preferred not to think about it for the time being; he was nervous enough like that.

When Novak went down to the lobby of the hotel where he was staying, Rafa was already waiting for him, sitting in an armchair with his legs crossed, pretending to read a newspaper. He hurried to close it when he caught sight of the Serb and stood up to meet him.

"What? A Spaniard can’t be in time?" he said, reading the astonishment on Novak's face.

"No, it's just that-" Novak bit his tongue and didn't finish the sentence. He couldn't tell Rafa that it wasn't because of his punctuality that he was out of breath, but because he had never seen him with his hair combed back, still damp from the shower, and his heart had begun to skip a few beats.

"Where would you like to go?" Novak asked, changing the subject as they left the hotel. The evening was hot; cars honked along the sidewalk as some passers-by hurried to dinner. It was full August in Cincinnati. "If you want, I know a place nearby; I was there the other day with the guys of my team. They have good beers."

"Perfect," assented Rafa. "I really want a beer."

Novak sighed imperceptibly in relief. As they walked, Rafa began to talk about this and that, without Novak asking him anything, and the Serb began to feel more and more relaxed. In fact, he discovered that it was extraordinarily easy to have a conversation with Rafael Nadal, despite the fact that they did not speak the same language – metaphorically and literally – because Rafa had very good non-verbal communication and at that moment he was doing everything he could to put Novak at ease (and he was silently grateful for that).

When they arrived at the brewery, there weren't many people fortunately and they quickly found a free table in the non-smoking area. When Rafa barely touched Novak's back with one hand as he made his way, the Serb shuddered strangely and almost pulled away. Rafa looked at him, frowning, but pretended nothing had happened.

They sat down, facing each other. In a second, a girl in jeans and a ripped T-shirt, chewing a gum with her mouth open, rushed at them to take orders.

"A Black Ale for me," Rafa said.

The girl wrote it down and turned to Novak who was quickly scrolling through the menu, glancing at him from under her arched eyebrow.

"Uh, ehm… I’ll have the same, please" he said hastily, feeling pressured by the impatient look on the girl’s face.

"Do you want something to eat too?" The girl asked, scribbling on her notepad without looking up. "Chips, tacos..."

"Chips" said Rafa.

Novak nodded. The girl shuffled away, dragging her feet.

"She didn’t give me any time to think” Novak mumbled, watching her back slide behind the counter. “I didn’t even hear what you’re having. Do you like alcohol?"

"Yeah. I don't normally drink much, of course," Rafa said, crossing his hands in front of him. "But I like to do it, especially on special occasions."

"Like this one?" said Novak, and a moment later he bit his tongue, because Rafa had shot him a glance between perplexed and intrigued, as if to guess if he was serious. "I was joking," the Serb added hastily.

"Of course," Rafa replied calmly. "You don't have to say it all the time, Novak. I understand the jokes, most of them."

Too bad Nole wasn't sure if it was really a joke.

"Do you? I thought I had to explain them to you, at least the ones in English," Novak said, his face serious.

"You can draw pictures for me if you like," Rafa replied in the same tone, holding up the game.

Novak grimaced. "Sorry, I dropped out of school early, I never got good with pen and paper."

Rafa laughed, and Novak had to look away because it was a bit too much for him. He focused on his beer, feeling a sudden warmth rise to his cheeks.

"Yeah, me too" sighed Rafa, serious again. "I continued school for my parents, but the only thing I wanted to do was play tennis."

They exchanged a look of mutual understanding across the table. The bored-looking girl returned with beers and a bowl of greasy chips sprinkled with macroscopic grains of salt.

"Do you think they do it on purpose to make people thirsty?" Rafa asked, pointing to them with his chin. "To sell more beers?"

He fished one chip between his thumb and forefinger and, after studying it for a moment, shoved it into his mouth. Novak couldn’t help but look at the chip disappearing between Rafa's lips. He realized at that moment that Rafa had the whitest, most perfect teeth he had ever noticed in a tennis player. 

"Do I have something on my face? You're staring at me..." Rafa's voice roused him from his contemplation.

Feeling ashamed like a thief for being caught red-handed, Novak grabbed the beer and said the first thing that crossed his mind.

"Who is your dentist? Whoever he is, he's done a great job..."

Rafa was dumbfounded. "My... dentist?"

Novak took a sip of beer and nodded, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. "Yes. You know, when I was a kid in Belgrade, going to a dentist was a luxury that only a few families could afford. Especially if he or she was a good one. Often people had to go into debt up to their necks just to get a cavity treated."

Rafa looked at him seriously. A shadow of sorrow, but devoid of pity, veiled his gaze.

"I don't know much about what happened in your country, but I heard my uncle Toni talk about the war and the NATO bombing of Yugoslavia. It must not be easy for a child to grow up in the shadow of such danger. Or having the head to play tennis..."

"Tennis was the only thing that gave me the strength to keep going," Novak said firmly. "And then I knew that my whole family was counting on me to get out of the horrible situation we were in. Their future depended on how good I could be at the sport."

Rafa bowed his head and stared at the dark surface of his beer. "My parents always told me I was lucky to grow up in the right part of the world. We're not millionaires but I never lacked for anything, as a child. I always thought that if I am where I am today, it's not just because of my talent. It's luck too, no? Maybe there are a lot of good tennis players who will never be famous because they are born in Asia or in the Third World or others who don’t have the money for a racket..."

"The humble champion," Novak interrupted, and smiled softly at Rafa's questioning gaze. "I heard someone call you that."

"Champion? I don't think so," Rafa shielded himself. "I'm no champion. It's Roger..."

At Federer's name, an imperceptible vibration passed through the air, as if they had evoked a presence that had remained silent between them until then.

"And yet you beat him," Novak said hastily, "you've beaten Roger more than once, haven't you? The fact that he is number one in the rankings doesn’t matter."

"I think Roger is the best of all," Rafa said, with such determination that Novak fell silent.

They were quiet for a few minutes, each of them absorbed in his own beer. Novak felt a strange tightness in the pit of his stomach that he didn't quite know why he related to Federer's name. And to Rafa's last sentence. Could it be that that squeeze was nothing other than...?

"You beat me several times, too," Rafa said, quietly. "No? You could be the best in a few years..."

"That would be my goal," Novak said, rousing himself. He lifted his head from the beer; a smile sparkled in his eyes. "I want to become the best, I want to win as many titles as possible. I want my name to make tennis history."

"How do you call in English someone who wants too much?" Rafa asked, laughing.

"Ambitious, maybe" Novak said, grinning. "Yes I am. Do you think that is a bad thing?"

Rafa looked at him seriously for a few moments, then his lips slowly stretched into a smile. "Not necessarily. So… cheers to you, Nole, the future of tennis."

Novak mechanically bumped the beer against his but didn't drink. Nor did he stop to wonder if Rafa was making fun of him. Rafa had called him “Nole”, and that was enough to make Novak forget everything else. He watched Rafa as he took long sips of beer with a few handfuls of chips. He, on the other hand, didn’t feel hungry at all, although he hadn't put anything under his teeth for hours.

"So," Rafa said, bringing him back to reality. He opened a ketchup bag with his teeth and squeezed it all over the last remaining chips. "You told me about your past and your plans for the future. Well. What about the present? The tournament. What do you think about the draw?"

"Are you trying to get information from me so you can beat me? Look at me, I'm as silent as the grave," Novak joked, a flash in his eyes. He was feeling so comfortable with Rafa that all evening he didn't think they were rivals at all. If his father had known, he would have given him a good telling-off. Never underestimate the enemy, he would tell him over and over again. Never let your guard down.

What would his father have said if he had known that not only had Nole already buried the hatchet, but was even openly and blatantly fraternizing with his enemy?

And that was not all. Maybe it was the beers he drank on an empty stomach – in the meantime they had finished the first one and ordered another one – , but Nole felt the desire to touch Rafa grow stronger and stronger inside him.

Not necessarily something sexual, just touching his skin – feeling the texture under his fingers.

He had never felt such a desire for a man in his life – only for Jelena and a few other sporadic girls, perhaps, when he was just a teenager. But the dim lights of the brewery gave Rafa's complexion an interesting tinge that made him particularly… inviting.

(Really, Nole?! Did you just call Rafael Nadal “inviting”?)

Novak gave himself that explanation – and alcohol, of course. Even if no double beer, not even drunk on an empty stomach, could make a grown man with 80 kilos of muscle completely lose his mind as it was happening to him.

It's not the lights. It's not alcohol , he told himself, as his head began to fill with a strange buzzing sound that drowned out Rafa's words and he stared at Rafa’s mouth move but couldn't hear what came out of it.

You're pathetically attracted to this man, and the reason you're here with him now is that you want to kiss him.

(Kiss?!... Oh, yes)

But you'll never have the courage to do it, because he'll think you're a nutcase. Or worse. Besides, if they knew about it, it would be the end of your career. Your father...

(Oh God, my father)

And then there's the “Federer issue”…

(What do you think Federer would do in your place? Oh, you know: he would just take what he wants, like he always does)

Why do you get the impression that the Swiss would cut off your balls and make you eat them if you just got close to Nadal? And yet, there is nothing between them, he said it himself – you have no proof, you have nothing in your hands... Nothing at all...

"Hey, are you okay? You have a strange face..."

Novak roused himself as Rafa's voice seemed to reach him from a great distance. He blinked several times until his vision turned back into focus. Rafa was leaning over the table and looking at him with a worried expression. Novak didn't dare to imagine what emotions were running across his own face at that moment. All he knew was that his glass was empty again, and so was his head.

"Do you want to go home?" asked Rafa.

"Yes, please."

Novak got up from the table, trying not to stagger. The whole place around seemed to swirl like a merry-go-round gone mad. He didn't realize he was drunk until he tried to walk, and Rafa had to support him with one arm when he tripped over a chair to keep him from falling.

"Sorry," Novak stammered, struggling to maintain a modicum of composure. "I thought I-I could handle alcohol… better."

"No problem," Rafa said. “Just… try not to throw up on me, ok?”

With some difficulty, as Novak had completely collapsed on his side, Rafa slipped out from under his arm to reach into his pocket and pull out a couple of bills that he left at the till. Then he carefully wrapped his other arm around Novak's waist and, step by step, led him out of the place.

The breath of fresh air did him good. Novak took a deep breath, and his thoughts seemed to clear up slightly. But it wasn't good at all, he realized, as he became more aware of the arm that Rafa still held around him – and the dull rumble of his own heart against his ribs.

"Shall we walk?" proposed Nole, trying to speak as clearly as possible, even though he felt his tongue swollen and heavy against the roof of his mouth.

"Are you sure?" Rafa looked at him doubtfully. "We can call a taxi..."

"No, no, walking will help."

He actually wanted an excuse for Rafa to touch him again.

Rafa accepted without protest. The rare passers-by who crossed them did not deign to give them more than a superficial glance: they must have been accustomed to the sight of drunks at that time of the night. Not that Nole was completely dead-drunk – he was just tipsy, and he especially struggled to coordinate the movements of his lower limbs.

"Would you ever think they're so performing during a match?" He laughed, nodding to his own legs. "Look at them, now. They can't even stand up straight!”

Rafa, who was walking arm in arm with him, followed his gaze and laughed softly. "If I challenge you now, Nole, Cincinnati would be mine for sure.”

"There's always Federer in the way," Novak muttered. "Don’t forget that.”

"No, I don’t" said Rafa. "But I think that you always give me more trouble than Roger on hard courts.”

Although in the fog that enveloped his mind, Novak felt strangely hurt by the way Rafa pronounced Federer's name.

They had now arrived at Novak's hotel.

"Drop me off in the hall, I'll have someone open my room," Novak said, as they walked through the wide glass doors. "In these conditions I can't even tell a key from a muffler."

"What is a muffler?" Rafa asked absently, and shook his head. "Don't think about it. I'm here with you, I take you upstairs.”

Novak didn't protest as Rafa slipped him into the elevator, leaning him gently against the wall, and turned to press the button, after asking him which floor to go to.

"Where do you have the keys?" Rafa asked, when the elevator had stopped at the right floor and the doors opened with the usual jingle.

"Right front pocket," Novak murmured. "First door in the corridor on the left."

Rafa nodded. He followed his directions; he stopped at the door of Novak's room only to take his keys and pass them over the sensor on the handle. With a flicker and a click, the door opened and Rafa gently pulled him in, then closed it behind them. They stumbled into the foyer until Rafa managed to drag Novak to the couch in the living room where Nole let himself lie down with a sigh. He closed his eyes; his head was spinning even in the dark behind his drooped eyelids.

"I get water," said Rafa's voice somewhere above him, and then his footsteps went away, probably heading for the kitchen. "Do you have aspirin? Anything to help you?"

Novak let out a grunt of dissent. When he heard Rafa return, he tried to open his eyes again. He was hunched over him, glass in hand.

"Where's your girlfriend?" Rafa asked. "Didn't she come with you?"

"No. She was busy, this time," Novak murmured, and emptied the water in long gulps. "You know how girls are... Do you have a girlfriend, Rafa?”

Rafa was a little taken aback by the question. He slowly bent his knees and sat down in the armchair opposite the couch, straightening his hair behind one ear.

"No, not at the moment."

“Of course you don’t.” Novak nodded slowly, peeking between his half-closed eyelids. "Is Roger Federer your boyfriend?"

Rafa looked at him with wide eyes. In a flash, anger took the place of surprise on his face. He didn't say anything, but slowly stood up to leave, an icy look you couldn't see on him even when he was down a set in a match.

“No, wait!" Novak shouted, like a desperate man. He forced himself to sit up and grabbed Rafa's hand as he passed by the couch, forcing him to stop. "Forgive me, Rafa, I don't know why I said that. I'm drunk. Don't leave, stay a little longer. Please."

Rafa looked down at him warily, hesitating. "I forgive you just because you’re not yourself, Novak." 

Novak registered the coldness in his tone. "Nole, please," he whispered, almost pleadingly. “Not Novak.” He bent his head and rested his forehead against the back of Rafa's hand, still holding it tightly in his. “Sorry. I'm really a jerk.”

"Yes, you are," Rafa said, suppressing a deep sigh. He slowly sank onto the couch next to Novak's half-reclining figure. His voice softened imperceptibly. "You can let me go now. I don't run away.”

But Novak didn't seem to hear him. He was looking like in a trance at Rafa’s hand in his. "So that's what it means, touching you," he murmured, so low that Rafa didn't understand.

"Novak, it's late. I have to go. We have training tomorrow, you know...” Rafa's tone was gentle, almost caressing, as he tried to persuade Novak to let him go.

Novak felt that his time was running out, and that he had to go all out – or he would regret it forever.

So he raised his head, blinked to focus on Rafa’s image, and stared him straight in the eye.

"What if you stay?" he said. "Just for tonight. Rafa... No one would ever know."

A flow of different expressions crossed Rafa's face as he slowly grabbed what he had just been asked. The final one, which fixed itself on his face and broke Novak's heart, was that of unmistakable, genuine disgust.

"I think... we don't want the same things, Novak," Rafa said slowly. His jaw was stiff, his nostrils imperceptibly dilated. "I'm sorry if I gave you a different impression. It was... malentendido. I don’t know the English word.”

"You didn't give me any different impression. No misunderstanding at all," Nole said with a defeated chuckle, shaking his head. His shoulders collapsed; he suddenly looked disconsolate when he let go of Rafa's hand. "I should have imagined it. But I wanted to try anyway. How stupid I am, I will never forgive myself for this.”

Faced with Novak's sudden bitterness, Rafa felt compassion and a hint of remorse.

"You're not stupid, Novak. And don't blame yourself," he said, lightly tapping Novak’s shoulder to comfort him. “But... we can still be friends, Nole, can't we? I really want to be your friend...”

Nole shook his head. Disappointment was written on every feature of his face. "I don't need you to give me a treat, Rafa. Maybe we'll never be friends. I don't know. I'll have to wait for this wound to heal, I guess.” He let himself fall back on the sofa, the back of his head resting on the armrest, his forearm hiding his eyes that were slowly filling with silent tears. "Thank you for bringing me home, Rafa. But now... You better go, really.”

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Rafa muttered in a low voice. He looked helplessly at Novak one last time before standing up. Novak felt the springs of the couch creak slightly under Rafa’s weight. "I hope this don't change our relationship. You probably won't believe me and it won't make you feel better, but I know what it's like not to be loved by the person you're attracted to and how much it hurts. I understand you, right now.”

Novak said nothing. He remained motionless in that position until Rafa left, with a sigh. As he walked around the couch, heading for the door, he lightly brushed Novak's hair with the open palm of his hand.

That caress continued to burn on Novak’s skin long after the door of the room had closed behind the Spaniard.

It would burn for years to come.

*

Manacor, 2028

“So, basically, what you’re asking me, again” Rafa slowly spelled out the words, “is to stay the night. Right? You and me.”

Novak looked at him smugly. He leaned back in his chair and nodded. "Basically, yes. That’s what I’m asking you, Rafa. You smart guy.”

Rafa snorted into an incredulous laugh, but Novak knew him too well by now to pretend not to see the shock behind the façade.

"You didn't expect that, did you?" he said. He leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table. Rafa looked up and aligned his eyes with his. "After all these years, after everything that's happened, me wanting to come back here and ask you again."

"I thought you had gotten over it," Rafa said softly. "Or, rather, I didn't think it was that important to you."

A shadow passed through Novak's light-hearted gaze.

"Oh, you meant so much more to me than you could even imagine, Rafael," he said, lowering his voice. "Especially your refusal. That broke me. It took me a hell lot of time to recover."

Rafa bit his lip. "Yes, but I remember … that summer in Cincinnati… you beat me. In the semis." He frowned at the memory. "First set 6-1 for you. A record at the time." He slowly raised his head to look at Novak. "You didn't look so depressed. I didn't notice anything."

"Sometimes you're so naïve, Rafa," Novak shook his head, looking at Rafa almost affectionately. "That's why people love you. Why you can't be hated. Even if... believe me, I tried with all my might."

"Did you hate me?" Rafa's tone sounded like that of a physically wounded person.

"I tried, I told you," Novak said, shrugging his shoulders. "And failed. Every time I crossed paths with you, I didn't know what I wanted more: to break a racket on your head or lock myself in a bedroom with you."

"Oh, I'm glad you didn't. Neither," Rafa said, scratching an eyebrow.

"On the other hand, I diverted my hatred to Roger," Novak continued. "Simple, isn't it? I couldn't hate you, so I hated him. I did pretty well at that."

"Yes, Roger told me about it sometimes," Rafa sighed, bringing his hands together again. "But at that time it was all over between us. After his marriage..."

"Yes, I know. I was one of the few who knew. And to keep it a secret. Despite the fact that people were constantly saying how evil and detestable I was, while you and Roger were the idols of the crowd and the champions of universal good. That's still the case, in many ways."

Rafa glanced at him from the sidelines. "I'm sorry, Nole. The crowd never understood you. But it's true that you've never done much to prove them wrong."

"They're not so wrong," Novak said abruptly, looking away. "You know, I've often fantasized about exposing you. During an interview, in front of the cameras. Dismantling your castle of lies. When someone asked me about you or Roger, I was there to say, ‘You want to know the truth, you ugly bitches? You can't even imagine the truth.’" Novak paused briefly. His hands trembled around the empty glass. "Did I think it would rehabilitate me in their eyes? Not at all. In fact, if I had done something like that, I would have only become even more of the scapegoat that everyone was looking for. But at least I would have had the satisfaction of erasing the halo of Saint Roger."

In the silence that followed, Rafa was heard swallowing loudly. He was looking at his beer too.

"So that's true," he murmured softly. "You hated Roger so much."

"I hated his guts and wanted to be him at the same time," Novak said. His gaze was dreamy, as deeply lost in thought "Like everyone of his time, isn't it? And of every age to come, probably. At first, I even tried to get closer to him, hoping that by getting to know him better I could learn to love him. But he never wanted to take off that damn mask, not with me. He only did it with you, Rafa."

Rafa nodded. "But, if you hated Roger so much and your public image was already compromised, why didn't you do it in the end? Why did you… kind of… help us?"

Novak looked at him with a kind of mocking pity in his eyes. "Because I loved you, Rafa. In spite of everything. And I didn't want your life to fuck up because of me. If it had been just Roger, well, maybe I wouldn't have had so many scruples. But you were up to your neck in it too, and as I told you, I couldn't harbor any lasting resentment toward you. Even though you hurt me, even though I was insanely jealous of Roger – especially whenever he found a good excuse to touch you, Holy Christ."

Rafa was silent for very long minutes. The wind had picked up, and Novak noticed goosebumps beginning to sprout on his arms, filling them with shivers. He would warm him up if he asked – but Rafa didn’t.

"It's a bit too much all at once in the same day," Rafa said at last, and slowly exhaled the air. "I didn't expect any of this, agreeing to see you again."

"I bet you regretted it," Novak said. "Admit it."

"No." Rafa shook his head. "It was… enlightening. You never stop getting to know people, I guess."

"So you're going to spend the night with me? What's your answer?"

Rafa looked up almost in spite of himself, as if an invisible thread were pulling his head upward.

Novak looked at him intently, as if he wanted to penetrate his soul.

Then he burst into his usual sudden laughter. He covered his face with one hand, continuing to giggle between his fingers. When the sound died down and he slowly dropped his hand, his face looked crumpled, like a rag wrung out after laundry.

"Don't tell me," he said, staring at Rafa who hadn’t answer. "You still love him, don't you?... Oh, shit."

[…it ended even worse]

Remember when I took you up to the top of the hill

We had our knives drawn

They were as sharp as we were in love

End