fic: no more stones to throw (tennis rps)
Aug. 26th, 2009 04:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meretriculaI remain baffled by the tenure of this tennis obsession, but I guess there's nothing for it but to see how long the sickness can last...
title: no more stones to throw
fandom: tennis rps
pairing: nole/rafa, mandy-->rafa
rating: pg
word count: 1000
summary: Somehow, he'd thought it would be more satisfying.
notes: takes place during the early rounds of Cincinnati. many thanks to the gracious![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aramley for the beta!
Somehow, he'd thought it would be more satisfying. He was the number two tennis player in the world, the highest ranked British (or Scottish, if you were going to get picky about it, which he was) man in the history of the ranking system, but it didn't feel any different. It should have been different, he thought irritably. He'd earned it, hadn't he, even though nobody would admit it: it was all poor Rafa and poor Rafa's knees, so sad, cry me a fucking river.
He just wanted some acknowledgment, that was all. Which was why he was still lurking in the locker room after his match, waiting for Rafa to get out of the showers. It was petty and childish and he didn't care at all.
"Hey," someone said from behind him, and clapped him on the shoulder. "What are you doing still here?"
"Hi, Novak," Andy said. Novak was smiling at him, but he looked faintly quizzical. "Yeah, you've caught me, I guess. I wanted to talk to Rafa, y'know?"
Novak's expression hardened: it was like a shutter had dropped over his face. Andy had known Novak for a long time, but he'd never seen him look like that, not even when they were facing each other across the net - like he would have been perfectly happy to kill Andy, stuff his body in a locker and leave it there to rot. "Andy, leave Rafa alone," he said flatly.
"What? I'm not gonna, I don't know, call him names or insult his mother or whatever," Andy laughed. "And he's a big boy, you know, I don't think he needs you to protect him from me."
"I mean it, leave him alone," Novak repeated, unamused. Andy stared at him in total disbelief, but before he could make a witty comeback (which would have probably been along the lines of, "what the fuck?") they were interrupted by a cheerful call of, "Hola!" from the other side of the room.
"Hey, Rafa," Andy said. Novak just waved, the murderous look gone from his face like it had never been there. The speed of the transformation was honestly a little scary.
"Oh, Andy," Rafa said as he dropped his towel and started rummaging in his bag for his underwear, completely unembarrassed by his nudity. "I never say you congratulations, for Montreal. You play amazing, no?"
"Thanks," Andy said. He would have done pushups in a hotel lobby wearing nothing but Kim's panties before he'd admit it, but there was a kind of warm squishy feeling in his chest that surfaced whenever Rafa told him he'd played well. "I hope I can keep it up, you know?"
Rafa had gotten his shorts on, and grinned at him before yanking a T-shirt over his head. "No so good for me, no? But for sure, good luck. I gonna try and get you soon, no?"
"Looking forward to it." Andy hesitated, not sure what to say next, and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Novak was giving him the glare of death again. He had no idea what had crawled up his ass and died; normally he'd be bouncing around the locker room egging Andy on. "Look, Rafa - "
Rafa obeyed, turning away from his bag to face Andy. Something in his face softened when he saw Andy shuffling his feet - like a fucking schoolboy, for the love of God - and he repeated gently, "Andy, congratulations. For everything, no? For sure you deserve - ranking, and win tournament, and everything, no?" Andy ducked his head, embarrassed by the sudden realization of how much he had wanted - needed - Rafa to say that, after Roger and all his snide comments to the press. "But I go now, or my coach gonna be mad for sure," Rafa added. "Nole, I see you later, no?"
"Okay, sure," Novak said. Rafa paused and reached out to touch his arm as he was walking past, and they smiled at each other, and suddenly Andy saw it: Rafa's hand on Novak's bicep, and the way Novak had been trying to protect Rafa from him, and the soft, stupid look on both their faces, and God, how had he not known this?
The thing was, he'd known - he'd thought he'd known - about Rafa and Roger. Rafa's epic unsubtle crush was not exactly a secret. Back when he was still starting out on tour, and traveling with Jamie, they'd used to put bets on how many times Rafa could call Roger perfect in one press conference despite having just ground him into the dirt. (Andy had stopped playing that game, even with himself, after Paris last year. If Rafa's ridiculous infatuation could survive that match, it was never going to go away.) And he'd fought, and trained, and pushed as hard as he could to get in between the two of them, and he'd finally succeeded - second best in the world, finally better than Rafa after chasing him for what felt like forever.
He didn't feel like he'd caught Rafa. Rafa was right next to him and further away than ever, looking at Novak - fucking Novak - with so much open affection on his face that anybody with half a brain could see it. Andy snuck a glance at Novak, hoping against hope that this was somehow a very unfunny joke; he didn't even notice. He'd put his other hand on top of Rafa's, his fingers pale against Rafa's tan, and the worried tension in his shoulders was visibly fading with every moment they touched.
The unfairness of it all stuck in Andy's throat. It was one thing with the Spaniards who ganged around Rafa all the time, teasing and protective like older brothers, or Roger, who despite being a self-enchanted ass probably was the greatest of all time: Andy hated it, but he understood it. What had Novak ever done to deserve this, except lose when Andy had won? "I have to go," Andy said abruptly, and pushed past them both. "See you around."
Fuck that noise. If Rafa wanted to slum it with some asshole who couldn't make it past the quarters lately even if his opponent had one hand tied behind his back, that was his business. Andy was going to make it all the way to number one. He'd show them then. He'd show them all.
title: no more stones to throw
fandom: tennis rps
pairing: nole/rafa, mandy-->rafa
rating: pg
word count: 1000
summary: Somehow, he'd thought it would be more satisfying.
notes: takes place during the early rounds of Cincinnati. many thanks to the gracious
aramley for the beta! Somehow, he'd thought it would be more satisfying. He was the number two tennis player in the world, the highest ranked British (or Scottish, if you were going to get picky about it, which he was) man in the history of the ranking system, but it didn't feel any different. It should have been different, he thought irritably. He'd earned it, hadn't he, even though nobody would admit it: it was all poor Rafa and poor Rafa's knees, so sad, cry me a fucking river.
He just wanted some acknowledgment, that was all. Which was why he was still lurking in the locker room after his match, waiting for Rafa to get out of the showers. It was petty and childish and he didn't care at all.
"Hey," someone said from behind him, and clapped him on the shoulder. "What are you doing still here?"
"Hi, Novak," Andy said. Novak was smiling at him, but he looked faintly quizzical. "Yeah, you've caught me, I guess. I wanted to talk to Rafa, y'know?"
Novak's expression hardened: it was like a shutter had dropped over his face. Andy had known Novak for a long time, but he'd never seen him look like that, not even when they were facing each other across the net - like he would have been perfectly happy to kill Andy, stuff his body in a locker and leave it there to rot. "Andy, leave Rafa alone," he said flatly.
"What? I'm not gonna, I don't know, call him names or insult his mother or whatever," Andy laughed. "And he's a big boy, you know, I don't think he needs you to protect him from me."
"I mean it, leave him alone," Novak repeated, unamused. Andy stared at him in total disbelief, but before he could make a witty comeback (which would have probably been along the lines of, "what the fuck?") they were interrupted by a cheerful call of, "Hola!" from the other side of the room.
"Hey, Rafa," Andy said. Novak just waved, the murderous look gone from his face like it had never been there. The speed of the transformation was honestly a little scary.
"Oh, Andy," Rafa said as he dropped his towel and started rummaging in his bag for his underwear, completely unembarrassed by his nudity. "I never say you congratulations, for Montreal. You play amazing, no?"
"Thanks," Andy said. He would have done pushups in a hotel lobby wearing nothing but Kim's panties before he'd admit it, but there was a kind of warm squishy feeling in his chest that surfaced whenever Rafa told him he'd played well. "I hope I can keep it up, you know?"
Rafa had gotten his shorts on, and grinned at him before yanking a T-shirt over his head. "No so good for me, no? But for sure, good luck. I gonna try and get you soon, no?"
"Looking forward to it." Andy hesitated, not sure what to say next, and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Novak was giving him the glare of death again. He had no idea what had crawled up his ass and died; normally he'd be bouncing around the locker room egging Andy on. "Look, Rafa - "
Rafa obeyed, turning away from his bag to face Andy. Something in his face softened when he saw Andy shuffling his feet - like a fucking schoolboy, for the love of God - and he repeated gently, "Andy, congratulations. For everything, no? For sure you deserve - ranking, and win tournament, and everything, no?" Andy ducked his head, embarrassed by the sudden realization of how much he had wanted - needed - Rafa to say that, after Roger and all his snide comments to the press. "But I go now, or my coach gonna be mad for sure," Rafa added. "Nole, I see you later, no?"
"Okay, sure," Novak said. Rafa paused and reached out to touch his arm as he was walking past, and they smiled at each other, and suddenly Andy saw it: Rafa's hand on Novak's bicep, and the way Novak had been trying to protect Rafa from him, and the soft, stupid look on both their faces, and God, how had he not known this?
The thing was, he'd known - he'd thought he'd known - about Rafa and Roger. Rafa's epic unsubtle crush was not exactly a secret. Back when he was still starting out on tour, and traveling with Jamie, they'd used to put bets on how many times Rafa could call Roger perfect in one press conference despite having just ground him into the dirt. (Andy had stopped playing that game, even with himself, after Paris last year. If Rafa's ridiculous infatuation could survive that match, it was never going to go away.) And he'd fought, and trained, and pushed as hard as he could to get in between the two of them, and he'd finally succeeded - second best in the world, finally better than Rafa after chasing him for what felt like forever.
He didn't feel like he'd caught Rafa. Rafa was right next to him and further away than ever, looking at Novak - fucking Novak - with so much open affection on his face that anybody with half a brain could see it. Andy snuck a glance at Novak, hoping against hope that this was somehow a very unfunny joke; he didn't even notice. He'd put his other hand on top of Rafa's, his fingers pale against Rafa's tan, and the worried tension in his shoulders was visibly fading with every moment they touched.
The unfairness of it all stuck in Andy's throat. It was one thing with the Spaniards who ganged around Rafa all the time, teasing and protective like older brothers, or Roger, who despite being a self-enchanted ass probably was the greatest of all time: Andy hated it, but he understood it. What had Novak ever done to deserve this, except lose when Andy had won? "I have to go," Andy said abruptly, and pushed past them both. "See you around."
Fuck that noise. If Rafa wanted to slum it with some asshole who couldn't make it past the quarters lately even if his opponent had one hand tied behind his back, that was his business. Andy was going to make it all the way to number one. He'd show them then. He'd show them all.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-08-26 09:38 pm (UTC)And Rafa and Nole's moment is just *precious*... :)
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Date: 2009-08-26 11:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2009-08-27 02:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2009-08-27 03:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2009-08-27 07:34 pm (UTC)Roger, who despite being a self-enchanted ass probably was the greatest of all time
- this hits the nail right on head ;D
I don't care for Murray either but Nole/Rafa is turning out to be one of my favourite pairings and I really, really, really enjoyed this. Great job!
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From:no subject
Date: 2009-08-28 01:32 am (UTC)All the lines in this fic--about Roger, about Nole, about everything--are absolutely spot-on. Rafa & Nole continue their march toward OTP-hood in my heart. And Andy... Your characterization of him is just heart-wrenching, even with all the snark and bitterness.
...augh. I like Andy, honest, but I'm not supposed to like him this much. IHU. D: Love your writing so much. ♥
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Date: 2009-11-23 04:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-02 12:36 am (UTC)Andy's POV is amazing, love that whiny brat. His crush on Rafa was so &hearts
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