Fic: Tequila-Soaked Memories
Title:Tequila-Soaked Memories
Author: shana
Dedication: For liroa15 for all she does.
Disclaimer: They do not belong to me. Also, not true. I made it all up.
Pairing: Marat Safin/Juan Carlos Ferrero
Rating: PG
A.N: For the netcord.
His career ends on the edge of a title, and it seems like that's the way it should be. He should be perched on the edge of greatness, ready to ascend, but never quite making it. He's used to falling just a little bit short. It's the nature of tennis. One moment, he's kissing the trophy at Roland Garros, and the next has him unable to beat Nico Almagro at his own event. Not that there's anything wrong with losing to Nico, it's just that he remembers Nico when he was losing Challengers.
The thing is he knows that when he wakes up tomorrow, his retirement won't be a big deal. The world will move on from the edge of almost and go back to normal. For everyone except him. His career will always hang on the edge of that last title. It'll always be marred by that last almost.
He didn't think it was going to be a big deal. He didn't think retiring would be a big deal either. He's been injured so much over the last few years that he sort of imagined it'd be the same. He's still got the Academy, and it's not like tennis stopped when he retired...
It still feels different.
He's pretty sure it shouldn't. There's not that much difference. The academy is still there, and so is his charity work in Valencia and with kids. He thought he was ready to give up travelling the world to hit a little yellow ball around. His body certainly was. He thought this would be liberating.
Apparently, there was no way to prepare for the long walk into the sunset.
He waits a while, thinking that tomorrow will be better, that he'll feel less like something is missing, before he gives up and calls the guys he was close to on tour who have already done this. Maybe there's some zen secret someone forgot to tell him. Carlos and Marat seem like a good place to start.
Marat is difficult of which to get a hold. He's not using the same number he was when he was on tour and calling his office--it's surreal to think of Marat with an office--and leaving a message for him about what to do during retirement. Marat's managed to create a new career for himself, as a politician, and it seems like he might have insight.
Carlos is less help. Carlos has a school in Madrid now, with Rafael, and a wife and children. However, being busy with an expanding family isn't exactly helpful in his search for what makes being retired fit and feel right.
It feels like being injured but without the rehab and practice and pay-off of returning to the tour at the end of it all. It feels like being a tennis player without any of what makes it worth it, like being given the runner's up plate at every tournament. It's being on the edge of something and not being part of it.
It has him out of sorts more than a month later when his obsessing over what it means to be retired is interrupted by someone leaning on the buzzer for his apartment. Hitting the intercom, he expects to hear the voice of a delivery man, even though he didn't order anything.
"You called." The voice on the other end is rough, the Spanish sounding forced.
He buzzes Marat in without another word, trying to figure out what to say. Marat, who had been both a nemesis and friend over the course of their careers, is standing at his door now with no warning.
"You could have just called," he chides, opening the door to Marat. "Just because I called and left a message with one of your assistants doesn't mean you had to come and visit."
"You sounded rather desperate."
"It was a message. I left it a month ago."
"I know. There hasn't been a good time for a vacation until now. I could use a break from youth parliaments and student meetings."
"Being a politician is everything you imagined?"
"It is everything I thought it would be. It's not tennis though."
"If you're still not settled, that doesn't give me a lot of hope for myself."
"Well, letting me in out of the hall where your neighbours can gossip is a good step..."
"Of course. Forgive me. I don't know what I was thinking." He can feel the heat rising in his face. His Mama would be ashamed of his abilities as a host.
"You were obviously stunned by my presence and amazing good looks."
"Maybe it was just your ego squeezing all the air out of the room." Still, he steps out of the way and lets Marat in. His place isn't very clean, and his Mama would probably be horrified, but he's pretty sure Marat's not going to care.
He helps Marat bring his bags in. He's not sure what he should be doing now that Marat is here. He didn't exactly invite the other man, even if he did ask for Marat's help.
It's awkward for the first little bit. It's not like he and Marat have spent a whole lot of time together since Marat retired. Before that, they concentrated mainly on tennis and sometimes on drunk sex.
What do they really have to talk about now? The best way to fade into the sunset? It can't be as easy as going out for drinks and talking about the good old days. And that's not the point anyway.
He's not sure how any of this is supposed to work anymore. How does he wrap his head around the fact that Marat is a politician and he's not a tennis player?
"You're still thinking too much, old friend. That always used to be your problem. Always thinking but never doing."
"You sound like my mother now."
"Maybe you should listen to your mother if you don't want to listen to me."
"Maybe I would if either one of you said anything that made sense."
"You called me for help. You called because you don't know what to do now. All your life, it has been tennis. If you are not on the court, then you are training to be on the court, rehabing to be on the court, travelling to get to the court, or doing press conferences and sponsorships to have money for your career, and now it's not. So you don't know what to do. You thought it would all sort itself out, but it doesn't work like that."
"Fine, Marat. Tell me what to do."
"The first step is the hardest. Stop thinking that you're a tennis player. You're not. Now you have to try to think of the things you wanted to do as a tennis player but couldn't."
"I am a tennis player. I'll always be a tennis player."
"No. Now you are a man who plays tennis or a teacher. You're not a tennis player. So what did you want to do? You want to travel? See the world? Go sit on a beach? Get drunk every day for a month? What is it that you want? Write a book like Agassi?"
"I never really thought about it, Marat. I never really had to. I had the Academy. I thought that would be enough."
"You should start. Maybe it's easy like it was for Moya? You just need a wife and babies."
"You went into politics."
"I'm different. I like to talk to people, to figure them out. I don't want a family, or a tennis academy, or whatever it is you want. It may take a little while, but I think you'll figure it out."
"That's the advice you couldn't just give me over the phone?"
"Yes, because you think too much, Juanqui. You don't do things because you think about them too much. And you're still thinking like a tennis player."
"And you coming to visit will change that?"
"I've always been good at making you do things you think are bad ideas. I mean we never would have sex in the French Open locker rooms if I wasn't."
He can't help but smile a little at that memory. It had been crazy, and he'd been afraid the entire time they were going to get caught, but it had been a thrill.
"I don't think having sex in public places is a good choice for something to do with my life."
Marat sighs. "You're stupid, Juanqui."
"I've missed having you around too, Marat."
"You've missed having someone to drink tequila with when we could sneak away from coaches, and someone to talk about how horrible all the players still in a tournament we were eliminated from were."
He laughs. Those are good memories with Marat. He remembers sitting in Sevilla with Marat, drinking, and cursing Rafael after the 2004 Davis Cup final. He can feel a wide smile stretch his face. "We did that a couple times, yes."
Marat's answering grin is sly. "That you remember at least."
"You're not going to convince me I've gotten so drunk I've forgotten whole nights with you."
"You already half believe it. I'm not sure how much more convincing I need to do."
"One last time?" he finds himself suggesting. "We can sit around and complain about how much money these young players make."
Marat laughs. "Or how much they complain if all the surfaces don't play the same. Maybe I should have demanded to not play during the day..."
"I thought you did? If anyone would have, it would have been you. After the grass is for cows comments you made, I was sure if it was anyone, it would be you."
"No. I had to listen to the Russian Federation talk about that for years, and every year at Wimbledon, someone would bring it up."
He finds himself nodding without thinking about it. "I have tequila. Let's do this one last time. Say goodbye in a good way."
"Only if it's good tequila."
He laughs. "Of course I have good tequila. You're in my home, Marat. It's not like that time at your place where all you was that horrible vodka."
"You've yet to produce this tequila for judgement."
"Sit. I'll be back with the glasses and the tequila."
The glasses are a little bit bigger than wise, but the unopened bottle of tequila is very, very good. They put too much in each glass, but that's okay. They have nowhere else to be.
"Cheers."
The glasses clink together.
The next morning he feels like he's ten years dumber than he is. He's got a splitting headache and what feels like a dead animal in his mouth. Marat drags himself into the kitchen when Juanqui's on his second cup of coffee.
"We're not as young as we used to be," Marat mumbles, grabbing for one of the cups on the counter.
"That's why we're both retired now."
Marat groans. "Stop talking. It's too loud."
"You're the one that started this conversation. You're also the one that wanted to do that last set of shots."
"Stop talking."
He laughs a little, feeling lighter than he has in a while, watching Marat and an almost too full cup of coffee retreat to the living room. When he finally gets himself under control, he follows.
Marat's sprawled out over the sofa where they both fell asleep last night.
It doesn't take very long, but it does take an obscene amount of coffee, for Marat to feel human enough to start poking him a foot.
"Let's do something?"
"What?"
"Isn't Valencia famous for beaches?"
"You're still hungover. Do you really want to go to the beaches with all the sun just to look at the half-naked bodies?"
"Well, it would be better than last night. Despite my best efforts, we both woke up wearing clothes."
"Too much tequila for sex."
"There's not too much tequila now."
"Talk to me in a few hours when I don't still feel so awful from all the tequila. Then we can do something about all the clothes."
"Only if you're interested."
"We'll think of it as a send off into retirement."
"I would say it's my final gift to you, but I came here to help you, so that should be my final gift."
"Maybe it's a thank you from me to you."
"Or just a good memory between friends."
He reaches out to pull Marat's face a little closer. "I think I can handle that. Maybe we can even create some new memories. There are no trainers or practices or injuries or any place to be. I think I could come to like being retired."
Marat leans in. "Sometimes a new thing can be even better than the one that came before it. Let me show you."
Then his lips are covered by Marat's in a slow slide inside of the frantic, almost violent kisses of their playing days. There might be something to leaving the past in the past and trying new things.
Fini.
S
Author: shana
Dedication: For liroa15 for all she does.
Disclaimer: They do not belong to me. Also, not true. I made it all up.
Pairing: Marat Safin/Juan Carlos Ferrero
Rating: PG
A.N: For the netcord.
His career ends on the edge of a title, and it seems like that's the way it should be. He should be perched on the edge of greatness, ready to ascend, but never quite making it. He's used to falling just a little bit short. It's the nature of tennis. One moment, he's kissing the trophy at Roland Garros, and the next has him unable to beat Nico Almagro at his own event. Not that there's anything wrong with losing to Nico, it's just that he remembers Nico when he was losing Challengers.
The thing is he knows that when he wakes up tomorrow, his retirement won't be a big deal. The world will move on from the edge of almost and go back to normal. For everyone except him. His career will always hang on the edge of that last title. It'll always be marred by that last almost.
He didn't think it was going to be a big deal. He didn't think retiring would be a big deal either. He's been injured so much over the last few years that he sort of imagined it'd be the same. He's still got the Academy, and it's not like tennis stopped when he retired...
It still feels different.
He's pretty sure it shouldn't. There's not that much difference. The academy is still there, and so is his charity work in Valencia and with kids. He thought he was ready to give up travelling the world to hit a little yellow ball around. His body certainly was. He thought this would be liberating.
Apparently, there was no way to prepare for the long walk into the sunset.
He waits a while, thinking that tomorrow will be better, that he'll feel less like something is missing, before he gives up and calls the guys he was close to on tour who have already done this. Maybe there's some zen secret someone forgot to tell him. Carlos and Marat seem like a good place to start.
Marat is difficult of which to get a hold. He's not using the same number he was when he was on tour and calling his office--it's surreal to think of Marat with an office--and leaving a message for him about what to do during retirement. Marat's managed to create a new career for himself, as a politician, and it seems like he might have insight.
Carlos is less help. Carlos has a school in Madrid now, with Rafael, and a wife and children. However, being busy with an expanding family isn't exactly helpful in his search for what makes being retired fit and feel right.
It feels like being injured but without the rehab and practice and pay-off of returning to the tour at the end of it all. It feels like being a tennis player without any of what makes it worth it, like being given the runner's up plate at every tournament. It's being on the edge of something and not being part of it.
It has him out of sorts more than a month later when his obsessing over what it means to be retired is interrupted by someone leaning on the buzzer for his apartment. Hitting the intercom, he expects to hear the voice of a delivery man, even though he didn't order anything.
"You called." The voice on the other end is rough, the Spanish sounding forced.
He buzzes Marat in without another word, trying to figure out what to say. Marat, who had been both a nemesis and friend over the course of their careers, is standing at his door now with no warning.
"You could have just called," he chides, opening the door to Marat. "Just because I called and left a message with one of your assistants doesn't mean you had to come and visit."
"You sounded rather desperate."
"It was a message. I left it a month ago."
"I know. There hasn't been a good time for a vacation until now. I could use a break from youth parliaments and student meetings."
"Being a politician is everything you imagined?"
"It is everything I thought it would be. It's not tennis though."
"If you're still not settled, that doesn't give me a lot of hope for myself."
"Well, letting me in out of the hall where your neighbours can gossip is a good step..."
"Of course. Forgive me. I don't know what I was thinking." He can feel the heat rising in his face. His Mama would be ashamed of his abilities as a host.
"You were obviously stunned by my presence and amazing good looks."
"Maybe it was just your ego squeezing all the air out of the room." Still, he steps out of the way and lets Marat in. His place isn't very clean, and his Mama would probably be horrified, but he's pretty sure Marat's not going to care.
He helps Marat bring his bags in. He's not sure what he should be doing now that Marat is here. He didn't exactly invite the other man, even if he did ask for Marat's help.
It's awkward for the first little bit. It's not like he and Marat have spent a whole lot of time together since Marat retired. Before that, they concentrated mainly on tennis and sometimes on drunk sex.
What do they really have to talk about now? The best way to fade into the sunset? It can't be as easy as going out for drinks and talking about the good old days. And that's not the point anyway.
He's not sure how any of this is supposed to work anymore. How does he wrap his head around the fact that Marat is a politician and he's not a tennis player?
"You're still thinking too much, old friend. That always used to be your problem. Always thinking but never doing."
"You sound like my mother now."
"Maybe you should listen to your mother if you don't want to listen to me."
"Maybe I would if either one of you said anything that made sense."
"You called me for help. You called because you don't know what to do now. All your life, it has been tennis. If you are not on the court, then you are training to be on the court, rehabing to be on the court, travelling to get to the court, or doing press conferences and sponsorships to have money for your career, and now it's not. So you don't know what to do. You thought it would all sort itself out, but it doesn't work like that."
"Fine, Marat. Tell me what to do."
"The first step is the hardest. Stop thinking that you're a tennis player. You're not. Now you have to try to think of the things you wanted to do as a tennis player but couldn't."
"I am a tennis player. I'll always be a tennis player."
"No. Now you are a man who plays tennis or a teacher. You're not a tennis player. So what did you want to do? You want to travel? See the world? Go sit on a beach? Get drunk every day for a month? What is it that you want? Write a book like Agassi?"
"I never really thought about it, Marat. I never really had to. I had the Academy. I thought that would be enough."
"You should start. Maybe it's easy like it was for Moya? You just need a wife and babies."
"You went into politics."
"I'm different. I like to talk to people, to figure them out. I don't want a family, or a tennis academy, or whatever it is you want. It may take a little while, but I think you'll figure it out."
"That's the advice you couldn't just give me over the phone?"
"Yes, because you think too much, Juanqui. You don't do things because you think about them too much. And you're still thinking like a tennis player."
"And you coming to visit will change that?"
"I've always been good at making you do things you think are bad ideas. I mean we never would have sex in the French Open locker rooms if I wasn't."
He can't help but smile a little at that memory. It had been crazy, and he'd been afraid the entire time they were going to get caught, but it had been a thrill.
"I don't think having sex in public places is a good choice for something to do with my life."
Marat sighs. "You're stupid, Juanqui."
"I've missed having you around too, Marat."
"You've missed having someone to drink tequila with when we could sneak away from coaches, and someone to talk about how horrible all the players still in a tournament we were eliminated from were."
He laughs. Those are good memories with Marat. He remembers sitting in Sevilla with Marat, drinking, and cursing Rafael after the 2004 Davis Cup final. He can feel a wide smile stretch his face. "We did that a couple times, yes."
Marat's answering grin is sly. "That you remember at least."
"You're not going to convince me I've gotten so drunk I've forgotten whole nights with you."
"You already half believe it. I'm not sure how much more convincing I need to do."
"One last time?" he finds himself suggesting. "We can sit around and complain about how much money these young players make."
Marat laughs. "Or how much they complain if all the surfaces don't play the same. Maybe I should have demanded to not play during the day..."
"I thought you did? If anyone would have, it would have been you. After the grass is for cows comments you made, I was sure if it was anyone, it would be you."
"No. I had to listen to the Russian Federation talk about that for years, and every year at Wimbledon, someone would bring it up."
He finds himself nodding without thinking about it. "I have tequila. Let's do this one last time. Say goodbye in a good way."
"Only if it's good tequila."
He laughs. "Of course I have good tequila. You're in my home, Marat. It's not like that time at your place where all you was that horrible vodka."
"You've yet to produce this tequila for judgement."
"Sit. I'll be back with the glasses and the tequila."
The glasses are a little bit bigger than wise, but the unopened bottle of tequila is very, very good. They put too much in each glass, but that's okay. They have nowhere else to be.
"Cheers."
The glasses clink together.
The next morning he feels like he's ten years dumber than he is. He's got a splitting headache and what feels like a dead animal in his mouth. Marat drags himself into the kitchen when Juanqui's on his second cup of coffee.
"We're not as young as we used to be," Marat mumbles, grabbing for one of the cups on the counter.
"That's why we're both retired now."
Marat groans. "Stop talking. It's too loud."
"You're the one that started this conversation. You're also the one that wanted to do that last set of shots."
"Stop talking."
He laughs a little, feeling lighter than he has in a while, watching Marat and an almost too full cup of coffee retreat to the living room. When he finally gets himself under control, he follows.
Marat's sprawled out over the sofa where they both fell asleep last night.
It doesn't take very long, but it does take an obscene amount of coffee, for Marat to feel human enough to start poking him a foot.
"Let's do something?"
"What?"
"Isn't Valencia famous for beaches?"
"You're still hungover. Do you really want to go to the beaches with all the sun just to look at the half-naked bodies?"
"Well, it would be better than last night. Despite my best efforts, we both woke up wearing clothes."
"Too much tequila for sex."
"There's not too much tequila now."
"Talk to me in a few hours when I don't still feel so awful from all the tequila. Then we can do something about all the clothes."
"Only if you're interested."
"We'll think of it as a send off into retirement."
"I would say it's my final gift to you, but I came here to help you, so that should be my final gift."
"Maybe it's a thank you from me to you."
"Or just a good memory between friends."
He reaches out to pull Marat's face a little closer. "I think I can handle that. Maybe we can even create some new memories. There are no trainers or practices or injuries or any place to be. I think I could come to like being retired."
Marat leans in. "Sometimes a new thing can be even better than the one that came before it. Let me show you."
Then his lips are covered by Marat's in a slow slide inside of the frantic, almost violent kisses of their playing days. There might be something to leaving the past in the past and trying new things.
Fini.
S