Archive of Our Own

Roger couldn't really tell when it had started - when Rafa had begun to slip away from him, to no longer be his. 

Maybe it had started with that iconic Wimbledon final, the first one Rafa had snatched from him. Or maybe, with that single Roland Garros that Roger had won, taking revenge in his own way against the Swedish guy who had beaten Rafa earlier during the tournament. 

But, more likely, it had started way earlier – and he just hadn't noticed. 

Looking for the milestone that had marked the beginning of everything - now, more than twenty years later,  - was as meaningless as trying to reverse the direction of a river. In fact, the more Roger tried to stop time, the more it flowed like free water between his trembling fingers. The more he rummaged through his mind for unmistakable signs he had missed, the more his memory betrayed him, and whole pieces of his past seemed to crumble and vanish without a trace.

It was as if Rafa was doing his best to make Roger forget about him and their shared past – those few, beautiful years when they had secretly experienced first the unexpected birth, then the catastrophic imploding of their fatal love. Even back then, while things were still unfolding between them but Roger had made already clear what his priorities were at that time, Rafa had tried to do exactly the same as he does now: fading out of Roger’s life on tiptoes - not speaking to him, avoiding him at training sessions and press conferences, not answering his calls…

 Until showing up hand in hand with that girl one day, and without notice…  

At the time, the woman who would later become Rafa’s wife and the mother of his child didn't yet have a name for Roger – he refused even to read about the two lovebirds in the newspapers, even though he couldn't help but peek at the photos, sometimes. (Rafa looked always gorgeous, and so did she – sweet smile, very Mediterranean type, but…- is this what you really want, Rafa, are you serious?!) 

Roger's thoughts stopped at the edge of the precipice every single time. Whenever he was feeling his heart start beating too fast, he would take a deep breath and force himself to calm down. He bit his lips and did something else. Back in those days, his distractions were as numerous as leaves on a branch. Last but not least, Mirka's increasingly rounded belly made a fine show of itself, refusing to be dismissed as the mirage of something still too far away to be real. 

Roger’s impending fatherhood was all too real, instead. As real as Rafa, on the other hand, was getting more and more distant and elusive – almost a ghost that Roger's hands first, his eyes later, seemed no longer able to reach.

§

But, come to think of it, maybe it had started even earlier. 

§

In hindsight, Roger believed he could point out the exact moment when the veil had fallen from Rafa's loving eyes and he had finally seen Roger for what he truly was - the man behind the legend; someone human, all too human. That’s when the myth of Rafa’s childhood, which he had dreamed to emulate growing up, had collapsed to pieces.

It must have happened in that hotel room. That memory was indelibly carved in Roger’s soul. 

It was Rafa's room, and the year was 2008. From the windows overlooking the balcony you could see a blue sky, a little blurring on the horizon, and the irregular outline of several skyscrapers. Further down, Roger remembered even more blue – the sea, this time – and palm trees, so the place must have been Miami. 

That means that, on the big tennis timetable, it had happened after Indian Wells, but before Monte Carlo. 

Nothing in that clear blue sky suggested the impending catastrophe that was going to occur – actually, the worst defeats often play out quietly. 

That fatal morning Roger had woken up and, for the first time since they had been sharing the bed, Rafa was not by his side. He was out there on the balcony, staring at the sea, turning his back to him. Turning his back to him and staring at the sea. He hadn’t moved when he had heard Roger's footsteps approach him, his arm sliding around his waist, marking a possession that Roger unconsciously felt he was already starting to lose. 

Rafa's expression was strangely blank. Roger, at the time, had attributed it to the tension of the upcoming final against Davydenko. Still, Roger knew Miami wasn't one of Rafa's biggest targets of the season, as competitive as he was, so it couldn't justify his bad mood. Rafa had gone to get him some coffee, or so he had said, with his usual impeccable courtesy, and even though Roger had been tickled by the doubt that it was an excuse to move away from him, he had hesitated to ask Rafa a direct question - ask him what was wrong, for example - because he feared the answer. 

When Rafa had got back, Roger’s phone had rung almost at the same time and, without even needing to read the name on the screen, he had known it was Mirka. He couldn't ignore Mirka. He could never ignore Mirka. 

So Roger had pulled away his arm, slipped back into his clothes and, right after, with the same timeless grace, out the door. 

I'll call you, it was the last broken promise he'd made to Rafa. 

The last one, because from that moment on Rafa wouldn't ask him to make promises anymore. 

§

Roger doesn't know why, after all this time, he can't get rid of this particular memory, among all those that have marked his endless tug of war with Rafa. 

Twenty years have passed. Rafa left him a long time ago, and they both left tennis. This is their present now, whether they like it or not. And it should be too late to even dig up the past.

§

Roger is sitting alone in the hotel’s deserted lobby. It’s pretty much dark inside; the man at the front desk has left only a small light on behind the counter under which he is blissfully snoring, like a man unaware of what the world's problems might be. And what should he be worried about, anyway? Manacor is quiet and safe at this time of night - or, better, early morning, - so he can certainly afford to sit back and chill out a bit.

Roger envies him greatly. How he wishes he could do the same! He wishes he could swap his life for someone else's - anyone else’s - right now, so that he doesn't suffer as he is suffering now. 

But he can’t. He’s bound to be himself - Roger fucking Federer - even when he least wants to be. And that’s why there can be no peace for him at the moment.

He feels like what happened a few hours ago is still happening, somehow - right here, right now, before his eyes and inside his head. 

Roger feels like he’s just left Rafa's party. 

Just talked to Novak, and to Rafa himself. 

Argued with both of them. 

Almost punched one in the face, almost threw money in the other's face.  

Of the two men, one says he loves him – the other probably just hates his guts. 

They both hurt him; he hurt them both. 

He’s reliving the scenes over and over again in his head now, wondering if this is all his fault - and how he couldn’t see this coming.

Slumped in the leather armchair of the lobby, alone and in the dark, Roger runs a hand over his face and takes a few sips of whiskey. He came out of the party almost drunk; he was already far too sober by the time he was back to the hotel. 

The last thing he wanted was to be left alone - and sober - with all sort of unbearable thoughts haunting him. So he promised the taxi driver a little extra to drive him to the nearest off-license to buy some more whiskey before dropping him off at the entrance of the hotel and leaving him to his fate.

Except that he must have forgotten his wallet somewhere, because the only thing he found in his pocket when it was time to pay was the bill that Rafa returned to him: it was a little crumpled; yet, he could still smell Rafa on it and that was bad enough for his poor heart.

Roger scraped together half a dozen mini bottles of whiskey - as many as he could with the money he had - and literally flew away to drown his sorrow somewhere more discreet. 

“Well, ehm… would you take a check? I have no cash. And no credit cards with me.” The look of disbelief on the taxi driver’s face is the last thing Roger remembered before getting out of the cab, that peeled out in the blink of an eye. It gave him also an accurate idea of how absurd and pathetic the whole situation was. 

Absurd and pathetic - that’s exactly what he feels like right now, sitting with all his mini bottles of liquor lined up on the glass table in front of himself. He emptied the first one a few minutes ago and now he’s beginning to gulp down the second in a row.

It’s all about some relentless revenge he’s taking against himself and his own stupidity. He’s done this before, he just never learns.

Roger drinks. 

Alcohol runs through his veins; he hopes it would wash away the poison of Novak’s words, but it’s too late. Every word of the Serb’s confession swirls relentlessly in Roger’s mind, while the memory of Rafa's sort of guilty look tears his heart in two. 

Who to believe of the two? Who is telling the truth, who is lying? (Who would you save? And who would you throw from the tower? He remembers playing that game as a child - it’s unsettling when you realize how perverse many of the childish games are when you grow up and try to play them again.)

Roger drinks. 

Roger has never lost control; he’s famous for that.

Or maybe he did, but only a few times; nothing compares to this slow, long suicide he is committing, this punishment he is inflicting to himself.

His phone is resting on the table in front of him, behind the row of small bottles, two of which are already empty by now. The screen remains impassively dark. 

This may be the moment, God, to send him a signal of your presence, a proof of your existence. Sometimes a man needs some help to believe, especially when it's too late to even start with.

When the screen suddenly lights up, for a magic, ephemeral moment Roger really thinks that it could be God, sending through a message from up there in Heaven, and he feels like crying. 

Then he reads Mirka's name on the screen.

Roger knows well that there are only a few seconds between Heaven and Hell (the time of a sigh, of a wasted match point - like that forehand dropping in the net, and Rafa collapsing to the ground, screaming with joy and then getting up victorious on his beloved clay) … and what is Hell for one can be Heaven for another. 

So Mirka is calling. Roger wonders if she just woke up and saw his half of the bed still empty. Or did she never fall asleep, restless as she was after the party, waiting for him to come back? After all, he promised her to return soon, and he never did. 

(The man who never keeps his word.) 

Leaving Roger alone with Rafa has never made Mirka feel comfortable – and who can blame her, by the way? She had every reason to be worried, back in the day. She also had every reason to leave Roger after she found out about him and Rafa, but she never did. 

Neither then nor later. Never. 

(The woman who always keeps her promises.)

Roger watches his phone vibrate silently on the smooth glass of the coffee table. A few steps away, the desk clerk is still snoring placidly, oblivious to everything may happen around himself. And again, Roger would gladly exchange his own life for his, get out of himself, stop being the man who should pick up the phone now, press the right button and do the right thing. For once. 

An infinite amount of time seems to pass before Mirka gives up, and stops trying to get through to him. The screen goes dark again; Roger's heart rumbles dully in his chest at a slower and slower pace. He searches his soul for any sense of guilt, like he’s been used to doing for a long time. But this time he feels so little like himself he can’t even recognize himself anymore. 

He just hopes Mirka won’t get out of bed and go look for him at Rafa's house. That's something that the old Mirka could have done. Her current version, anyway, - four children and almost twenty years of marriage later – just won’t. 

There are things - like people - that do not change in time, while others simply do. Rafa is definitely among the first ones, for Roger, while Mirka belongs to the second.

Yet, Mirka still calls him in the middle of the night, when she wakes up and Roger’s not there. Roger never thought he deserved this woman. She follows him, like a good hound who loves his master or who is accustomed to his presence. She knows he needs her, and that’s enough for her. 

(It wasn’t enough for Rafa, though.) 

Again, Roger thinks he should have done the same with Rafa - following him, hunting him down to prevent him from trying to escape - before losing him. Starting with that morning in Miami: April 2008, already 32 degrees outside and 26 inside, in the air-conditioned room of the hotel – when the empty mattress next to him had been a warning signal (the first of many) that he had just ignored. 

He had thought that Rafa – like Mirka – wasn't going anywhere without him, that he would just stay there, at his disposal, for when Roger wanted him again. 

That’s why “I'll call you”, he had said as he left to go back to Mirka - and never did.

Now Roger knows that life takes its toll even if it takes years. Probably, everything between them started to go to shit then and everything is ending up now as well - with him, the great Roger Federer, drowning in jealousy and regret, crushed between Novak’s killer tongue and Rafa’s surprising sincerity.

If Roger concentrates, he thinks he can hear, above the dark throbbing of blood in his ears, scraps of the conversation he just had with Rafa; his own tone desperate and aggressive, while Rafa’s a little more subdued and embarrassed. 

"... You're the one he asked to get laid… Did he or didn’t he?”

"... You seem to already know… He was being very insistent…” 

“… I guess I don’t need to know anything else…”

“… It didn't go the way you think, Roger. Believe me."

The alcohol is making him sweat, so he undoes the collar of his shirt. His temples are wet, but so are his cheeks - he finds out when he runs a hand over his face. 

But he's not crying. It's just too hot in there. He’s not crying. 

It's hot and it's practically dark, and he's sitting – abandoned – like a dead weight in the nondescript armchair of an unknown hotel in a foreign country. And he's lonely and drunk, he lost his tie and his wallet and yes, he’s fucking crying, and that's as down as a man like him can get, a man who has practically only known ups in life. 

(The higher you climb, the more you hurt yourself when you fall - the old saying always proves to be true.)

Roger is the epitome of a man who got everything out of life - except the one thing he loved most. Which is not a thing. Which is not tennis. 

Maybe he deserved all this, says a little foul voice in his head. For what he did to Mirka, for what he did to Rafa. For what he did to his own children even before they were born.

Roger doesn't think, in all honesty, that he's done a lot of bad things in his life. And, of the few he has committed, the only one he does not regret is that he almost punched Novak Djokovic in the face, earlier that evening. On the contrary, with his blood boiling with anger and his brain floating on the alcohol, he wishes fiercely now he could go back in time to that balcony and this time not stop at the broken glass of wine or at his fist around the lapel of Novak’s jacket. 

No, he wants more.

He would like to hear the comforting sound of his right fist crashing into the Serbian's bony jaw, the crunch of the cracking bone, the soft thud of the lip crushing under the impact of the teeth. He would like to see red blood stain Novak’s pristine white starched shirt. Wipe that obnoxious smirk from his wolf-like face.

After years and years of mutual hatred, cordially detesting each other - all too politely - across the net, rackets in hand, with forced hypocrisy, now… fuck it all. Flesh on flesh, face to face, is what it takes. Settle this a little like men, a little like beasts. 

Roger is still contemplating the opportunity he missed with Novak when the screen of his phone lights up again. And again he is tempted to ignore it, as he has just done with Mirka – as he could never have done with Mirka once. Perhaps, he himself is part of the things that time has changed, after all. Not only her. 

Only this time it's not Mirka. 

§

Roger deciphers the name on the display with blurred vision. Although his heart has instantly somersaulted and then begun to dictate a cheerful allegro con brio rhythm, like a Beethoven symphony, Roger remains seated still in his chair, trying to keep his hands steady, one around the bottle of whisky, the other on the armrest. Batting his wet eyelashes, staring at the glowing screen, every breath he takes through his clenched teeth is a painful hiss.

Roger holds on. 

Drinks.

He doesn't know exactly what to do. He’s actually panicking, even if he doesn't let it show on the outside, as usual.

So he waits. 

Drinks again.

But if he thinks Rafa will give up as easily as Mirka did, he is very wrong.

Three minutes pass, then five, then thirteen - his wristwatch doesn't fool him. 

The incoming calls show no sign of stopping; maybe they just won't.

Maybe Rafa will hang up for a moment, but then he'll try again. In half an hour, three hours, twelve hours. Until he gets an answer. Because Novak was right when he said once that Rafa is like a stubborn fucking mule: when he gets a goal into his head you have to pass over his dead body to get him to desist. Roger has known this all along, long before Novak and his more or less accurate definitions; he learned it the hard way with Rafa, game after game, match after match.

As expected, a few seconds after the calls stop, a message flashes across the screen. 

“Roger… if you don't answer within five minutes, I’ll call the police.” 

And then: “No kidding.” 

Roger lets out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. What, he doesn't even have the right to be left alone, now? He is the victim here, good Lord. He may well decide not to answer if he does not want to. 

However, he knows that Rafa is no joke. One of the few certainties that has always accompanied him during his life is that Rafa always does what he says. 

So Roger knows that, from the exact moment he sent him the message, Rafa put his hand to the clock and started counting down, the way he usually does the things that matter the most to him - methodically bordering on maniacally.

Five minutes... four minutes... 

Roger can already see in his mind the patrols of Policía Municipal de Manacor parking in front of the hotel, waking Mirka up, asking her questions. Quickly finding him there, the headlights spotting the tremendous display of a Roger Federer like no one has ever seen before.

Rafa will surely call the police. Roger knows that he will. 

Three minutes... Two minutes... 

Roger hates Rafa's determination right now. He wishes he had shown some years ago, when their relationship was at stake. He wishes Rafa had run after him, convincing him not to marry Mirka. Wishes he had insisted, fought for him - for them.

(He knows, deep inside, that this is profoundly unfair - this, the most selfish thing he could conceive. Even when drunk, the honest part of him still knows this.)

And that's not all. He also wishes Rafa had that same determination a few weeks ago, when Novak slipped into his bed and Rafa didn't send him away.

Holy shit. 

If he goes on thinking about it, he could hurt himself, hurt someone, just to distract himself from that excruciating pain. 

It is on the spur of anger that arises from that last thought that Roger grabs his phone and presses the answer button without thinking. 

"Finally!" Rafa’s scream in his ear makes him startle. He has to pull the phone a few inches away so as not to become deaf. Still, Roger can hear pure relief in Rafa’s voice, sneaking under his exasperated tone. "Where the hell are you?" Rafa continues. "Mirka called me two hours ago, saying that you didn't go back to the hotel, that she tried to call you but you didn't answer. She thought you were still at my place, but I told her you weren’t. She wanted to call the hospital, the police... She thought you had an accident..."

"Well, there was an accident, indeed,” Roger says slowly, his tongue heavy but his voice throbbing with pent-up rage. "Just... not the kind of accident she may think."

Rafa pauses for a minute. Roger hears him inhale deeply and then let go of the trembling air from his lungs. His tone changes suddenly, the anger in his voice fading into a sincere, dull concern.

"Roger, are you okay? Where are you?”

Roger sniffles and shakes his head slowly, as if Rafa were in front of him, as if he could see him. 

"No," he says. “I’m not okay.” 

“Tell me where you are, I'll come and get you."

“No! Stay home, Rafa. Stay with your wife and child. That’s where you need to be. You don’t need to feel sorry for me..."

"Roger, por favor! Don't be an idiot!” Rafa snaps. He's so worried that he’s pissed again now. It's just so not Rafa to be so verbally aggressive that Roger, if he wasn't too drunk and pissed himself, would be stunned. "I'm in the car and I've been driving in circles around this fucking city for hours, looking for you. I'm almost there, at your hotel. I can get Mirka down so we can come and look for you together, if you really want to. If the police don't arrest me or I crash somewhere first, por Dios..."

A few stifled expletives follow, in a Spanish too fast for Roger to understand. 

For a few moments, Roger is tempted not to answer, to just hang up. That would be satisfying; childish and ephemeral, but satisfying. In Roger’s defense, he's never been so angry — and hurt — in his entire life. He's not sure he wants to see Rafa again after what he heard from him, about him. He's not sure he can stand his gaze, be close to his body again knowing that he had to share it with Novak Djokovic.

(Novak Djokovic… Don’t. Don’t think about it. Don’t.)

Partly, he wants to make Rafa pay for all the sorrow he’s feeling because of him. Partly, he doesn't know what to do with himself and how to cope with his own desperate need to be consoled. At the same time, it is from Rafa – and no one else - that his only comfort can come. He's the only person that Roger can bear to have close right now. Even though the explosive mix of alcohol and anger and pain makes the possible consequences of their meeting very unpredictable. 

“Please, leave Mirka out of it," Roger says, closing his eyes for a brief moment before finally taking his resolution. “I’m… I’m here in the hotel lobby. I’m alone."

He didn’t mean to sound so helpless. Rafa’s silence at the other end of the line seems to go on forever.

“And you stayed in the hotel lobby all this time without telling Mirka that you were there?!"

Roger rolls his head back against the armchair, feeling the nausea boil in his gut at those words. It’s the  guilt: it starts each time as a grip at the pit of his stomach, then it gets tighter and tighter until it becomes a fist that almost chokes his breath. 

"I didn't want her to see me like this," he mumbles, in a very low tone. "I can't deal with her in this state I’m in."

He feels like a child forced to justify himself in front of the teacher. Rafa's tone is – again - just a little softer, but still imperious.

"I’ve just parked outside your hotel. Are you going out or do I have to come inside and get you?"

Roger slowly pulls his phone away from his ear. Rafa is still in line. He watches the headlights of a car pulled up to the curb just outside the hotel's entrance glass doors. Blades of light filter into the foyer; even the placid desk clerk wakes up and casts an inquiring glance in that direction. 

Roger counts to ten before trying to get up. The whole world spins around him; he feels like he’s just stepped on a merry-go-round. 

"Are you all right, sir? Do you want me to call someone?" The man's voice seems to come from far, far away. Sometimes it's stronger, sometimes dimmer; distant and then close again, like the coming and going of an undertow.

Roger shakes his head in response, with a vague gesture of his hand. The only way not to fall is to look at a fixed point and focus on that. He has to move slowly - very slowly - avoiding any abrupt jerks, especially of his head, or he may risk throwing up. He feels like his brain is dipped in a jelly - sort of slowed down and dizzy.

The desk clerk stares worried at Roger as he cautiously crosses the foyer, heading outside. It seemingly takes him ages. When he trudges over the glass doors and glances at his own reflection, Roger hardly recognizes himself. 

Love can do horrible things to people.

Until a few minutes ago, he had no desire to see Rafa again. Actually, he would have liked to erase his name and his presence from the face of the earth, so as not to risk meeting him again. Yet, seeing Rafa's car parked outside with its headlights on, waiting for him, is like coming home from a long drive and finding your old dog jumping up at you, sniffing and licking you all over.

Home – that's what being with Rafa always felt like. Even when they were traveling on tour to the other side of the world, far from both Switzerland and Spain, being together meant exactly that. 

"Por Dios!" exclaims Rafa again, as he opens the driver’s door and rushes out to grab him, a moment before Roger stumbles across the asphalt. "What the hell happened to you?"

Love, Roger should say. Instead: “Whiskey,” is what he mumbles, because the former sounds too melodramatic. He narrows his eyes, wounded by the headlights of Rafa’s car. “Please… let me sit down for a moment, I promise I won't throw up in your car."

"You need to lie down in a quiet place for a while," Rafa says, escorting him – a little dragging him, actually – to his car. "I'll take you to my place. I guess..." he hesitates for a moment, "I guess you don't want to meet Mirka, right?"

Roger shakes his head in response. Rafa opens the back door and slowly accommodate him on the back seats. He takes off his own jacket and rolls it up like a pillow under the back of Roger’s neck to keep it up. 

"Do you feel like throwing up?" he asks anxiously. "I'll drive as slowly as I can, I promise."

Roger doesn't say anything; he's too busy trying to ignore the twitching in the pit of his stomach and the waves of cold sweat that are coming over him to answer.

Rafa doesn't get behind the wheel right away, though. He lifts his head and casts a thoughtful glance at the top floors windows of the hotel. He seems to meditate for a few seconds. "Wait a moment," he says. "Just a moment. I'll be right back, ok?”

He locks Rogers in the car and disappears. Roger hears the muffled sound of his footsteps on the pavement as he walks away, heading for the entrance of the hotel. He doesn't wonder what the hell Rafa is going to do; he doesn't even care, honestly. If it weren't for the dizziness and nausea, he would feel just fine inside Rafa's car that’s cool and silent, on the soft leather of the seats that smells of pine and new upholstery.

Thoughts flow lazily through his head. He was right: once again, it was enough for him to see Rafa's face – concerned and caring – to calm his anguish. The old mysterious magic still works, apparently. 

A few seconds later - or a few hours later; time loses its meaning when you're drunk as hell – Rafa returns. Roger hears the beep of the car being unlocked and the driver’s door open, the squeaking of the seat when Rafa drops into the driver's seat, and his sigh as he starts the engine.

“What did you do?" Roger asks, one arm over his eyes, the other dangling from his seat.

"I told Mirka," Rafa says simply, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "I told her you're alive, at least. And fine. And that you’re staying at my place tonight."

Roger almost laughs at the absurdity of the whole situation, but decides that for tonight it is better to avoid any more stress on his already troubled guts. Then another thought – an evil one – flashes through his mind, making any shadow of hilarity disappear, leaving him as cold as a stone. 

"... We went to his place. And I stayed the night..."

It stings. Like a needle in the chest. 

Will you let me stay just like you did with Novak? Part of him would like to ask Rafa, treacherously. 

Are you treating me like you treated him? Or do you treat him now like you used to treat me once?

Rafa and Novak. Novak and Rafa…  That’s what made Roger lose his mind, all his self-control going to hell in a blink.

"Don't you want to know what Mirka said?" Rafa asks, bringing Roger back to the present. He’s driving through the almost completely desert streets, occasionally glancing in the mirror. Roger realizes that Rafa's still dressed for the evening, just like he was when they parted in front of the taxi, a few hours ago. 

"What did she say?" Roger says obediently. 

"Not much. She wasn’t very happy."

Karma, Roger thinks. He doesn't quite know what the exact definition of the word is, but it's something that has always darkly attracted him. Roger knows that he might have misbehaved in the past, and that evil deeds  should be punished even just ideally, if there is any justice in this world at all. So part of him thinks he actually deserves all that’s happening: if Rafa did sleep with Novak, it would be a just punishment for himself, the one that’s been awaiting him since Miami 2008, when Rafa said enough and Roger fucked everything up as usual.  

You always reap what you sow - even if it takes twenty years.

That's the last coherent thought that crosses Roger’s mind while sleep washes over him. He murmurs a few more jumbled words before the total black-out.

He doesn't notice anything, neither the rest of the ride, nor when Rafa pulls over, gently turns him on his side to prevent him from accidentally choking on his own vomit, and only when he is sure he is safe, he sets off again, heading home. 

§

Roger comes back to his senses as someone is dragging him down a hallway and past a door. It is semi-dark, and when his head gently bumps into something soft, he lets out a moan of relief and hastily closes his eyes, for the world around him is still spinning like a top. Now he knows what a sock must feel in the washing machine - if only a sock could feel anything.

Roger himself is feeling no more and no less than a rag. He hears someone moving around him, making as little noise as possible. Even with his eyes closed, he knows it's Rafa. He recognizes his smell. He would recognize it even if a spell made him forget everything else, including his own name. 

Roger cautiously opens his eyes. He’s lying on a bed, and Rafa is crouched at his feet, taking off his shoes. His eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, focusing on the surroundings.

"This... this is your guest room," he says. “Isn’t it?”

Rafa looks up at him. "Thank God you’re awake. You don't know how hard it was to drag you out of the car and all the way here."

"My head is spinning," Roger mumbles. "My God."

He closes his eyes again. Rafa moves swiftly next to his head and slides a couple of pillows under his shoulders. 

"How you feeling?" he asks, his breath brushing against Roger's left ear.

"Like shit, thanks for asking,” Roger murmurs, trying to force a smile. He opens his eyes, but keeps his head as still as possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Rafa is now sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. 

Rafa reaches out and feels Roger’s forehead, a worried look on his face. “No fever, at least. You’re just… drunk.”

But some bad thoughts are crossing Roger’s mind right now, distracting him from Rafa’s care. He frowns, his eyes darkening. “Is this where Novak slept? Last time the two of you met up?” 

The question came out brutally, cutting the words in Rafa’s throat. Roger slowly shifts his gaze to meet Rafa’s, who looks utterly shocked now.

"Do you really want to talk about this, Roger? Really?”

"I hope you changed the sheets, at least" Roger continues ruthlessly, still looking at him.  

Rafa stares back. A grimace spreads on his clouded over face. “That’s not funny. I’m not laughing.” 

He's angry again; Roger doesn't remember ever seeing Rafa so mad at him in many years. He himself, in general, is not so obnoxiously passive-aggressive, but this time he can’t help it. This is an unusual situation, by the way - an emotional emergency, - and no one can expect him to maintain his usual savoir-faire, Jesus. He’s human, after all. 

"I know you're mad at me, Roger," Rafa says unexpectedly, as if reading his mind. “And I also know why. But… I didn't sleep with Novak. You may not believe me, but I didn't do that. I would have no reason to lie to you. And no reason to justify myself, even if it was that. But… I don't want you to think something untrue about me. Your opinion means a lot to me; it always has, you know.”

Rafa's voice vibrates with such heartfelt sincerity – and sadness, too – that Roger is speechless for a few seconds. He feels again a pang of pain in his chest, around his heart. 

(He wishes he could believe him - oh, he wishes so badly.) 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but all at once he almost feels like crying. He blinks and quickly chases the tears away, blaming his emotional instability on whiskey again. 

"You're mad at me, too," Roger says softly, changing the focus because he can’t afford to face that topic now. "And I also know since you started to be, Rafa. That's exactly what I was thinking about, there in the hotel, when you called.” 

Rafa looks at him puzzled, furrowing his brow. He doesn’t say a thing, he just waits patiently to figure out where Roger is going with this. He's always been patient with Roger, maybe too much – and he waited so long for him before finally realizing he would never be there the way he needed him to. Maybe that's what Roger is referring to? But it's been so long that there's absolutely no point in talking about it now, Rafa thinks. That’s why he tries to put up a reassuring face and kindly dismisses the issue.  

“Look, Roger,” he starts, scratching the back of his head with a sigh, “it’s late. You’re drunk. I’m tired. No time for conversation now. Why don’t you just try to get some sleep and-”

"Do you remember that time in Miami?” Roger stubbornly cuts him off. “The year was 2008 and you had just moved past the semis. Remember?” 

Rafa stares at Roger who’s staring into the void in front of himself. He goes on, without waiting for an answer. 

“I remember that day so clearly because it was different from any other. I had spent the night in your hotel room. But when I woke up, you weren’t in bed next to me. That was strange because, until then, whenever we finished making love, you were always the first to fall asleep, as well as you were the last to wake up the morning after. You were the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. But that morning was all different. I didn’t know, at that time, that was only going to be the beginning. Actually, from that moment on, nothing was ever going to be the same." 

Roger falls silent. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rafa squirming a little at the edge of the bed. He takes a deep breath and his hand on Roger’s forehead slightly trembles; he doesn’t pull it away, though. Despite its size, it oddly feels as light as a butterfly.

“Yeah, you’re not mistaken,” Rafa finally says, in a little voice. “Something started to change in me then. That was the first time I realized I couldn’t take it anymore. I remember I tried to tell you at that time, but…” 

But I wasn’t listening, Roger finishes in his mind. What a moron I was.

He’s hurting, as if time never passed. Recalling those memories nearly causes him a physical pain, almost making his hangover subside. Yet, he knows this is something he must go through in order to get out on the other side with a lighter soul. He can't keep it all bottled inside anymore; it’s choking him.

And if getting drunk to the point of losing himself is the only way he has left to get through to Rafa – because they no longer seem to be able to communicate or find their way to open up to each other – well, he's going to make the most of it, even if it means feeling hopeless and ridiculous. Blame it on the alcohol which makes people nostalgic and maudlin, but this… this may be his only chance in years to try to fix his mistakes.

Rafa is looking at Roger attentively, his lips parted, unaware of what's going on in Roger's mind. Roger’s expression is unusually gloomy, his eyes clouded as they chase a distant memory. 

“Do you remember those golden mornings, Rafa? I do. They were always too short.” 

Roger remembers his fingertips wandering absentmindedly over Rafa's dark, smooth skin clinging to his in the hot room, two bodies sticking to each other in one half of the bed, while the sun slowly rose outside. Each time it was harder and harder to tear himself away from Rafa’s warm closeness. Each time he was tempted to stay a little longer. Each time he knew they were risking a little more. 

They talked about nothing - silly jokes and breathy laughs - while Roger picked up his clothes scattered here and there around the room while Rafa, still in bed, rolled over onto his belly peeking at him with only one eye open between the dark locks falling on his face. 

“See you at practice,” was usually the last thing Roger said before leaning over to kiss him. Rafa’s reply was often a throaty grunt before going back to sleep. One last glance at the boy’s face he loved so much before Roger quietly closed the door behind himself and tiptoed back to his room. 

A few minutes later, he would pull the blankets of his own bed aside, sneaking up next to Mirka’s sleeping body. Sometimes Roger would hold her in his embrace, listening to her breathe softly. And then she would wake up, and they would resume the routine of their everyday life where everything seemed normal, no less than perfect.  

Except that nothing was. 

“After the two of us broke up, the time I could spend with you was even less,” Roger resumes speaking. “That's why I came up with all sort of excuses to get to see you more often. The Laver Cup, for example. I was super happy to have you there by my side without having to explain anything.”

Roger fondly smiles at the memory, but then his face turns serious again. 

“I know the years we spent together as a couple were hell itself for you, Rafa. I know that I acted like a selfish, manipulative asshole - and maybe, deep down, that’s precisely who I am…” Roger pauses for a second, taking a deep, quivering breath. His eyes are shining as he tries to ignore the way Rafa is looking at him: more concerned than ever. “But allow me to say that it was not a piece of cake for me either. I never got to tell you, back then, but I constantly felt as split in two. I wanted you and I wanted Mirka. I needed stability, but I also craved for passion. I dreamed of a life with you but I also wanted my own children. At one point I feared I was going nuts. I confess I didn't care much about what it could mean for you, seeing each other in secret and only when it was okay for me, when my schedule was clear and I wasn’t expecting to meet school teachers, pediatricians, family friends, Mirka's parents and mine… Not to mention tennis and everything related to it, of course.”

Tennis, yeah. Rafa also remembers it being a big problem. 

At first, they had tried to avoid any personal, close contact when there was an important tournament in the way, for fear of affecting each other's performances on the court, for fear that feelings would become an obstacle to their careers. But since tennis was their whole life and it was always in the way, somehow or other, it soon became impossible to keep things separate. 

Or perhaps, once they had tasted each other's skin, they just couldn’t be satiated enough. Tennis or not. 

"It was torture for me," Roger continues. He takes long pauses between the lines, as he collects his thoughts. Rafa is still so quiet at his side that Roger could almost pretend to talk to himself. Yet, from the way he can hear Rafa holding his breath, he knows he's not missing a single word. Listening is among things he does best. "It was especially torture to have you so close – during press conferences, meetings with sponsors, training sessions, and every single time on court, obviously – and not being allowed to touch you like I did when we were alone, to look at you the way I wanted to, the way I felt I would, damn it. Do you have any idea how hard it was?" 

"Oh, yes. I know very well," Rafa says, a little hoarsely. His eyes, like Roger’s, are brighter than usual in the moonlight coming in through the open window. “I also remember how you looked at me when we were finally alone in the locker room, before closing the door and…” 

Slamming him against it, starting to devour his mouth and then moving on to everything else. 

Yes, yes, they both remember it well. It was Roger’s way to take back his possession inch by inch, reclaiming what he considered rightfully his.

That’s where Roger was wrong, by the way: he should have never forgotten that Rafa belonged to him exclusively by his own will, by free choice. That he could break the deal any time, because - let’s be honest - he wasn’t obliged to be faithful to Roger if Roger wasn't faithful first. It was so elementary logic that it sounded almost stupid. 

Yet, Roger just couldn’t imagine that Rafa could stop wanting him the way he wanted Rafa. That one day he could jump up and say “enough is enough, I can't stand it anymore”, like he actually did. The thought sounded simply ridiculous to him.

So, when things had started to go to shit, Roger was caught completely off guard, because he had chosen to be deaf and blind for a long, long time.

"Say it's the alcohol, or that I'm delusional or even my usual conceited self, but…” Roger pauses, searching his mind for the right words. “I just wish you had never let me go, Rafa," he blurts out finally, giving voice to his inner thoughts. "I wish you'd stayed and fought. For me."

Rafa slowly pulls his hand away from Roger’s forehead. Roger feels the fresh air settle like a veil at his hairline, replacing the warmth of Rafa's skin. 

"I did, actually" Rafa says, looking down at his own knees. “I fought. Or, at least, I tried to. In the beginning, and for some time after. But nothing was enough for you, Roger. You wanted everything, but most of all you wanted to be chased, while I needed to stop."

“Well, I ran ahead thinking you were following me, but… when I turned around, you were just… gone," Roger says, curling one corner of his lips in a bitter smile. 

"No," Rafa replies, shaking his head. "It's not me who didn't keep up. You're the one who left me behind, Roger. That’s what happened. Your priorities were different from mine. At some point, it was clear we didn't want the same things."

"At some point, all we did was fighting," Roger recalls. "It's true." He sighs. "But… why were we always fighting? I don't remember anymore…"

Rafa remains silent for a moment, as if pondering intensely whether to say it aloud or not.

"Why do you think that is, Roger?" he finally asks.

“Well. We used to fight because... because..." Roger hesitates, uncertain. "Because we were both very stubborn, and we hardly changed our minds when we thought we were right…” 

He trails off, suddenly hit by the thought that he may have just given, for the first time in his life, the truest description of Roger Federer himself.

Rafa knows, of course. That's why he looks at Roger with a half-smile that’s almost compassionate.

"No, Roger. We used to fight because you came to bed with me, but then you went back to sleep with Mirka. And I asked you which one of us you really loved, Roger: both, or just yourself. Remember?” 

Roger stays silent for a long time, reflecting.

"Yes," he murmurs eventually, after a few minutes. "You're right. That was the biggest problem."

The air in the room is heavy with tension now. Their breaths are barely audible in the silence. Roger looks  almost ashamed and Rafa can’t stand to see him like that. 

"There's no point in talking about it now," he says quickly, as if to dismiss the whole thing before it gets too big. "The past is the past, thank God. You shouldn’t think about it anymore.”

"Well, it’s not exactly true," Roger replies. “If twenty years later we're still here, talking about the past and suffering its consequences, you can’t say it's really over. Neither for me, nor for you. And not even for Novak, I suppose."

Rafa still doesn’t dare look up from his knees, frowning. “So you’re basically saying that none of us ever got over it, right?” 

It's the closest they’ve ever been to admit the truth that they all fear in the depths of their souls. They are afraid of it, because it means that certain things simply can’t be overcome. It's perhaps the worst kind of defeat – not being able to be with whom they really loved. None of the three of them has ever been good at accepting a defeat, let alone this one. 

The train of Roger’s thoughts leads him back to Novak. His frustration awakens again, as if he’s just flipped a switch. He’s not used to these mood swings and they make him feel completely helpless.  

“So… nothing really happened, then?" Roger asks hesitantly, his voice shaking in spite of himself. “I mean, between you and him?"

Rafa jerks his head up and fixes his gaze into his.

“Nole? No,” he says. "Christ, Roger. No."

Roger can't quite feel the relief, not yet. He's still too dubious and scared. 

Even the great Roger Federer has his insecurities, from time to time.  

"Why not?” he retorts. “Why wouldn't that happen?” He’s playing that kind of free-for-all game he plays when he deliberately wants to hurt himself and can't help dragging everything and everyone else down with him. “The two of you alone, one bed… Just like you and me now,” he says, studying Rafa with his gaze. “I suppose he might have been a little drunk, but certainly less than I am now. That motherfucker holds his booze well. So, Rafa, tell me… Why shouldn't that have happened?"

Roger's voice sounds rough, harsh again; it has lost the dreamy sweetness it vibrated with while he was recalling the golden years of their relationship. That’s because the present does not offer the same warm illusions as the past.

Rafa keeps looking at him; this time a sigh escapes from his lips.

"The answer is so obvious that the fact you’re asking is an insult to your intelligence, Roger," he says, a little sternly. 

Roger slightly turns his head on the pillow to keep eye contact with him. 

"Tell me anyway," he whispers. “Nothing is ever obvious with us, you know.” 

"Because I love you, not him," Rafa says simply, and his face seems to break into a grimace of pain as he pulls out that confession, as if he were just ripping his heart out of his chest with his bare hands along with it. "And please don't make me repeat it, Roger. We decided to bury this a long time ago. Digging it up makes no sense now. Only the bones are left."

"The bones stay forever, though," Roger says, in a very low voice. 

He's looking at Rafa with eyes shining with commotion. Not only his stomach is hurting now, but every single part of him, down to the last cell of his body.  

"I missed it so much, you know,” Roger continues, barely a whisper. "Hearing you say that to me." He tries to smile as he swallows a lump of tears, but he can’t. “You got so good at concealing your emotions that sometimes I thought that I'd dreamed it all up, that you'd never loved me, that it was just the desperate figment of my imagination..."

"I learnt from you," Rafa says softly. "The master of dissimulation has always been you. I'll never be as good at that as you are, Roger. I don't like lies."

"That's why you broke up with me, just before I married Mirka," Roger nods, smiling sorely. "You had your reasons, and I couldn’t change your mind. I didn't realize it was best for you until many years later. I never apologized to you and-”

“No need." Rafa cuts him off, raising one hand. "I forgave you a long time ago.”

Rafa's voice is warm, but dripping with bitterness. Roger peers intently at him, shifting his gaze from one pupil to the other.

“You know, for a moment I thought you might have done it to punish me, Rafa. Sleeping with Novak, I mean. It would have been the perfect revenge for what I put you through many years ago.”

Rafa looks at him almost horrified. "What kind of person do you think I am? As much as I've wanted to punish you in the past, I would never, never, do anything so stupid and evil, Roger, just to get revenge. I would never hurt you on purpose.”

Roger grimaces. “Just hurt me? Let’s be honest, Rafa: losing you almost killed me once. I don’t think I could survive a second try. So, please, don’t even think about it.”

A faint smile trembles on his lips when he ends the sentence. It’s that kind of smile that is actually begging for mercy. 

Even the great Roger Federer needs to beg, sometimes. 

In the face of Roger’s unexpected weakness, Rafa’s dark brown eyes brim with a sweetness he can't hide anymore. He seems to be back to his old self, the boy he used to be, the one who belonged body and soul to Roger. The one who would give his life – and his career, which at that time were the very same thing – for him to be loved back. 

“You don’t need to apologize to me," Rafa repeats, clearing his throat while trying to set a tone. “And don’t need to beg me, either. You know that when you beg I just can't say no, Roger."

"I know," Roger says. A grin curves his lips and this time something different, darker, flashes through his gaze for a second. “You’re a good guy, Rafa. People could take advantage of you.”

Rafa holds his gaze confidently, smiling. “You mean people like you?”

Roger’s grin widens. “Maybe. You shouldn't have reminded me."  

“But what could you possibly need from me that you don’t already have?”

Roger doesn’t need to reply with words. Rafa immediately recognizes that look: it’s the one Roger used to have every time he laid his eyes on him in the past. Roger has never been good at talking about his feelings, so he often let his body speak for him. He never managed to hide his own desire from Rafa, by the way. 

Rafa can read inside his eyes right now – they’re open and honest in a way that Roger has rarely been. And what he finds in them is so overwhelming and undeniable that prompts him straighten up on the bed quickly,  his breath a little heavy, and move away towards the edge of the mattress. There he sits, holding his head between his hands, running his palms over his face as if to erase that look from his mind.  

Roger is watching him. He’s about to speak several times, but every time he’s lost for words and gives up, biting his lip. Rafa is silent too. He finally lowers his hands, running them over his thighs now, back and forth. He does so a couple of times, taking deep breaths.

“Sorry, did I make you feel uncomfortable?" Roger inquires anxiously, looking at Rafa’s back. “I didn’t mean to. But I can’t lie about this, you know. Rafa…” He calls his name, cautiously stretching out an arm to reach for his shoulder. “Rafa?”

When his fingers brush against Rafa’s shoulder blade, resting against the smooth fabric of his shirt, Rafa tenses. It takes him a few seconds to get used to the touch and relax again. Not completely, though. He’s still giving his back to Roger, hiding his face away from him. 

“I was wondering if you’re feeling it too,” Roger murmurs, slowly tracing the outline of Rafa’s deltoid with his fingers. “I think I just got the answer.”

"Yeah," Rafa says and he finally turns three-quarters of the way around, looking at Roger out of the corner of his eye. “I still feel it. And I don’t know what to do with it.” 

Roger can hear pure emotion in Rafa’s voice and the confession of his own powerlessness almost moves him to tears. He feels the same, anyway. He’s not alone. He’s never been, not when Rafa is around. 

“I don’t know what to do with it either,” he admits in a whisper. His hand on Rafa shoulder barely trembles. “Am I still allowed to touch you, anyway?”

Rafa suppresses a chuckle. “Actually you’re not.”

“Oh.” Roger pretends to be taken aback. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Not really,” Rafa says softly. “Earlier, when we had a fight and you said those things to me, I just wanted to slap you in the face. But now… I'm not sure what I want.” 

As Rafa speaks, Roger feels his heartbeat slowly but steadily accelerating, a shiver of anticipation creeping under his skin, as if his body is warming up the engines, starting up slowly before getting ready to reach the peak.

“The same goes for me,” Roger replies, as he drops his hand. “I was - I am - still kind of torn between telling you to go to hell and… and… I don’t know, just… kissing you, maybe? You haven’t let me do that for years.” 

“That would be such a bad idea.” 

“No, that would be just too easy for me, wouldn’t it?” says Roger playfully, but his mouth has gone suddenly dry. “I shouldn't even have to beg you, unlike Novak did."

“Modest as ever, I see,” Rafa laughs, doing his best to allay the embarrassment. He shrugs. “I’m just saying that I may not be as controlled as I was with Nole, not that you can do whatever you please, Roger, that’s it.” He gives Roger a quick amused glance to check his reaction. “Luckily, you're too drunk to really go for it. As for me, I don't like to take advantage of drunk people. Too easy," he adds, imitating Roger’s snooty tone.

“Yes, yes, you like challenges and I am a sitting duck for you, I know,” Roger says, playing along. He suppresses a chuckle watching the confusion spread on Rafa’s face. "Still, I'd only be glad if you would take advantage of me, for once.” He pauses, turning serious as he considers. “A part of me would rather be completely lucid in case you do it, though. To be able to better savor every detail, every sensation, you know? I haven't waited all this time to settle for faded memories for when I'm sober again..." 

"And what would you settle for?" Rafa says, somewhat provocatively. "Tell me."

"A kiss, for example."

As Roger says this, Rafa has a flashback: this is not the first time that someone’s asked him for a kiss in such a challenging and peremptory tone. The first time was Novak, long ago - could that have been their first kiss ever?! Good Lord - but he can't tell Roger, of course, unless he wants to unleash the beast inside him one more time. 

“A kiss,” Rafa repeats, peeking at him as if trying to guess Roger’s deepest intentions. “Nothing more?"

"Nothing less."

Roger's hard stare is piercing Rafa’s pupils, making his mouth dry and his blood stir into his veins. He  suddenly looks very different from the vulnerable Roger of just a little while ago. Is the real Roger back or is this the mask he’s used to wearing? Rafa doesn’t care; he knows better, after all. 

“See? You sound arrogant even when you’re the one who’s asking,” he jokes. “Awfully arrogant,” he adds, piling it on. 

“I’m not!” Roger cries out, laughing. “I’m just confident. While you… you look a bit worried. Are you scared, Rafa?"

"Scared of what?"

"Well, maybe of finding out that it can still be exactly the same as it was twenty years ago. That nothing has changed between us. That some things do last forever.”

Rafa holds Roger’s serious gaze and says nothing for long minutes, thoughtful. Roger stays silent too, giving him time to think. Rafa eventually looks away; when he speaks, there’s a sad smile on his lips. “You know that I’m a believer, Roger. I’ve always been. I kept on believing until the last days of my career, even when all the signs were telling me to stop, because I couldn't accept that some things just come and go, never to come back. Maybe a believer is also a delusional, in a certain way. And I’m not sure I can stand one last delusion, after all that I’ve been through. You understand?”

Roger doesn’t really want to. 

“You could just… give it a shot and see where it goes,” he murmurs. “As they say: no pain, no gain, no? Nothing will change between us, anyway. I promise."

Only you never kept any of your promises, Rafa thinks. He’s too decent to say it aloud, though. Moreover, the little worm of doubt is crawling its way inside his heart. His eyes are huge and haunted, now; he almost looks like a man in agony. 

“You don't know how exhausting it is to constantly have to suppress your own desires, Roger,” he lets out all at once. “Believe me, for once I’d really like to say: I want what I want, and fuck the rest. But it’s just not like me. Besides, I got too much to lose with you.”    

Roger smirks faintly. “So… is this the time you are saying no to me?” 

Rafa gives him a side glance, biting his lip. “Not really. Are you still very drunk?”

Roger frowns. “Well…”

“Good.” 

Rafa leans over and grabs Roger’s head with both hands, gently but firmly. Roger stops breathing when he feels Rafa’s breath brushing against his face. His lips part almost automatically, his pupils dilating, the heart pounding against his ribcage. One of his hand rises to wrap around Rafa’s neck and rests there, waiting for him to make the next move even though he feels like he can’t wait a minute longer.

While they look at each other so closely, time seems to stand still. 

§

But Rafa’s next move isn’t the one Roger is expecting. 

Rafa tilts Roger’s head downwards; his mouth skims over Roger’s mouth, moving upwards, barely touching the tip of his nose and his pronounced brows, finally getting to his forehead, where it pauses. There he presses his lips hard, and Roger doesn’t quite know why, but he founds himself letting out a little cry of agony when Rafa’s lips make contact with his skin and, without thinking, reaches up to claw with his other hand at the shirt on Rafa’s chest. 

Rafa doesn’t fight. He lets Roger pull him close and wrap his arms around him, slightly trembling (he’s trembling too), but his lips stay firmly on his forehead, refusing to move anywhere else they are most required. It’s such a hard thing to do, especially when all he’s aware of is Roger's mouth, a few inches below, silently screaming at him for a kiss, between one ragged breath and the other, as well as the incredible tension of Roger’s body under his hands pleading for some release.  

But Rafa can’t give it to him. He chose to allow Roger - and himself - just a few minutes of solace, and he’s actually savoring every second of it. It’s practically nothing, out of an entire life spent trying to be the good one, the serious one, the one with moral principles, without any strange, dangerous ideas. Uncle Toni's good little soldier. The one who was always expected to pick what was right, not what made him happy - never what made him happy.

A few minutes alone with Roger are all he’s been wishing for in a lifetime. One of the biggest rewards for all his sacrifices is now here - even if only briefly - in his arms, and it’s definitely worth any risk. Roger’s skin is now at his disposal - after having dreamed of doing it for a long time, now he can touch it, smell it, and taste it under his tongue for real. But he never seems to get enough, because what he really wants, with each passing minute, is to devour Roger, to get inside him and take over him, leaving no free space, no corner of Roger that is empty of him. Erase the boundaries between Roger’s body and his own, to merge with him, to become one with him.

But he knows he's going to have to stop at some point, because things have already gone awry once, and digging bones in a minefield can only make it all worse and risk destroying what is still standing - that is still a lot, thinking about it: friendship, affection, mutual respect. 

That's why, mustering every ounce of self-control he has left, he slips out of Roger’s grasp before his own body betrays him, moving away from him and crawling back to the edge of the bed, his back turned to Roger. He runs a hand through his now thinner hair on the top of his head, taking a deep sigh. He listens to the sound of his own heart crashing inside his chest. 

"Let me guess… That's all you're going to give me tonight, right?" Roger’s voice comes from behind. He’s also still panting a little, but he sounds more disappointed than anything. If Rafa turned around, he would see that Roger is staring at him exactly as he used to, looking like he’s about to eat him all up before even starting to undress him. That wouldn’t be of any help, given the poor state Rafa himself is in.

"A kiss, you said," Rafa reminds him, as he slows his breathing. "And a kiss it was. A deal’s a deal."

"Fuck the deal," Roger says, but he’s smiling, even if ironically. “Aren’t you tired of always doing the right thing, Rafael Nadal?”

“Yeah, I am. A bit,” Rafa confesses. He turns around and smiles back. “But I think I can go on a little longer. I got stamina, you know. It’s not over until it’s over.”

Roger laughs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. But I guess it’s part of your charm, man.” He winks at Rafa. “You know, I wouldn't have been so understanding once. I guess time has made me…”

“...better?” 

Roger is now laughing again. “Maybe. Or just older. Maybe older Roger is better than younger Roger?”

“Hmm…” Rafa pretends to think. “You were more selfish once. Older Roger is easier to handle now.”  

“Just tell me one thing: did it feel different from what you expected?”

Rafa is taken aback by the point-blank question. Nonetheless, he goes back with his mind to the feelings that kissing Roger gave him. 

“Uhm, I only kissed your forehead but… I felt like I…” He pauses, searching for words. “Like I was actually kind of… going back to myself through you… I don’t know if you can get it. I can’t explain it any better, I’m sorry.” He looks at Roger, dubious. 

Roger nods. “I think I get it. Terrible and wonderful at the same time.” His gaze is burning. “I remember you only kissed my forehead the first time you said you loved me.”

Rafa blushes a little. “Yeah, I only do the first and the last time.”

Roger laughs again, a little tense this time. “So this is the last time? Without even giving a proper kiss?”

He breaks off when he notices that Rafa is already getting out of the bed and onto his feet. “Hey, where you going? It’s not like you to run away when things are getting hairy.”

"I'm not running away," Rafa corrects, scowling at him. Lying. "I'm just going to get you something more comfortable to wear for the night. You don’t want to sleep with your smoking on, right?"

“Right,” says Roger and only then does he realize he’s still wearing his tuxedo. 

He hasn’t the time to add anything else because Rafa has already slipped out of the room, fleeing. Roger closes his eyes, knocking his head down on the pillow and finally giving himself a break. He knows Rafa well by now, and he knows he’s doing it to give him – and also himself - time to simmer down. It's not easy for either of them, but Rafa has always been the better between the two of them when it comes to getting in control of his own body. 

Roger didn’t get what he wanted tonight, of course, but he’s not going to claim for more. He doesn’t want to put any more pressures on Rafa. In the end, he may have learned to put himself in someone else's shoes. Besides, the satisfaction of still having an effect on Rafa does thrill him - along with the proud realization that alcohol has not affected his basic male functions at all. 

Some things change over time, while others… 

When Rafa returns, Roger knows from his soft steps on the parquet that he must have taken off his shoes too.  He flutters his eyes open and sees Rafa dangling at the foot of the bed, holding a pair of shorts and a spare T-shirt in his hands. 

"Luckily we're the same size," Rafa says, nodding at them.

“Yeah, but you’ve always looked bigger than me, who knows why.” Roger glances at the clothes in Rafa’s hands, then his gaze shifts upwards to his face. He smiles almost shyly. “Can you help me put them on? I'm not really in top shape, as you can see..."

"Funny," says Rafa, "it didn’t look like it to me, until a few minutes ago.”

Still, he approaches the bed without hesitation and, passing his hands under Roger's armpits, helps him to pull himself up. Then, gently - as much as he kissed him before, - he slips Roger’s jacket off his shoulders. Roger doesn't have a tie, and the first button of his shirt is already unfastened, so things should go smooth from this point on. Nevertheless, Raga stops, unsure what to do next, probably wondering if it’s wise to go on. 

Roger reads his expression and holds back a smile. He looks down and tries to unbutton the second one himself, but his fingers are numb and his vision blurs at times when he tries to stay focus. Roger can certainly kiss Rafa and caress him - he would probably be able to do lots of other things, everything else, with him - but these subtle fine movements are still out of his reach, at least until the last drop of alcohol is out of his system.

So he looks up at Rafa again, silently shrugging his shoulders as if to say: “What did I tell you?”. Rafa rolls his eyes, grimacing; he looks vaguely amused as well as resigned.  

And yet, it's Rafa’s fingers, not Roger’s, that are trembling as he unfastens the row of buttons on the front of Roger's shirt, one after the other, and as he goes on so slowly they both find themselves holding their breath, almost wishing this would last forever. Roger stares blinking at Rafa's dark fingers moving deftly against the white fabric of his own shirt, so white that it’s almost blinding in the dim light of the room. 

“Tell me, Rafa,” he murmurs suddenly, breaking the spell of the moment. "Has it been this long since I last let you undress me or am I having amnesia?"

“Hmm… It was long ago," Rafa confirms, head down, biting his lip in concentration. “I almost forgot how to do it.” 

He also unbuttons the cuffs of Roger's shirt and helps him pull it off completely. Once Roger has taken it off, Rafa gives it a couple of swipes of his hand, smoothing out any wrinkles on the front, then he gets up and goes hang the shirt in the closet door together with the jacket. He stretches out the collar, making sure that the fabric falls perfectly straight.

Roger looks at him, overwhelmed by a mixture of disbelief and tenderness.

"Christ, Rafa, I forgot how obsessive you can be even when it’s far from being necessary…”

"Tomorrow you'll have to put that suit back on when you leave, no?” Rafa retorts, without turning to him. “And I’m sure you won’t like wearing it all crumpled and stuff. So let me take care of this and shut up, Roger."

“Bossy”, he thinks he hears Roger say under his breath. When he turns around, Roger is looking at him slyly. 

Rafa arches an eyebrow upward. “What?” 

He immediately takes a hint when Roger doesn’t reply but a grin tugs at one corner of his lips. 

"Forget it, baby. You'll have to do it yourself with your pants."

Roger can’t help laughing heartily now. "I remembered you being generous, Rafa. And funny." 

“It’s your memory that’s working funny, tonight," Rafa says, chuckling. “First you say you have amnesia, then you seem to remember only what you want to… What are you playing at?”

“Definitely not fair play, I suppose,” Roger smirks. He doesn't stop staring at Rafa as he puts his hand to his belt and, albeit with some difficulty, slowly unbuckles it. Just as slowly, he unbuttons the flap and pulls down the zip. He props himself up at one hip to lift his pelvis just enough to let his pants slide down his thighs.

Rafa remains as motionless as a statue, riveted to a voyeur's role in spite of himself, but unable to take his eyes off Roger, as if spellbound. He stands by as Roger tries twice to get rid of his pants completely, and twice to no avail. Only then does he come to his rescue. Letting go of a sigh, he reaches out to pull Roger's pants all the way down, freeing him. He reluctantly looks away from his body as it emerges from his clothes, shifting his gaze to something else.

Roger notices. "Have I changed so much?" he asks, in a low voice.

Rafa immediately looks up, surprised by the sudden insecurity creeping back in Roger's voice. 

"No," he says, his eyes are affectionate and soft. "Not so much. You always look a lot like the man I fell in love with."

Roger's lips tremble. Rafa reaches out to softly brush his hair. “Damn it, Roger, you really like to make things harder for me, don’t you?”

“I thought that’s what you’re into. Was I wrong?” 

Rafa takes a deep sigh but his smile is oozing fondness. “You always gave me a hard time, Roger. But it was also the best time I had.”

Roger holds his breath and says nothing. He looks down while Rafa walks to the closet and gently puts his pants away along with the rest of his suit. Then Rafa stays there, still, for a while, with his back turned to Roger, and Roger knows he’s giving him some privacy while waiting for him to put on his shorts and T-shirt. 

A true gentleman, Roger thinks and, once again, he’s torn between admiration and frustration. 

"Come on, Rafa," he teases him, but only after he got dressed. "It wouldn't be the first time you've seen me in my underwear. Turn around."

Rafa stops pretending to fumble in the closet. After a second of hesitation he shrugs and obeys, almost reluctantly. Once he turns around, he glances at Roger with some satisfaction. “You look good in my clothes.”

Roger leans back against the pillows, his hair disheveled, a drowsy smile on his lips. “Thanks.” 

Rafa doesn’t let go of his gaze. “You look… relaxed, too.”

“I thought you were going to say sexy.”

Rafa rolls his eyes. “Your sexiness has already given me a lot of trouble tonight. Will you just let me go back to my room and sleep in peace?” 

“Well, I just have one last thing to say, before letting you slip away as usual,” Roger says, stifling a yawn. He is visibly tired now, though smiling. “It’s no joke,” he assures. 

Rafa nods calmly. “Okay.”

Roger looks at him with a clean and sincere affection that makes Rafa's knees tremble with its intensity. 

“I always hoped that there would come a day when we could be together. Without Mirka and without Mery, our children grown up, tennis as a closed chapter of our lives and all the time in the world left just for the two of us." 

Roger pauses. Rafa is listening, leaning with his back to the wardrobe, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Do you think it will ever be possible, Rafa? For me to get back what I was too stupid to take when I could?"

"I don't know," Rafa replies after a few thoughtful seconds. He shrugs his shoulders. "It's going to take some time, I think. Years, probably. I’m not the Rafa who just waited for Roger to acknowledge his existence anymore, you know. For now, I want to see my son grow up, and make sure he and Mery have everything they need. I also have things to do for my foundation, and for Real Madrid, of course.”

“Yeah, you’re a busy man now, I know,” Roger jokes. “Even busier now than when you were still playing tennis, without any doubt. Yet I wonder… will you ever have time for an old friend, Rafa?”

Rafa peeks at him from under his brows, taking a long breath through his nose. “I’ll always have time for you, Roger. Just… not only for you. You have to learn to share me with other things for… for a while. One day, perhaps, I'll be all yours. One day. But… I’m not sure, to be honest.”

Roger throws his head back wearily, squeezing his eyes shut. "I've been waiting for you for more than twenty years, Rafa,” he says, keeping his eyes closed. “Well, after being the one who kept you on your toes for so long, I’m okay with that. Fair enough. So, tell me, we got a deal?"

"How impatient you are," Rafa laughs. "What are you afraid of? That I’ll have second thoughts?"

Roger opens his eyes, searching for Rafa’s face. “Or maybe that you’ll fall in love with someone else,” he says, his smile wavering this time.

"You can rest easy about that," Rafa says, holding Roger’s gaze with his - unfaltering, calm and deep as the ocean. "That could never happen. Not in this life. Nole knows that too, by now.” 

"I hope so," Roger grumbles, suddenly frowning. "I still want to kill the bastard. Just for trying.”

“Or you could just forgive the bastard and move on.”

Roger eyes him like he’s crazy, or telling a bad joke. “I’ll never forgive him, Rafa. You know that, don't you?" 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Rafa sighs. "Poor guy." 

Roger scowls at him. Rafa smiles seraphically. Roger's expression changes slowly, like sand in the water, softening until the deep wrinkle between his brows is completely gone.  

"You've told me twice in the same night for the first time in twenty years," Roger says, lowering his tone, "and I still haven't said it once. Now it’s my turn… I love you, Rafael. Ever since. This is just one thing that’ll never go away, no matter how much time might pass.” 

Rafa watches him, all sort of emotions flickering in his eyes. He’s motionless for a long, eternal moment, then he slowly lets go of a jagged breath. His shoulders relax, eventually; he smiles. 

"Finally," he whispers. "I was just starting to wonder when you were going to do that."  

Roger winks at him. He can't hold back a yawn that almost dislocates his jaw. Rafa notices it.

“It’s really time to go to bed now,” he says resolutely. “I hope you’ll sleep well, now that you’ve let some stuff out.”

“I’ll try,” Roger murmurs, rubbing his eyes and yawning again. “I feel like I could sleep for ages, right now.” He glances at Rafa, who’s still standing there. “Are you sure you want to go back to sleep in your bed?” 

“Yes,” says Rafa. “I’m going. Good night, Roger.”

Roger sighs. “Good night, Rafa.” He tugs at the blankets, before pulling them over himself. “Go, before I change my mind and decide to keep you here with me, stuck to this bed, forever.”

“That would be…”

“Just clear out, please.”

Rafa cracks up laughing. He turns on his heel and strides over to the door. There he stops, turns around again and shoots a look at the bed. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but no words come to his mind. 

So he contents himself with one last glance at the man’s face he loves so much, then he quietly closes the door behind himself and tiptoes back to his room. 

A few minutes later, he pulls the blankets of his own bed aside, sneaking up next to Mery’s sleeping body.  He holds her in his embrace, listening to her breathe softly. He knows that in a few hours she will wake up, and they will resume the routine of their everyday life where everything seems normal, no less than perfect.  

Except that nothing is. 

§

Roger rolls over on his side under the blankets without waking up. A soft sigh escapes his lips, curled in a smile. His eyes stay closed, the eyelids slightly fluttering. He’s dreaming. 

In the dream, he’s watching someone digging up some bones in the ground. In the dream, Roger knows whom those bones belong to. He knows they're his and Rafa’s, mixed together; even though nobody can see them, there they are, in the ground. They've always been there. And always will. Deep and indestructible. Just like love. 

Love has something to do with waiting. Roger had to learn that over time. He learnt that - like many other vital things - from Rafa. 

That’s why he will be waiting for Rafa for the rest of his life - it’s his turn, now. 

He just can't wait to wake up and tell him once again that he loves him so.

End