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They meet in the First Class lounge in Abu Dhabi.
“Roger?” he hears from across the room..
Roger turns and sees him, standing up from an armchair, already a little flight-rumpled. “Rafa,” he says, walking towards him and taking his hand, half-hugging him. He looks good, a little tanned after his winter training block. “You’re getting this flight too?”
“Yeah,” says Rafa, smiling. “You not flying in your plane?” He’s surrounded by his team, all sitting in various supine positions in leather armchairs, drinking coffee and juice. Half-eaten pastries lie forgotten on plates on the glass table between them. They each look up and say hi or offer him some silent salute. He greets them in return.
“No,” says Roger. “Mirka’s in Switzerland with the kids. I figured it’d be easier for her to take it.”
“I see,” says Rafa. “Well, this way is not bad.”
“Did you just get in from Mallorca?” asks Roger.
“Barcelona,” says Rafa.
Roger drops his bag and sits close to Rafa, on the arm of an armchair in the next cluster of seats and tables. The two teams say hi and then fall into small talk, observations about the length of flights and flying commercial versus flying private from the Middle East. “Good break, Rafa?” says Roger, quietly.
Rafa smiles up at him, and Roger feels some deep contentment settling in his chest at seeing his face again. There’s always something about Rafa, he knows, for him. Something in his deep-carved dimples, his dark, lovely eyes, his sheer solidity, his presence, that makes Roger feel… happiness. Uncomplicated, warm happiness. He’s felt it for so long, he’s stopped even questioning it. Rafa pushes his hair back from his face and says, “Yes, was good. You?”
“Yeah,” says Roger. “Looking forward to getting back to it, now.”
“At least there are beds on this flight,” says Toni, in response to some comment from Tony Godsick.
“Well, this is it,” replies Tony. “I always feel for the poor sods in economy. Awful way to have to travel.”
But as it turns out, there aren’t beds, not for everyone. An apologetic Etihad liaison informs them that, due to a delay with the flight arriving from Melbourne, they’re flying out on a different model plane from the one they expected, with cabins rather than pods. The result is that there are fewer first class seats than are booked. “We can offer you business class, of course,” she says.
Toni grumbles but says Rafa should take a cabin. “You need to stretch out,” he says, when Rafa tries to object.
“Mr Federer?” says the steward.
“Of course, Roger, take it,” says Tony.
Pierre agrees. “Naturally,” he says, gesturing discreetly to Roger’s back. “Business is fine."
Roger shrugs. They have a point. He does need to lie properly, or he’ll wake up aching. “Okay,” he says, and it’s settled.
In the end Toni and a couple of Roger’s team get cabins too, but theirs are by the windows. Roger and Rafa’s cabins adjoin in the centre of the plane. Roger ducks inside the door of his and takes stock of the plush leather seat, the TV opposite, and the table to one side. He puts his bag down underneath it.
“Roger,” says Rafa, his voice coming muffled through the compartment divider. “I push this back.” He hears clips being undone and sees the divider budge a little, but it doesn’t move.
“Wait, Rafa,” he says. “I have to…” He undoes the clips on his side and then Rafa folds the divider back so their chairs are side by side.
“Too boring, this whole flight only me,” he says. “Is okay?”
“Yeah, Raf,” says Roger. “It’s okay.”
It’s a little strange at first, perhaps. He has spent flights with Rafa before, but usually short ones, and usually with their teams, as well as Mirka and Xisca. To be sitting down right beside Rafa while they watch images from the nose-camera on screen, just the two of them, is different.
“I love this part,” says Rafa.
“Yeah?” says Roger, as the plane taxis towards the runway. “You don’t think it’s scary?”
Rafa shrugs. “Sure, is scary,” he says, wrinkling his nose. The cabin light makes his freckles obvious on his tanned face. “But have to do it, no? So I like to see.”
Roger laughs. “Yeah, good point,” he says.
Once they’re airborne, it’s easy to fall into conversation. It always is with Rafa. They talk about the off-season, about their lives. “What you do for Christmas, Rogi?” asks Rafa.
“We went back to Switzerland for a few days. Well, I went back for a few days. Mirka’s still there, with the kids, in her parents’ house.”
“Ah, you train in Dubai?”
“Yeah,” says Roger. “At least it’s warm.”
Rafa smiles. “Sí, true,” he says. “Mallorca is a little cold I think.”
“You look like you got some sun.”
“From vacation. Not from training.”
“I guess soon there’ll be enough sun.” Temperatures are set to soar in Melbourne, they’ve both heard. “I wonder if sometime soon we’ll have to change the tour because of the climate?” muses Roger, and that starts a conversation that takes them through their meals and into the second round of drinks. By the end of it they’ve listed all the tournaments they can think of that have been the worst affected by heat and rain in recent years and have adjusted the dates of the entire tour calendar to compensate. Rafa is still arguing that the US Open will be too cold when the lights begin to dim and two stewards come and transform their seats into flat beds with sheets and pillows.
“But it does mean a longer off-season,” counters Roger, as the stewards leave the cabins and close the doors behind them.
“That’s true,” Rafa concedes, kicking off his sneakers and piling pillows against the wall at the head of the bed so he can stay half sitting to continue the discussion.
There’s never any point at which Roger even wants to suggest they close the divider again. After the tour debate has been resolved to their satisfaction, Rafa suggests a movie. “Only need one TV,” he points out, and he begins to flick through the options with Roger’s controller. There are no arguments here: they both feel like some fun action movie, and soon they’re watching Dwayne Johnson and his buddies driving fast cars and eyeing beautiful women. Rafa’s not a silent movie watcher, offering commentary throughout, now and then asking Roger for clarification on the English dialogue. He keeps bumping his shoulder against Roger’s as he leans in to listen to his explanation.
Sometime half-way through, though, Roger becomes quiet and sleepy, and he sinks into his bed, pulling the sheets over him. A little while later, Rafa does the same. Once the credits roll, by silent agreement they turn out the lights and fall asleep.
It’s a long flight high over the Indian Ocean, and the dim hum of travel invades Roger’s dreams, now and then drawing him to the surface of sleep. In the low cabin light he sees Rafa stretched out, his sleeping face as calm as Roger has ever seen him. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his cheekbone when he turns to face Roger, snuffling a little and curling against the pillow, and then falling back into deep sleep. Roger is aware that he should feel that this is too much, too close, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t turn away from Rafa’s face. In the comfort of the half-dark he listens to Rafa’s breath and lets it lull him back into dreams.
He awakes when the cabin lights turn on again, their pale glow simulating sunrise. It’s a slow surfacing, jumbled and confused, marked by the feel of a heavy arm across his chest. He turns to see Rafa’s face inches away, still asleep, frowning slightly against the light. Again the thought comes to Roger that he should move, that he shouldn’t be so relaxed here in such close proximity, but though he waits for the feeling to come, it doesn’t. He realises he feels perfectly happy here under the heavy weight of Rafa’s arm, feeling his breath against the sleeve of his t-shirt. He keeps watching as Rafa’s frown deepens and his eyes flicker open. He is bleary and mussed, still cloudy with sleep. “Rogi,” he murmurs, and Roger expects him to draw away, maybe embarrassed, maybe shocked.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he curls closer in, groaning sleepily against the rising light, and buries his face against Roger’s neck. He’s pressed along his side now, all the way down, sinking once more into dreams, sinking against him. One knee bent across Roger’s leg. Roger can almost pinpoint the moment when something kindles in his chest, as if a long-smouldering coal has had life breathed into it and leapt into flame. He squirms an arm free and wraps it around Rafa, holding him close. He can feel Rafa’s cheek against his own, the graze of his stubble. The heat of his breath against his skin. Not far away he can hear the stewards gently tap on cabin doors, offering to clear away the sheets and prepare the cabins for breakfast service.
“Rafa,” says Roger, reluctantly recognising that he has to wake him before they are seen. “Raf. It’s morning.”
Rafa inhales deeply and stretches, his palm flat against Roger’s chest. Roger unthinkingly takes hold of it, holds his hand, watches him fully wake. Again he waits, waiting for Rafa to realise, waiting again for him to pull back.
And again it doesn’t happen. Instead, Rafa smiles wide and happy, letting his head fall against the pillow, his mouth against Roger’s shoulder. “Morning, Rogi,” he says, still gorgeously mussed, a strand of hair stuck against his temple. Roger reaches out and tucks it back.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says. No word can better describe the glow in Rafa’s eyes, the warmth radiating from him. The unadulterated happiness of this moment between them.
When the knock comes they roll apart, allowing the stewards in to clear the night away and set up their seats for the morning. Once they’re alone again, they sit side by side, their arms touching. Roger raises his hand to tangle his fingers in Rafa’s, till they’re entwined, palm to palm. “I’m glad I took this flight,” he says, quietly.
“Me too,” agrees Rafa.
“Where are you staying in Melbourne?” asks Roger.
“Crowne Plaza,” replies Rafa.
“Same,” says Roger. Then, a little hesitantly, “Maybe we can do this again.”
Rafa sighs happily, relaxing against Roger, leaning in close. “Sí, Rogi,” he says. He presses his mouth to Roger’s, just a fleeting kiss, a graze of lips. It’s the lightest of touches, and yet the sensation surges through Roger like a cresting wave. Rafa draws back, just enough to smile and look him in the eyes. “I think we will.”