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When he'd booked his boat from the hotel, he'd thought the match would be long over.
Instead Novak had spent thirty minutes with his hand glued to his phone, watching the live scores as the points added up in favour of Rafa until they didn't, and they were in the third set. He'd all but sprinted past the fans who were less interested in him than their autographs from Roger Federer, and squeezed his way into the balcony until he could see, hand curled into his now unnecessary coat until his knuckles were white. Andy had been winning when he'd arrived, mere minutes later he'd been walking off court as the loser.
Fighting doesn't make Andy a loser, at least not to Novak. The press might be a different story, especially here, and his opinion probably doesn't count for much with them. But he hopes that Andy knows, at least, he will know. Soon. When Novak can escape from his room.
Looking down the corridor in either direction makes him feel like a super-spy; has to remind himself that this is really not the time for games no matter how much it might be true. Either way, it's almost empty; there are a few security guards but no one who would care about Novak or the player who came off worse, alone in his locker room. At least, Novak hopes he's alone. Alex Corretja almost scares him and Andy's mum genuinely does.
The seventeen steps between their doors are seventeen too many. Would have been easier last year, the locker rooms designed in pairs, the doors between three and four opening into each other but this time there's Soderling's room between them. Empty now, but he can't cut through and avoid the camera that might appear at any second. It doesn't though, and Novak presses himself against the wall to make himself look less conspicuous before he knocks softly on Andy's door. Doesn't wait for a reply before he punches the 1505 into the keypad; Andy's birthday, and he'd teased the Scot for days about that until Andy realised his code was the same. Slips through the crack his magic fingers made in the door and shuts it behind him.
At first glance the room appears empty. Novak's sure it's not though, sure he heard Andy's footsteps between the time he'd almost tripped down the stairs coming from the balcony - Marian would have some choice words about that later - and the time he'd dropped his bags as fast as possible in his room, stripping himself of his coat and scarf which were thrown over a chair somewhere.
Much like Andy's are even though they have a wardrobe each; his bag looks like it's been thrown in front of the bathroom door which means Andy probably isn't in there. Unless he wants to trip over it when he comes out. Not that Novak's speaking from experience or anything; it's just something that someone who is definitely not himself might theoretically do.
Press conference, Novak thinks, and though it's too soon maybe Andy wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Wouldn't be the first time, and he spins around, hand on the door when he notices the sniffle coming from- well, he doesn't know. The room isn't that big; Andy has to be somewhere visible unless he's hiding himself in the wardrobe.
Can't help but unsuccessfully stifle a laugh at that; they both might be in the closet at the moment - in Novak's case, probably for the rest of his life or at least until this thing between them goes away when he will no longer be in the closet but just straight - but he doesn't expect Andy to literally be in one. But Novak's out of options, and the wardrobe is only four steps away.
Two steps later, he notices the huddle of a person beneath the desk-slash-vanity table. Novak hadn't seen the point of them; unless you're Roger Federer no man needs a mirror as big as a room and you definitely don't need a dressing table, but Andy must have found the one use for it that isn't vanity. He's huddled with his back to the wall, sitting between the legs; his knees are tucked into his chest, head curled towards them. Something clutched in his hand; from the headphones in his ears Novak guesses it's his iPod, thumb flicking over the screen as he skips from one song to the next.
Crouches next to Andy and reaches out to pluck the headphones from his ear; he manages the left one before Andy looks at him, instant shock at there being someone else in the room fading into nothing after a split second. There are no tear tracks on his cheeks, no anger hiding behind the stoic expression, no recognition that it's Novak here. Just blank eyes and tinny music that drifts from the loose earphone.
Doesn't understand how Andy can be this way; last year the chair had taken the brunt of his own anger after his loss to Soderling and he'd ended up having to pay for a new one (the fact that Roger Federer wouldn't have to pay for another one makes him want to destroy a second but Novak's not quite that stupid). Matches to him are live or die and there are more productive things to take anger out on than a chair (for him, Andy is one; there is nothing like rough hands pressing against his skin and teeth leaving marks on his neck that can't quite be covered up) but to feel nothing is foreign. Either that or Andy is covering it up but there's only one reason to do that and it's not holed up in your own private locker room.
Andy takes the other headphone out of his ear and lets them fall to the floor. Impulse to put them somewhere they won't get broken is overridden when Andy's fingers clasp around his wrist, pushing the cotton of his shirt back until nails are pressing against his skin hard enough to leave half-moon marks. Hopes they'll be covered by his wristbands during his match; journalists are not the most intelligent breed of people - did they really expect him to play tennis with a pirate patch on? - but someone is bound to pick up on marks around his wrists.
"You have a match," Andy says, but it's toneless and flat and so unlike Andy Novak wants to scream, "Nole."
The use of his nickname throws him; Andy doesn't often call him Nole. Known each other years and he can probably count on his hands how many times Andy's called him by a nickname. Most of them in the first few times he'd met Andy, it had been his suggestion because it had been so long since anyone called him Novak on a regular basis, but it hadn't stuck with the Brit. Now Andy only calls him by it when he wants something Novak can't refuse him, and apparently Andy wants him to go and get ready for his match.
Which isn't half as important as this.
"Ten minutes will no matter, Andy," he says, and for a second there's a look of disbelief that passes over Andy's face. Doesn't know whether it's because he doesn't believe Novak or doesn't believe that ten minutes won't make a difference, but it's something that's not a blank page.
"Move over," he orders with a hand on Andy's knee; the space under the table isn't big enough for one person, let alone two but Novak's determined to try if only to be closer to Andy. Even if Andy wants him to get ready for playing Roger. Andy stares Novak down for ten seconds and Novak senses an argument, something that's not uncommon between them; they fight over everything from line calls in practice to the side of the bed they sleep in when they get a chance. It doesn't happen as often as Novak would like, although if Novak could he'd stay in bed with Andy all day. Which, as a professional tennis player, isn't realistic.
Warily Andy shuffles out from under the table as though he's scared of Novak biting him, which is unfair because it was only once and it was an accident, and Novak apologised more than once, and even gave Andy a blowjob without wanting one in return. If that doesn't say sorry, he doesn't know what does.
"You're thinking too much," Andy says as he brushes his fingers over Novak's forehead, smoothing out the crease he didn't even know was there, "did it hurt?"
Novak sticks his tongue out as a reply; if Andy is going to revert to being in juniors with his not-at-all-funny remark, he should be able to do the same. The result is a fleeting smile that quirks one side of Andy's mouth up, a weird lopsided grin that doesn't suit him at all. This is familiar between them, the teasing insults, and Novak's lost for words. Doesn't happen often but when it does he's thrown, there are too many things he wants to say, everything from I'm sorry to I love you but nothing is right; the platitudes can be given by anyone and declarations of love aren't really appropriate when he's never even nearly said the l-word to Andy. Hadn't thought he'd wanted to until now, when he wants to hold Andy close until he's Andy again, not a slightly broken Andy he doesn't know how to treat.
Which, isn't a bad plan, and it's what he does. Knows the angle will be all wrong and uncomfortable with them on the floor and so he stands, holding a hand out for Andy which the Brit accepts with a moment of hesitation. It's all too easy to pull him close and hold him there. One hand rests on Andy's back, sweat damp cotton under his fingers and it feels disgusting, especially because he hasn't even played yet but that's what showers are for. The other slips under the hem of his shirt, palm resting against his hip. Andy stiffens, like he wasn't expecting to be manhandled into a hug, and this is Andy, the emotionally retarded Brit so he probably doesn't even want a hug, but Novak doesn't care. Hugs are a good thing. Even if it's possibly the most awkward hug he's ever been involved in, and that includes ones given across a net.
It takes five seconds for Andy to relax; when he does he's almost boneless, pressed chest to chest against Novak with an arm looped around his shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt between his fingers until it's pulled tight across his back. Hunched shoulders shake as he buries his face into the curve of Novak's neck, wetness against his skin that Novak knows isn't from sweat. Salty tears sit there until Andy wipes at them with his hand, mumbled apology so soft that Novak only feels the breath ghosting over damp skin.
Andy has nothing to apologise for, but he doesn't say that, just pulls Andy flush against him until you couldn't fit a shiny pound coin between them, and holds him tight. His shoulders still shake with silent sobs, soft sniffles pressed into his neck. They sound like the noises Andy makes when he's asleep and his face is mashed into a pillow; Novak finds them cute when they're sharing a bed, but now all he wants is for Andy to stop making them.
Fingers rub circles across Andy's hip, hoping to comfort him; it seems to work, eventually his shoulders stop shaking and he's quiet though he doesn't move, still leaning into Novak as though he's the one thing holding him upright. Soft kiss is pressed against his neck, Novak supposes it's as a thank you but he doesn't need one. This is what he should be doing, Andy is- well, he's Andy. And Novak knows what it's like to lose a close match; sometimes it hurts more than to lose one and one. Sometimes it's more difficult to forget those missed chances.
Each minute Andy's pressed against him drags into the next until Novak has no idea how long he's been here. Andy shifts into him, dragging a wet kiss across his cheek until he's at his full height, and though there are mere centimetres between them, he's the only person Novak's ever had to look up to to kiss. Which he does, eyes falling shut as he presses his mouth against Andy's; it's not passionate or desperate but one of comfort, and he feels Andy relax a tiny bit more as his fingers curl into Novak's hair.
"Novak," Andy stutters out, and it's desperate, broken, and Novak doesn't want to leave him. Tonight, or maybe ever, or at least until they're sick or arguing with each other. "God, you-"
"Novak will do just fine," he says around a hopefully teasing grin, because Novak doesn't do emotional talks. Novak does jokes and impressions and makes the world a better place with them, "though it's nice to know you think I'm God."
The roll of Andy's eyes is on perfectly on cue. Novak has to stop his smile from getting wider; this is the Andy he knows and, yes, okay, the Andy he loves.
"Such a brat," is murmured against Novak's lips; he almost protests but Andy's kissing along his lower lip, at the corner of his mouth, along the line of his jaw until they slip into another hug. This time it's Novak who's crushed against Andy, Andy who smells of sweat and the faint hint of the minty shower gel he always uses, the shower gel that Novak has a bottle of in Belgrade, another in Monte Carlo and not just for if Andy ever actually comes to visit him.
How Novak didn't notice that he was completely smitten with Andy Murray before today is a mystery to him. Doesn't bother to think about it for longer than five seconds, because it doesn't change anything.
"Glad you're here," Andy mumbles into his hair, accent almost too thick for Novak to understand but he does; in return he speaks without words, nuzzling into Andy's neck until he realises that turning up to a press conference with stubble rash isn't the greatest idea in the world and stops. Chooses to pepper kisses along Andy's jaw instead, at least until Andy tilts his head up, fingers brushing under his chin, and their mouths meet.
The knock on the door startles them; it invades the cocoon of silence and soft kisses that Novak is enjoying more than he wants to admit, especially before a match. Andy could just not answer it, but there's more than one person who has the code to that door. Anyone finding Novak in here would be bad, not just for Novak but also for Andy, especially if it's one of those bloody Sky people, and oh, now he's thinking like the Scot. Brilliant.
Another knock and a muffled voice. Novak wills every brain cell he has to come up with a plan to hide because there isn't an escape route, and comes up with two options. The bathroom or the wardrobe. Clearly Andy is thinking faster than him, because by the time he's thought of the idea he's being bundled into the wardrobe, a hushed "if you come out, you will die Djokovic" as a threat as the doors are shut. There's a slight gap in the middle of them, just wide enough so Novak can see the reflection of the room in the mirror which finally seems to have a use, and he watches Andy open the door to his locker room.
"Andy," and Novak hears the unmistakable voice of his coach; Marian's the only one who knows about them because they have to be careful, but Marian has some kind of super sense for secrets and when Novak is lying, "I look for Novak, you see him?"
"Er, sorry Marian, I haven't." Andy's voice is carefully flat; Novak can see the impassiveness on his face in the mirror through the crack in the doors.
"Tell him, he need to practice before match, yes?" Marian says, with none of the questioning tone that should be in that question. Sometimes he hates his coach.
"Yeah, I will."
"Thank you Andy," Marian says, always carefully polite in English the way he never is with Novak. "You play well, I sorry you lose. Nole too."
Hates that Marian knows him better than he ever should if it's for Novak's own good, because he hasn't seen him since he all but ran to watch the end of Andy's match on their arrival. Or maybe that gave it away. Or even the fact that Marian knows about their super secret sleeping together when they find the time. Whatever the reason is, it isn't good for Novak.
"I'll send him your way," Andy says with a tired looking smile as he clicks the door back into place, and then probably loud enough for Marian to hear if he's anywhere near the door still, "are you that terrified of your coach, Novak?"
"No, I just like the closet," he says with a smirk, stumbling out of it and watching Andy grin from by the door. A real grin, not the half ones he'd been shown earlier. "Your mum, maybe, but Marian is good guy."
"There's nothing wrong with my mum," Andy mutters under his breath. "You're the problem, Djokovic."
"If she does not like my charming personality, that her problem."
"Trying personality, more like," Andy says; Novak doesn't really understand the phrasing, definitely one of those British things where Novak usually just looks at Andy like he's crazy until he shakes his head and explains what he means but in English this time. But now Andy's smiling at him in the way he only does when they're hurling insults they don't mean at each other.
"Honestly, Novak..." and Andy dips his head, not meeting his eyes. Novak watches as he scuffs the floor with a trainer. "Thanks. For not buggering off when I told you."
Novak remembers when Andy taught him to swear in English, back in their junior days when they had too much time and no care for anything except winning. Laughed with glee when Andy had tried to explain what each one meant when Novak had asked; laughed more when Andy had reached buggered and the tips of his ears had flushed bright red when Novak, in broken English, had pretended he hadn't understood and had him repeat it, except slower.
Though Novak had had the last laugh then, it hadn't lasted long. Djordje had been the first person he'd taught these new words to, and Novak hadn't been able to lie his way out of it when his father had found out, because Novak, teaching a nine year old how to swear in a different language is not appropriate.
"Novak, buggered isn't funny. Except if you're ten," Andy says with a roll of his eyes, "actually, that sounds about right." Novak realises that he's grinning like a crazy person, which probably isn't that far from the truth. If you listen you anyone who knows him anyway.
"No, but I remember when you explain it to me, and then I teach Djole. Dad was not too pleased." Giddy with amusement, the words come out in a rush, and his English gets worse. Always a surprise when Andy understands him but he guesses Andy's had a lifetime spent trying to understand the thick Scottish accent that Novak still can't grasp. Only hears it when Andy's drunk or tired, the slight slur to his words incomprehensible to the Serb, but he tries his hardest. It's just that his hardest isn't that good.
Twitch at the corner of Andy's mouth indicates he's trying hard not to laugh; as he meets Novak's eyes the expression on his face changes, the smile blossoming over an expression that can only be fondness, and leans forward as though he's going to kiss Novak.
He doesn't, though he's close enough that it might look like they are. The back of Andy's knuckles scrape over his own, the slight, unnoticeable gesture between them that might be nothing. For the media, it is nothing, just two players standing a little too close, an accidental brush of hands that happens all the time. It's not, and Novak knows it; it's Andy's way of showing affection when he can't put it into words, whether they're being watched or not.
"What am I going to do with you, Novak Djokovic?" Andy asks softly, affection lacing his accent so much that it takes Novak a couple of tries. Though the question is mostly rhetorical he answers anyway, not just because it's expected, but because he just can't help himself. Andy says it's one of his more annoying qualities. Novak would disagree; he's just providing an answer that Andy might not come up with himself.
"You could always take me to bed," he says, voice sounding more hopeful than he thought it would. "Or if bed is too far, showers."
"You have a match," Andy reminds him, and oh, he does, against Roger Perfect Hair Federer, and sometimes life is just not fair. If he wants to take Andy to bed then he should be able to, and Roger should be pleased he wants to tire himself out before they play.
Fingers curl into Andy's shirt without thinking, and tries his best puppy dog eyes expression, the one that Djordje is just too good at and will get Novak to buy him anything he asks for. Unfortunately, he isn't Djordje, and Andy isn't him, and for his best efforts he gets a smirk and a raised eyebrow. Oh, and a kiss, which is nice, but doesn't last long enough for him.
"Go," Andy says against his mouth. "Or Marian will kill me, and you'll be sleeping alone tonight."
"Okay," Novak mumbles back, sneaking a kiss from Andy before he has time to pull away. "I see you tonight?"
"Yeah," Andy says unsteadily, "but you need your beauty sleep for your match tomorrow."
It's said as a warning; they only share rooms after a those losses that hurt a little more than the rest, and never before a final if they're still in the same city. There's too little sleep and too many marks that can't quite be covered up by a polo shirt, marks that don't matter when you're asleep on a plane or when there are five days before your next match, but they do when they're being broadcast for the world to see. There's too much at stake, both the match and their reputations, and though Novak would love to kiss Andy over the net the next time they play (it's been too long, almost two years), it's easier if he has Jelena and Andy has Kim, and they hide behind thick curtains in beige rooms in a different city each week.
Spending the night with Andy before what could be one of the biggest matches of his career isn't perhaps the smartest thing he could agree to.
Crosses his heart as a reply, which makes Andy laugh; it doesn't reach his eyes but Novak gets that. Smiling after a loss isn't easy, but Andy makes it look like it is no matter how he feels inside. Hopes that he has something to do with that.
The manoeuvre from earlier is repeated, except this time it's Andy who sticks his head out of the door. The corridor is still blissfully empty according to Andy, and Novak briefly wonders if every reporter has followed Rafa into his locker room, and how big is his locker room anyway, because if every reporter is in there is has to be pretty damn big, and then Andy pushes him out of the door with a smirk and he's alone. In the hallway.
Except Marian is there, arms crossed and leaning against the wall across from Andy's door. That bastard, he thinks, but that thought is soon removed from his head by the fact Marian is giving him his best death glare, and Novak wants to run and hide with that Scottish bastard who's probably still laughing at poor defenceless Novak and the big scary - okay, terrifying, because Marian's death glare is one step closer to him - coach that he's now alone with.
There is only one option that Novak can see, and that option is to run as fast as possible to his own door. It won't save him for long; his door isn't very far away and Marian knows the code. But it might give him a few more seconds to think of an escape plan from an on the warpath Marian.
"Ten minutes!" he shouts over his shoulder at Marian, and though he doesn't say a word, he at least stops giving Novak the death glare.
Punches the code into his own door when he reaches it, and as it slides shut behind him, he's pretty sure that he could have a second career as a super-spy. Maybe with MI-5 if Andy manages to get him a green card, or whatever equivalent they have in England. Really he should know, because he almost applied for one, but he was young and stupid and just wanted to hit tennis balls.
Much like he should be doing now. Much like his coach wants him to do now, so he pushes every thought of Andy Murray out of his mind, and as he searches through his bags, spills his life out onto the floor for what seems like the thousandth time.
Eight minutes and fifty four seconds later he bounds out of his locker room, Marian already impatiently waiting for him. Apparently they've been moved to the outside courts, something about Roger Federer and his Godliness needing that court, but Novak doesn't hear the words, just mumbles something non-committal at Marian as he speaks. Instead he catches Andy's eye as he walks between his locker room and the interview room and gives him the softest smile he can, hoping Andy picks up on it before the photographers do.
Their knuckles brush as they pass each other in the corridor. It's left to interpret how Novak likes, Andy's face hidden in his grey hoodie, and he takes it as good luck.
Because everything else, they've already said.