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“Did he turn you down again, didn’t he?”
Rafa dropped his duffel to the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the empty locker room, and turned to the annoying voice coming from behind.
Novak was leaning against his locker, his arms crossed over the white t-shirt he wore under a green striped Lacoste sweatshirt, and he was looking at him with his head tilted to one side, the usual ironic smirk etched on his face.
Under that piercing gaze, Rafa didn’t even try to deny it. “How do you know?” he just said, suppressing a deep sigh.
Novak slowly uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the locker. He walked towards Rafa, swaggering like a high school bully, his knees a little wide, his arms dangling at hip height. He stopped a few steps away from the Spaniard, stretched out his arm and tapped his index finger on Rafa’s left shoulder.
“Because you only have that sluggish walk with your shoulders down when King Federer got up on the wrong side of the bed and doesn’t want anyone around. Am I correct?”
Rafa held Novak's gaze for a few seconds without saying a word, then reluctantly lowered his sullen brown eyes, and bit his bottom lip.
“Even so...¿qué es para ti?”
Novak squinted slightly, his mind quickly scrolling through the Spanish words he knew.
“You mean what it’s to me, right?” He shrugged, pursing his lips into a careless grimace. "Nothing, except the satisfaction of seeing that I'm not the only one who goes home empty-handed, for once.”
Rafa looked up to meet Novak’s green eyes staring at him as if he perfectly knew that his words touched a raw nerve and he was just waiting to drink eagerly every little emotion on Rafa’s face.
Rafa noticed and frowned, visibly upset.
"You are trying to provoke me, right?” he said. He shook his head and took a step back. “Sorry, Nole, I’m not playing this game with you.”
“I'm just trying to open your eyes, but you're ... how do you say in Spain? Terco como una mula.”
"I don't need you to open my eyes," Rafa hissed, this time angrily, clenching his hands into fists. "Just stay away from me, okay? What I do with my life is not your business.”
Rafa picked his duffel up from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. He walked past Novak without even looking at him, heading towards the door and clearly showing he was done with their little chat.
Novak, however, grabbed Rafa by the arm while he was passing by and forced him to stop and turn around. He felt Rafa’s muscles vibrate with tension in his grasp. If only Rafa had been a bit less of a nice guy, he could have easily broken free as well as beaten Novak to a pulp without much effort. Novak was inclined to forget it a little too often.
"One more thing, before you leave," Novak whispered. He was so close to the Spaniard that he could enjoy every little detail of his face. First, his eyes recorded the deep wrinkle of annoyance between Rafa's straight eyebrows, then they slipped over his gloomy gaze, his slightly upturned nose, finally resting on his mouth, now pursed in a line of barely restrained rage.
“Yeah, what?”
"I want you to know that…" Novak began, hesitatingly, his gaze irresistibly drawn to Rafa's lips. He tried to stay focused and lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. "My door is always open for you, Rafa. Whenever you want. Not only metaphorically, you know?”
Rafa’s lips twitched imperceptibly in surprise, his eyebrows arched upward. At first, he looked quizzically at Novak as if he thought he was making fun of him, but what he saw in the Serbian’s eyes was all too clear to be misunderstood.
Rafa reached up and knocked Novak’s hand away from his arm. He took a step back, rolling his eyes.
“C’mon. Not again, please.”
Novak burst into bitter laughter.
“Not again? Is that what you tell His Majesty too, when he comes out of his wife's bed to slip into yours, Rafa, you good boy?”
Rafa blushed so suddenly and widely that his whole face seemed to ignite from the inside. Novak looked at him reveling in the Spaniard’s shock with ill-concealed, malevolent satisfaction. It was clear from his face that he was enjoying his little revenge to the fullest.
"That’s not your business, I said" Rafa repeated furiously, stepping toward Novak again until they were very close again, eyes on the same line. "Jealousy makes you bad, Nole."
"But also generous," replied the Serb promptly, apparently unfazed. "Here’s a tip: if you want to teach that asshole a lesson, show him that he’s not the only man around and that he’d better not take you for granted... I would just be glad to help you, Rafa, and welcome you with my arms wide open, if you ever-”
“Don’t even think about it. Goodbye, Nole," Rafa cut him off through gritted teeth. He waved at Novak and, adjusting the strap of his duffel over his shoulder, turned to leave for the second time that evening.
Novak, anyway, was not going to give up obviously.
"Wait a sec! Don't tell me you got the "RF" mark branded under your underwear, do you?” When Rafa stopped dead in his tracks, a mocking smile curled the Serb's lips, because it was precisely what he was aiming for. “Since when has your ass been the private and exclusive property of Switzerland?”
That would have been too much even for a less patient and tolerant guy than Rafael Nadal. He turned around abruptly, dropping his bag on the ground, and before Novak could think about the consequences of his own words, Rafa was on top of him. He grabbed Novak by the collar of his sweatshirt with both hands and pushed him against the locker behind him with a metallic crash so loud it drowned out Novak's moan of pain and surprise. His green eyes widened with astonishment and alarm, his breathing quickened, while his whole body, under the pressure of Rafa's, tensed in an instinctive defensive reaction. But not only that...
“What do you want from me, maldición?” Rafa growled in his face. It was definitely strange for Novak to see him so angry, so far from the usual Rafa; at the same time he felt invincibly fascinated, seduced, by this new side of the Spaniard that he himself had brought out. "What the hell do you want from me, Nole? What I have to do to make you leave me alone?”
"Exactly what you're doing now," Novak whispered, his tone very low in stark contrast to Rafa's exasperated roar. “Touch me. Hold me close. Make me feel your skin.”
The brutal sincerity in Novak's words was so unmistakable that, despite his great punching-bag face, Rafa’s anger faltered. Caught off guard again, he imperceptibly loosened his grip on Novak's collar, still he didn't let go. He stared fiercely at him, as if he was trying to decipher something hidden behind Novak’s face.
"Sometimes I'd like to know what’s going in your head," he muttered. "There's something wrong with you, Nole.”
“Me?” Novak chuckled. "There's got to be something wrong with you too, since you’re desperately in love with a man who only calls you up to get his own bed warm when he's on tour and his wife’s not around...”
“Shut up!” said Rafa, this time almost screaming. When he realized, he hastily lowered his voice before some snoop rushed to see what the hell all the fuss was about inside the locker room. "I don't want to hear you talk about Roger, okay?"
"Your trust in him is so blind that it’s almost touching," Novak said, gritting his teeth when Rafa tugged at his shirt sending his head bang rather painfully against the locker. "I already told you that you're as stubborn as a mule, Rafa. But you're also as stupid as a mule, if you refuse to acknowledge that Roger doesn't give a fuck about you...”
Rafa closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply through his nose. He lowered his head and counted to ten in his mind, his hands still clasped around Novak's sweatshirt, his whole body trembling from head to toe with a pent-up rage that was desperately trying to get out.
Novak was so impressed by Rafa’s almost insane self-control that he found himself at a loss for words, for a change. For a moment, he felt like he was in Rafa's head and he could almost hear Toni's words echoing through the walls of his nephew’s skull - warning him, urging him to be the better man. Being raised with such discipline, no wonder the kid had come such a long way from his little Mediterranean island to wind up climbing the ATP rankings in just a few years.
"Truly amazing," Novak murmured, giving voice to his inner thoughts. “I’m really going all out to get on your nerve, Rafa, and you’re still proving to be above all of this.” He slowly shook his head, staying otherwise motionless in Rafa's grasp like a fly in a spider's web. Except that he was the one who had woven it, not the other way around. "You're not human, you just aren't. Anyone in your place would have lost it for much less.”
Rafa didn't move for a long minute. His shoulders relaxed eventually, as he took the last deep breath in a long series.
“What I don't understand”, he began, and his voice sounded hollow, a little exhausted, “is why you always make me angry like this. It’s like you do it on purpose to get punched or something…”
Novak flashed him a crooked smile. “I already told you: I do it because it's the only way to get your attention. To get to touch you.”
If Novak thought he would embarrass the Spaniard by saying so, he was mistaken. This time Rafa didn’t blush or roll his eyes. He looked up and stared at Novak for endless minutes, defiantly yet unwaveringly. They engaged in a silent struggle until all the veils that concealed Novak’s soul fell one by one, revealing, like in a clean mirror, his raw, naked feelings – the ones of which he was so ashamed.
"You’re very good at playing the bad guy,” Rafa said. “But, if you wanted, you could be so much better than that, you know.”
"Don't you dare lecture me, damn it," Novak growled. "Not you. You didn't want me even when I showed you my true self - my best self -, Rafa. Now you're getting my worst. You brought it on yourself.”
Rafa was thoughtfully silent for a few seconds. He shook his head eventually, his expression sad all of a sudden. "That's not the truth. When I said no to you, I didn't think that you’d… turn into this… angry thing.”
"Of course you didn’t." Novak laughed bitterly again. "How could you imagine that? You've never been turned down yourself, Rafa. Until now, at least.” A flash of cruel joy crossed Novak’s eyes and vanished. "Maybe you met your match, with Federer. He just gives you what you deserve. On the other hand, he definitely doesn’t deserve what you’re giving to him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rafa was instantly annoyed by Novak’s arrogance, again. With him, he was constantly swinging between guilt and anger, sadness and frustration. “How about you? What do you think you deserve?” he said in a challenging tone.
"A kiss," Novak replied roughly and without thinking twice. His expression changed, becoming dark and heavy with deep emotion; his voice drop to a whisper. "I’m sure I deserve at least one kiss from you, Rafael.”
Rafa's pupils dilated imperceptibly and then narrowed again within a second. Novak was being attentive with every inch of himself to the tiniest reaction from Rafa that might betray his deepest emotions. Yet, if he hadn’t been so close to the Spaniard, he wouldn’t have noticed, so quickly it happened.
Novak had taken Rafa aback for the umpteenth time that evening. But the fact that Rafa was still there, that he hadn't let him go yet, that he hadn't just turned his back and walked out on him scornfully, kept a tiny spark of hope in him from being extinguished for good.
“So you mean one kiss and you leave me alone?” Rafa said, raising an eyebrow warily. Novak nodded without adding a word. "How can I be sure that you want no more?"
Novak leaned the back of his head against the locker and burst out laughing, a hoarse laugh. This time he seemed genuinely amused. He paused and swallowed a lump of saliva, clearing his throat.
"You're so naïve. Of course I would still want more. I'll always want more from you, Rafa. Face it. But, at least, I might consider stopping hassling you about Roger…”
“I’m giving you nothing more, you face it,” murmured Rafa. "But a kiss..." He paused for a moment, a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows while pondering. "I don't think a kiss costs me too much.”
The reaction was not the expected one. Novak must have read something in Rafa's unfiltered gaze that he didn't like, because he clenched his jaws tightly and reached out to wrap his hand in Rafa's shirt, pulling Rafa to him by the front of it, almost making their respective foreheads collide.
"Let's make one thing clear, Rafael," he said through gritted teeth, every word an outburst of anger. "It's not your pity that I want. I don't know what to do with that. I don't want you to kiss me because you feel sorry for me. I'd rather be kicked by you, or defeated by you in the French Open finals ten years in a row than settle for your compassion, you understand me?”
Rafa held his gaze blinking, but didn’t react. He looked sort of dumbstruck. "Yes, I understand," he said simply.
“Good.” Novak let go of his shirt and stared at Rafa’s lips as he had done a little while before, with the same desire, only this time tinged with an equally intense rage. "Now show me what the Swiss taught you. C’mon.”
Rafa hesitated. He loosened his fists, but didn’t pull his hands away from Novak. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes wandered over Novak's shirt, as if they didn't quite know where to go. Then, slowly, as if in spite of himself, they were drawn upwards, meeting first Novak’s gaze — burning with hatred and suppressed desire — and then, finally, his mouth.
"C'mon, we don’t have all day," Novak grumbled, but his heart pulse had already sped up dangerously in his chest, making his blood throb in his veins and his ears rumble with it like a clap of thunder.
He was trying not to let it show in front of Rafa, of course, struggling to keep his composure, but he was on the brink. All Rafa had to do was to take one step forward, making his body collide with Novak’s, and he would feel, in all its unmistakable and painful explicitness, how much the Serb’s body was longing for him.
Novak would have died of humiliation, in that case.
But he could have died even if Rafa had kept on doing what he was so good at: that is, jerk. Stalling, fooling around any longer, instead of getting down to it. Prolonging Novak’s agony - of which Rafa was so blissfully unaware. It was up to the Serbian to break the ice.
His turn to serve, his way of course.
"You stupid, stubborn donkey," Novak hissed through his teeth.
“What do you say?” Rafa looked at him quizzically, because Novak had said it in Serbian.
“That you’re a dumbass” repeated Novak, in English this time.
Rafa frowned. "Hey, you're insulting me?”
"Sì, burro estúpido," said Novak, switching to Spanish. “It’s just like with the donkeys. You learn only the hard way, don’t you?”
He had picked up the right language to send Rafa over the edge, eventually. In fact, Rafa made him shut up exactly the way Novak wanted: with his mouth.
He smashed it against Novak’s, angrily at first, eager to avenge the insult – and everything that had gone before – but then his gentle nature took over and the pressure of his mouth subsided, his lips softened, his jaws relaxed. Rafa suddenly became aware of how still Novak had gone against him. He was as still as a statue, yet his whole body was tense and vital, as if getting ready to fight back. Rafa only absentmindedly registered the detail; he was completely focused, indeed, on the feeling that he was kissing a man's mouth that was not Roger's, for the first time in quite a while. It tasted so new to him – it was unsettling and thrilling at the same time.
Rafa’s tactile memory immediately kicked in, making comparisons, finding differences. After the initial impetus, he was somewhat overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity and awkwardness of the feeling. He couldn’t deceive his own body. It knew what it really wanted – whom it really wanted – and that made all the difference. Novak sensed Rafa’s hesitation even before his mouth - which had been pressed against his own for only a glorious handful of seconds - pulled away, its warmth fading in a choked gasp.
Rafa turned his face away to look at him. Novak caught an unexpected flash of guilt in Rafa's eyes, his expression almost pained.
"Sorry," Rafa said, in a hoarse voice, swallowing loudly.
That was enough to make Novak lose his little temper.
"Sorry, my ass," he protested harshly. “You do piss me off, you know?” He had the ruthless look of someone who makes no concessions. "Are you fucking with me, Rafa? Don't even think I'm settling for that.”
A jolt of exasperated anger flickered in Rafa's eyes. "You said you wanted a kiss. Well, you had it” he said flatly.
“A kiss, indeed. Not this sop you just gave me. I'm sure you can do better than that, cariño. Or am I supposed to think that the great Federer isn't all that great kisser?”
“You talking about Roger again?” Rafa snorted. “You just can’t help it, can you?" Rafa paused and shot Novak a burning look. "What makes you so sure that he was the one to teach me, anyway? I’m not a baby. I’ve had a life even before meeting Roger, you know?”
It was Novak turn, now, to grin and roll his eyes in disbelief. “Are you trying to convince me or just yourself?”
"You know what, Nole? I think you’re just being an asshole as usual,” said Rafa. “Fuck you. I’m leaving.”
But before he could take even a single step back, Novak's hand reached up to grab him by the back of his head, forcing him to stay in place. They stared at each other for long moments, panting, both being angry and upset, though for different reasons.
"Rafa, listen to me," Novak said. His green eyes were wider than usual, so much so that they gave Rafa shivers. He almost looked like a madman. "Listen to me. I want you to kiss me the way you would kiss Roger. I want you to close your eyes and pretend, just for a little while, that I'm him. Show me, Rafa. Let me feel what it's like to be King Roger for five fucking minutes.”
"But-" Novak silenced Rafa’s protest by clawing at the back of his head with his long nervous fingers, pulling him a few inches closer, until he found himself breathing right over his mouth.
“No excuses. Just do it.”
Novak slowly let go of Rafa’s head, his gaze still locked to his. He was shaking all over his body, and he hoped Rafa wouldn't notice. He blinked several times to chase away tiny droplets of sweat that were running down his forehead and waited - secretly hoping.
Endless moments of terror and doubt seemed to pass over Rafa's face. He was probably feeling cornered and beginning to think that the easiest way out would be just giving Novak what he pleaded for. Otherwise, he wouldn’t get out of that locker room anytime soon.
So, swallowing loudly, Rafa closed his eyes. He let all the air out of his lungs and eventually brought his face close to Novak's again.
Novak didn't close his eyes, however. For nothing in the world would he miss the show.
As if in slow motion, he saw Rafa's face getting closer and closer; he felt his sharp cheekbone gently bumping against his as Rafa tilted his face to the right in such a way as to find the perfect angle for their lips to match without effort.
Novak's lips were already parted when Rafa brushed them with his own. A second later, before Novak could fully start to realize what was happening, Rafa was pressing down his mouth on his, harder, shaping it against his to form a tangled knot of throbbing muscles and desperate desire that set the Serbian on fire.
He didn’t have the time to do anything because Rafa's tongue was already forcing its way through his teeth, pushing into his mouth and searching for his tongue. Novak felt his whole body covered in sweat; he felt cold first, then hot, hotter and hotter.
When the tip of Rafa's tongue stroked his own, Novak stopped breathing for a second. It wasn’t a casual or shy touch: actually, it was peremptory and demanding. At the same time Rafa’s jaw muscles twitched, pushing Novak to open his mouth even wider to give him free access all the way inside.
Novak felt boneless and helpless. All at once, he finally got what he wanted but didn’t know what to do. He was so overwhelmed with sensations that he felt dizzy, and almost scared to move and make the magic fade away. It was like a daydream from which he never wanted to wake up.
That’s why he didn’t dare make a single move or sound. However, when Rafa's hands let go of his shirt and reached up to cling to his neck, a desperate moan that Novak recognized as his own resounded through the air, breaking the rhythm of their strangled breaths.
For a few moments, Novak tried to fight back, to return blow for blow, but he had never found himself involved in such a difficult game, not even on the court. Rafa seemed to be everywhere and Novak didn't stand a chance against him – just like on clay. Rafa was almost literally demolishing him with the same instinctive, natural and systematic violence that he showed on his favorite surface – that had nothing violent about it in truth, or at least nothing that Novak had not wanted against himself, for himself.
How many times, indeed, had he thought about this, desperate for Rafa to give in! And how many times had he been disappointed and hurt and frustrated by yet another refusal. And yet, to think that all he needed to do was to say Roger's name to enjoy that glimmer of Paradise was a true nonsense, since Roger was the person he would have liked to see end up in hell more than anyone else.
So, that’s what it feels like to be Roger , he thought. Just like a dream.
But there was no room to think about Roger now. What Rafa was doing to him, in fact, was making Novak’s blood boil in his veins with every passing second. He was having a very hard time holding back his excitement, feeling all at once like a teenager again, going through a hormonal storm. Novak knew that what was happening wasn't going to happen again anytime soon; in fact, it might never happen again. Therefore, he felt the need to treasure every single feeling, so that he could remember them one by one in the future, when he would miss it terribly.
Novak didn't realize he was stroking the back of Rafa's neck until he found himself clutching his fingers in his hair. When Rafa bit his bottom lip, Novak instinctively tugged at his locks, squeezing a low growl from Rafa’s lips and making him pull away, panting. Novak didn't protest only because he needed a break to catch his own breath: he had spent the last twenty seconds in total apnea, invaded by the Spaniard's tongue, teeth and mouth.
As always, as soon as he found his mouth free, he couldn't help but sink his blow.
"It looks like King Roger is a master off the court too," he said, mockingly. "Maybe I could turn a blind eye and stand him touching you, if that brings this kind of advantages."
Rafa looked at him, mindlessly licking the taste off his own lips in a way that made something twist in Novak’s belly rather painfully.
“To become the best, you have to learn from the best,” Rafa recited calmly. “Toni always says that. It's just like tennis, no?”
“Still, I hate that you're with him,” said Novak, turning deadly serious in a blink. He hesitated, visibly struggling to overcome his natural reserve and, for once, let the heart speak. “You know what? I'd give up any chance of winning my next hardcourt season so I wouldn't see you crawling back to him, wagging your tail, as soon as he acknowledges your existence." Novak paused. He bit his lip, shaking his head. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. My father would just kill me.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,” said Rafa.
Novak looked sideways at him; his own out-of-the-blue confession made him feel like a shy kid.
“God, I can't believe you do with him what you just did with me. All the fucking time, moreover.”
“No, not all the time” Rafa corrected, dreary. “Just… often, yes. Whenever we can. But it’s not easy. It’s…” He trailed off and looked away, shaking his head.
“It was good, by the way” said Novak abruptly, looking at Rafa without any trace of shyness now. “I’d do it with you over and over again. I loved it. Very much.”
"Yeah," Rafa said slowly, and a pale smile curved his lips upwards. "Too much, maybe.”
Novak's hollow cheeks turned a pale pink at those words. On one hand, he was glad that Rafa was no longer pressed against him, even though it was too late to pretend any longer he didn’t want him - his body had clearly spoken for itself. Yet pretending was the only thing that had ever made him feel safe, since he was a little child.
On the other hand, he already missed the touch, the warmth, the fierceness… It had all lasted too short, and yet it had left him all messed up as if he had been run over by a train.
For a few seconds Novak and Rafa just looked at each other, wrapped in everything that was left unsaid between them.
Rafa was the first to speak. "I have to go now," he said, breaking the silence. "I had come to take a shower, but I think I better take it at the hotel now."
“Yeah, sounds like a good idea to me” Novak mumbled, in a sort of dreamy tone. He reached up and ran a hand over his face, clearing his thoughts.
Meanwhile, Rafa had turned on his heel and was slowly walking away towards the door.
“How can you be so in control?” Novak cried after him. Rafa almost seemed anxious to get rid of him, and that hurt Novak more than he wanted to admit. Especially when his own knees, on the other hand, were still shaking with nervousness, and his shorts were still too tight for him to leave the locker room without anyone noticing his arousal.
Rafa paused to pick up for the second time the duffel with all his stuff he had dropped before and turned, glaring at Novak over his shoulder.
"I don’t know. I am this way,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Nole eyed him in silence for a few seconds. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said at last. A faint smile wavered on his lips. “I guess you're one of the very few people who really are what they seem. A true rarity.”
“Hey! Is that a compliment or…?” Rafa trailed off, a big smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Certainly not, don’t brag” Novak cut off, but he had to look away not to smile back automatically. “I can’t call you stupid donkey and then give you compliments in the same evening, don’t you think?”
Rafa pretended to think about it. “Ok, if you say so…”
“Where do you think you’re going, anyway?” Novak interrupted again. “You think we’re done?”
Rafa looked astonished, although he tried to be polite and calm when he spoke. “I told you," he said slowly, as if he was talking to a dumb child. "I gave you what you wanted, Nole. Now I go home.”
It was not a question or a request for permission, just a statement of fact.
It was not the first time that the honest and logic way with which Rafa’s mind worked left Novak breathless and nearly in awe. It was completely different from his own tortuous reasoning, from his constant effort to put on a front. That’s why it was so hard for him to stay mad at Rafa.
“So… one kiss, that's it?”
To his surprise, Rafa didn’t get angry or yell at him, accusing him to break his promises once again. Indeed, he shook his head softly, peering at him with a thoughtful gaze that seemed to dig a hole in Novak’s soul.
“It wasn't just a kiss that you wanted, Nole,” he whispered. “You wanted to feel what it's like to be Roger, no? You asked me to make you feel it and that's exactly what I did.”
“Yes, you did. And you did it well” Novak admitted, almost reluctantly. “But just for five minutes, that’s all. Five fucking minutes.”
“Five fucking minutes, yeah” Rafa repeated and nodded, a bit impatiently. "You can’t ask for more.” He looked at Novak who was standing across the room with dangling arms. “You won’t ask me for more, Nole, and I will do the same. Okay? Do we have a deal?”
He retraced his steps, walking up to Novak with his right hand stretched out in front of himself. Novak looked down, considering it for a few seconds, before finally reaching out and shaking it.
“You always try to make deals with me that you know I will break as soon as I can. I wonder why you insist on trying to find some good in me,” Novak murmured under his breath. “I’m no good, Rafa. Just stop trying, it’s unnerving.”
Rafa’s smile got wider. “Look who’s talking. Unnerving…. Really?”
Novak chuckled, but then Rafa resumed speaking.
“There are many things that people are ashamed to ask. But you did, today. You asked me. You were brave.”
“What I asked you…” Nole hesitated, frowning. “It was unjustifiable. I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be” said Rafa hastily. “No shame in it. After all, we all want to be Roger, in one way or another. You too, Nole, even if you’d rather die than admit it. I understand that.”
Novak couldn’t think of anything sharp to say. Speechless with amazement, he watched Rafa smile reassuringly at him one last time, then turn around and slip through the locker room door, silently closing it behind him.
Left alone, he listened to a ticking sound coming from an unknown place in the otherwise suddenly quiet room. It went on also after the labored rumbling of blood in Novak’s ears subsided, his heartbeat slowed down and his breathing went steady again, all his basal functions returning to normal.
Novak slowly pulled away from the locker he'd been pressed against all that time. He felt his bones bruised under his clothes and he couldn’t tell if that’s because of the prolonged contact with the hard metal of the locker door or with Rafa’s almost as hard body. When Novak had provoked him, he was sure he could grab the bull by the horns and easily get the upper hand. Unfortunately, he had miscalculated.
He slowly turned around and rested the palm of his hand against the locker. It was warm. The metal must have absorbed the heat directly from his skin, from his sweat. As he stood there with his hand against the locker door, Novak's mind was filled with flashes of what had just happened. All the sensations came back to the surface all together, all at once. While he had to make an effort to push them away, he almost immediately gave up untangling the knot of conflicting emotions connected to those sensations. Anger, desire, hatred, envy, jealousy, selfishness, disappointment, bitterness, frustration, betrayal, despair...
It was all too much for just one evening. For just one man.
With his head down and dragging his feet - so differently from the Novak who had showed up in the locker room earlier, - he gathered his things and turned off the lights before leaving. While he walked away, heading home, his thought didn’t cease to haunt him.
Rafa was right: he got what he wanted, he should be happy.
Yet, in the deepest, he felt like he didn’t really get what he wanted.
Did he really want to be Roger?
Or did he just want to have Rafa?
What did Novak wanted for himself now?
The answer still eluded him. But thankfully, he had plenty of time ahead to think about it.
Not just five fucking minutes.
“And I wanna cry
I wanna learn to love
But all my tears have been used up
On another love
Another love
All my tears have been used up”
Tom Odell, Another Love
End