I skirted very close to the word limit for this, haha. This is from one of my favourite fics of yours (Rafa/MAndy is a not-so-secret guilty pleasure of mine).
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 pulled 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?"
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branchandroot
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Date: 2009-11-12 02:10 pm (UTC)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 pulled 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?"