Fic: The True Definition of a Man
Title: The True Definition of a Man
Pairing: Roger Federer/Marat Safin
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: "Let no one get close to me, before you and me"--Musiq Soulchild, "Teach Me"
A/N: Angst, sex, sap. Despite the title, i may have turned them into women. Please let me know if i did, as that was not the intention. Feedback is always wonderful, good and bad. For PotM
The song is absolutely beautiful and i recommend you check it out here.
A half glass of vodka remains untouched for the last thirty-seven minutes, the lone ice cube now long gone and diluting the alcohol. It sits on the coffee table in the dark hotel room, the air stale and in need of an open window. Marat is seated in front of it, staring at the glass. The curtains are open, so the streetlights illuminate as little as they can. There’s the hum of the television, some Russian rip-off of MTV that plays as the background music. His eyes hurt, little pinpricks of pain around his eyelids but he can’t close them, doesn’t want to close them. He’d rather endure the pain than have the image of dejected brown eyes haunt him. It’s been a long night though and Marat doesn’t know how much longer he can hold up. His body is screaming for sleep, pleading for even a short little nap. Marat, however, doesn’t relent, his eyes swinging back to the screen. The familiar sounds of Russian music is almost enough to make him smile, reminding him of countless memories of parties, friends and sex. The blonde singer does her best to hold his attention but soon enough; the muscles in Marat’s eyes give up and fall.
The room smell of them, of their sex. Marat’s off to the side of the bed, catching his breath. Roger has his head on his chest, breathing an issue for him as well as he tries to steady himself. When he regains enough control to get up, Roger presses a kiss to Marat’s chest, then leans up on his elbows to reach his lips. Marat turns his head to the side, and Roger kisses the air. Marat looks down at him, with a frown on his face. Roger knows the rules. He knows that this is just a meeting of convenience, of nothing more but sex and release. Roger knows this because it has been going on for weeks now, six to be exactly. But he thought tonight was different; he thought Marat understood him. But clearly, he thought wrong. As much as he hates himself for it, he leaves but not without placing another kiss on Marat, this time on his stubbled cheek. Marat leans back to turn off the lamp as he hears the door close in the distance.
Red eyes whip open, scarred from the memory. He didn’t care at first; Roger’s a man, he would be alright. He knew exactly what he was getting into the night it all started and every night they met after. But somewhere along the lines, they started spending more and more time together, learning each other’s likes and dislikes, pet peeves and hobbies. Marat’s resolve slowly faded away until a week ago he caught himself staring at Roger sleeping, fingers itching to run through his hair. Later that night, when they had sex again, when Roger tried to kiss him Marat wasn’t ready and pushed him away the only way he knew how.
It’s been a week. They haven’t spoken to each other, haven’t even made eye contact. And what fucks up everything royally is that Marat doesn’t miss the sex, not as much as he misses Roger himself. It took about two weeks into their “meetings” for Roger to loosen up and be himself, smiling and laughing without abandon. Now all he can see is the hurt, raw and bare, in Roger’s eyes when he carelessly pushed him away. Nothing’s helped, not sleep, not tennis, not even vodka.
Nonetheless, he picks up the glass once again, returning to the only solution he’s ever known. Roger wants love, something he can’t give him. Marat doesn’t even know what the word means, so how could he love someone? It’s never bothered him before; he’d just discard them or be discarded and move on to the next one. But this… Roger’s different and he doesn’t know why. He makes him want to try, want to be… different? Better? That’s the part that’s killing Marat. He wants to change and why? For Roger? For something he can’t even name?
The half glass of vodka is knocked back with practiced ease and when he closes his eyes this time, the darkness is blinding.
{*}
“Hey Roger”
He whips around, and offers a half smile when he sees who it is. “Hey Dmitry. How are you?”
Dmitry shifts on the spot, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “Good, thanks. I was, uh, told to give you this.” He pulls out an envelope, hands it to Roger and leaves without giving Roger the opportunity to thank him. The front is blank, just as is the back. He carefully opens it and slides out the piece of paper and keycard.
We need to talk. M
He slips the paper back into the envelope, but the keycard remains in his hand, heavy.
{*}
Against better judgment, Roger finds himself standing outside Marat’s hotel room door. He pushes his thoughts aside as he inserts the card into the slot and turns the doorknob when it flashes green. He steps inside and lets himself walk towards the middle of the room. It’s quiet, as though empty. He sighs and turns to leave when he sees Marat come out of another door. Roger freezes, as his body is flooded with emotions he promised he left behind that day a week ago.
Marat walks up to him, no hint of his playful smile in sight. When he drops to his knees in front of Roger, Roger’s follow him the whole time, surprised but not sure what to do. Marat takes his hands into own and hold on tight.
“Teach me.” It’s whispered, barely there, but Roger catches it and is puzzled.
Marat looks up at him, brown eyes wide and bare, empty of his cool confidence. “Teach me, Roger. I- I feel like I’m lost. Show me. Teach me.” He leaves out the word he’s desperately trying to convey. He’s not doing it on purpose. He wants to, but he doesn’t know how.
Roger sinks to knees too, so they’re face-to-face, fingers curling around each other’s. He’s read between the lines, understands exactly what Marat can’t say. He doesn’t speak as he leans in and presses their lips together. He feels Marat’s hesitance but he doesn’t pull away. The kiss is light, just a press of lips. He brushes his against Marat’s once, twice, three times before Marat surprises him by parting his lips just a little but it was enough. Roger lets his tongue slip through the opening, gently though. He’s wanted to have this, have Marat like this, for a while now, six weeks to be exact. When Marat’s tongue touches his own, Roger knows they’ll be ok.
Breaking the kiss, Roger holds on to their hands as he stands them both up. He starts to lead them over to the couch when Marat tugs on their joined hands and pulls them towards room and the bed. Roger’s not sure if he can do this right now, if it would be smart to be doing this right now. But he remains silent as he lets Marat sit him down on the bed, himself kneeling in front again. He parts Roger’s legs and presses his body in between them, his head settling against his stomach. Roger sucks in a breath at the contact and runs his fingers through Marat’s hair. They remain joined like this for a moment, without words, reveling in the touch. Roger slips his hands under his arms and tugs lightly as he begins to scoot back onto the bed. They settle next to one another, staring in comfortable silence. Marat has this look of anxious fear in his eyes, as though he’s nervous to show Roger how he feels but terrified of what he does feel. Roger leans in and kisses him again, unsure of what else to do. All he wants is to see Marat smile again, so he’ll start anywhere he can.
Roger’s fingers are light, friendly as they run up and down his bicep, calming Marat’s nerves more than he’ll ever know. The fingers slip past and settle on his hips, cradling. Their kiss hasn’t stopped, nor has it grown in need. It’s still light, slow but full of passion as they try to reassure each other with their lips. Marat brings his own hand up to cup the back of Roger’s neck and Roger relaxes a little. They explore each other with lips and hands, touches soft and encouraging.
Roger scoots a little closer, hooks his leg over Marat’s and half rolls them so he’s on top, lips intact the entire time. Roger does pull away though, settling back only to have Marat follow him. He’s leaning up now, palms flat against the warm sheets. His eyes are asking, why did you stop? and Roger’s pose a question of his own, are you sure? Marat answers, as though his life depends on it, by reaching for the hem of Roger’s shirt and pulls it over his head. He settles back, looking up with wide honest eyes. Roger smiles and does the same for Marat before leaning in placing a kiss over his heart. He doesn’t catch the look on Marat face though because he slides of the bed almost immediately and when he does look up, Marat has already schooled his features. Roger steps out his own pants before pulling away Marat’s. Soon enough, he’s back on the bed, pressing every inch of his bare body against Marat’s. Marat pulls away long enough to shuffle through the nightstand to retrieve the tube of lubricant. It’s heavy in his hand, not feeling right, so he presses into Roger’s. Hesitant, Roger takes it, raising his brow in question.
Marat closes his eyes, only to quickly open them up again, clear and focused. “I-I need this, Roger. Need you. Please, teach me.” He pauses, his eyes cast down. “How to love.”
There. It’s finally out there and Roger’s heart skips a beat. He just nods, unsure of his ability to speak at the moment. Plus he doesn’t think words are needed right now, especially when actions say so much more. He places the lube down on the mattress next to their thighs and dips his head to first kiss Marat’s lips then moves down to his long neck, his strong collarbone. A little more care and appreciation is showered on his chest with licks and nips. His tongue dips into his bellybutton as he skims over it. With one last lick Roger pulls back to retrieve the lube, a soft smile on his lips.
One hand lifts Marat’s leg, then the other, so his feet are resting flat on the mattress. Roger breathes in, pops open the cap and pours some lube on his fingers. With a kiss to Marat’s left knee, Roger brings his finger against his skin, eyes flickering up, asking, you sure?. He fights the urge to smile when he sees the fire back in Marat’s eyes, as if saying yes I am fucking sure.
The night progresses, but not without its faults. Roger’s nerves cause trembling fingers that slip and fumble as he guides himself inside Marat. Marat’s never realized how much pain is involved with sex, but then again he’s never thought about trust either. And he does, trust Roger. He grasps Roger’s hand as they begin to move together, eyes clenched shut as he tries to focus on the good, on the pleasure. Again, he focuses on the trust, on the fact that Roger will make this ok, will make him ok. Then it’s like someone’s flicking on a twitch as Roger taps on the spot deep within him. The pain is still there, but Marat’s not focusing on that. Instead, the soft grip of Roger’s fingers on his hips, the caress of lips on his skin, the hard flesh thrusting in and out with care have his attention, wrapping up his senses in a whirlwind. His body tightens, every single one of his muscles, as Marat finds his release. His hands whip up and grasp around Roger’s neck as he feels Roger orgasm inside him. They lay together, Roger still on top, as they listen to the dead silence.
As Roger goes to get something to clean up them, Marat holds on to him, tucking himself into Roger’s neck. “I’m sorry.”
Roger kisses the side of his ear, arms wrapped around him protectively, realizing he’s not ready to let go just yet. “I’m learning too.”
Pairing: Roger Federer/Marat Safin
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: "Let no one get close to me, before you and me"--Musiq Soulchild, "Teach Me"
A/N: Angst, sex, sap. Despite the title, i may have turned them into women. Please let me know if i did, as that was not the intention. Feedback is always wonderful, good and bad. For PotM
The song is absolutely beautiful and i recommend you check it out here.
A half glass of vodka remains untouched for the last thirty-seven minutes, the lone ice cube now long gone and diluting the alcohol. It sits on the coffee table in the dark hotel room, the air stale and in need of an open window. Marat is seated in front of it, staring at the glass. The curtains are open, so the streetlights illuminate as little as they can. There’s the hum of the television, some Russian rip-off of MTV that plays as the background music. His eyes hurt, little pinpricks of pain around his eyelids but he can’t close them, doesn’t want to close them. He’d rather endure the pain than have the image of dejected brown eyes haunt him. It’s been a long night though and Marat doesn’t know how much longer he can hold up. His body is screaming for sleep, pleading for even a short little nap. Marat, however, doesn’t relent, his eyes swinging back to the screen. The familiar sounds of Russian music is almost enough to make him smile, reminding him of countless memories of parties, friends and sex. The blonde singer does her best to hold his attention but soon enough; the muscles in Marat’s eyes give up and fall.
The room smell of them, of their sex. Marat’s off to the side of the bed, catching his breath. Roger has his head on his chest, breathing an issue for him as well as he tries to steady himself. When he regains enough control to get up, Roger presses a kiss to Marat’s chest, then leans up on his elbows to reach his lips. Marat turns his head to the side, and Roger kisses the air. Marat looks down at him, with a frown on his face. Roger knows the rules. He knows that this is just a meeting of convenience, of nothing more but sex and release. Roger knows this because it has been going on for weeks now, six to be exactly. But he thought tonight was different; he thought Marat understood him. But clearly, he thought wrong. As much as he hates himself for it, he leaves but not without placing another kiss on Marat, this time on his stubbled cheek. Marat leans back to turn off the lamp as he hears the door close in the distance.
Red eyes whip open, scarred from the memory. He didn’t care at first; Roger’s a man, he would be alright. He knew exactly what he was getting into the night it all started and every night they met after. But somewhere along the lines, they started spending more and more time together, learning each other’s likes and dislikes, pet peeves and hobbies. Marat’s resolve slowly faded away until a week ago he caught himself staring at Roger sleeping, fingers itching to run through his hair. Later that night, when they had sex again, when Roger tried to kiss him Marat wasn’t ready and pushed him away the only way he knew how.
It’s been a week. They haven’t spoken to each other, haven’t even made eye contact. And what fucks up everything royally is that Marat doesn’t miss the sex, not as much as he misses Roger himself. It took about two weeks into their “meetings” for Roger to loosen up and be himself, smiling and laughing without abandon. Now all he can see is the hurt, raw and bare, in Roger’s eyes when he carelessly pushed him away. Nothing’s helped, not sleep, not tennis, not even vodka.
Nonetheless, he picks up the glass once again, returning to the only solution he’s ever known. Roger wants love, something he can’t give him. Marat doesn’t even know what the word means, so how could he love someone? It’s never bothered him before; he’d just discard them or be discarded and move on to the next one. But this… Roger’s different and he doesn’t know why. He makes him want to try, want to be… different? Better? That’s the part that’s killing Marat. He wants to change and why? For Roger? For something he can’t even name?
The half glass of vodka is knocked back with practiced ease and when he closes his eyes this time, the darkness is blinding.
{*}
“Hey Roger”
He whips around, and offers a half smile when he sees who it is. “Hey Dmitry. How are you?”
Dmitry shifts on the spot, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “Good, thanks. I was, uh, told to give you this.” He pulls out an envelope, hands it to Roger and leaves without giving Roger the opportunity to thank him. The front is blank, just as is the back. He carefully opens it and slides out the piece of paper and keycard.
We need to talk. M
He slips the paper back into the envelope, but the keycard remains in his hand, heavy.
{*}
Against better judgment, Roger finds himself standing outside Marat’s hotel room door. He pushes his thoughts aside as he inserts the card into the slot and turns the doorknob when it flashes green. He steps inside and lets himself walk towards the middle of the room. It’s quiet, as though empty. He sighs and turns to leave when he sees Marat come out of another door. Roger freezes, as his body is flooded with emotions he promised he left behind that day a week ago.
Marat walks up to him, no hint of his playful smile in sight. When he drops to his knees in front of Roger, Roger’s follow him the whole time, surprised but not sure what to do. Marat takes his hands into own and hold on tight.
“Teach me.” It’s whispered, barely there, but Roger catches it and is puzzled.
Marat looks up at him, brown eyes wide and bare, empty of his cool confidence. “Teach me, Roger. I- I feel like I’m lost. Show me. Teach me.” He leaves out the word he’s desperately trying to convey. He’s not doing it on purpose. He wants to, but he doesn’t know how.
Roger sinks to knees too, so they’re face-to-face, fingers curling around each other’s. He’s read between the lines, understands exactly what Marat can’t say. He doesn’t speak as he leans in and presses their lips together. He feels Marat’s hesitance but he doesn’t pull away. The kiss is light, just a press of lips. He brushes his against Marat’s once, twice, three times before Marat surprises him by parting his lips just a little but it was enough. Roger lets his tongue slip through the opening, gently though. He’s wanted to have this, have Marat like this, for a while now, six weeks to be exact. When Marat’s tongue touches his own, Roger knows they’ll be ok.
Breaking the kiss, Roger holds on to their hands as he stands them both up. He starts to lead them over to the couch when Marat tugs on their joined hands and pulls them towards room and the bed. Roger’s not sure if he can do this right now, if it would be smart to be doing this right now. But he remains silent as he lets Marat sit him down on the bed, himself kneeling in front again. He parts Roger’s legs and presses his body in between them, his head settling against his stomach. Roger sucks in a breath at the contact and runs his fingers through Marat’s hair. They remain joined like this for a moment, without words, reveling in the touch. Roger slips his hands under his arms and tugs lightly as he begins to scoot back onto the bed. They settle next to one another, staring in comfortable silence. Marat has this look of anxious fear in his eyes, as though he’s nervous to show Roger how he feels but terrified of what he does feel. Roger leans in and kisses him again, unsure of what else to do. All he wants is to see Marat smile again, so he’ll start anywhere he can.
Roger’s fingers are light, friendly as they run up and down his bicep, calming Marat’s nerves more than he’ll ever know. The fingers slip past and settle on his hips, cradling. Their kiss hasn’t stopped, nor has it grown in need. It’s still light, slow but full of passion as they try to reassure each other with their lips. Marat brings his own hand up to cup the back of Roger’s neck and Roger relaxes a little. They explore each other with lips and hands, touches soft and encouraging.
Roger scoots a little closer, hooks his leg over Marat’s and half rolls them so he’s on top, lips intact the entire time. Roger does pull away though, settling back only to have Marat follow him. He’s leaning up now, palms flat against the warm sheets. His eyes are asking, why did you stop? and Roger’s pose a question of his own, are you sure? Marat answers, as though his life depends on it, by reaching for the hem of Roger’s shirt and pulls it over his head. He settles back, looking up with wide honest eyes. Roger smiles and does the same for Marat before leaning in placing a kiss over his heart. He doesn’t catch the look on Marat face though because he slides of the bed almost immediately and when he does look up, Marat has already schooled his features. Roger steps out his own pants before pulling away Marat’s. Soon enough, he’s back on the bed, pressing every inch of his bare body against Marat’s. Marat pulls away long enough to shuffle through the nightstand to retrieve the tube of lubricant. It’s heavy in his hand, not feeling right, so he presses into Roger’s. Hesitant, Roger takes it, raising his brow in question.
Marat closes his eyes, only to quickly open them up again, clear and focused. “I-I need this, Roger. Need you. Please, teach me.” He pauses, his eyes cast down. “How to love.”
There. It’s finally out there and Roger’s heart skips a beat. He just nods, unsure of his ability to speak at the moment. Plus he doesn’t think words are needed right now, especially when actions say so much more. He places the lube down on the mattress next to their thighs and dips his head to first kiss Marat’s lips then moves down to his long neck, his strong collarbone. A little more care and appreciation is showered on his chest with licks and nips. His tongue dips into his bellybutton as he skims over it. With one last lick Roger pulls back to retrieve the lube, a soft smile on his lips.
One hand lifts Marat’s leg, then the other, so his feet are resting flat on the mattress. Roger breathes in, pops open the cap and pours some lube on his fingers. With a kiss to Marat’s left knee, Roger brings his finger against his skin, eyes flickering up, asking, you sure?. He fights the urge to smile when he sees the fire back in Marat’s eyes, as if saying yes I am fucking sure.
The night progresses, but not without its faults. Roger’s nerves cause trembling fingers that slip and fumble as he guides himself inside Marat. Marat’s never realized how much pain is involved with sex, but then again he’s never thought about trust either. And he does, trust Roger. He grasps Roger’s hand as they begin to move together, eyes clenched shut as he tries to focus on the good, on the pleasure. Again, he focuses on the trust, on the fact that Roger will make this ok, will make him ok. Then it’s like someone’s flicking on a twitch as Roger taps on the spot deep within him. The pain is still there, but Marat’s not focusing on that. Instead, the soft grip of Roger’s fingers on his hips, the caress of lips on his skin, the hard flesh thrusting in and out with care have his attention, wrapping up his senses in a whirlwind. His body tightens, every single one of his muscles, as Marat finds his release. His hands whip up and grasp around Roger’s neck as he feels Roger orgasm inside him. They lay together, Roger still on top, as they listen to the dead silence.
As Roger goes to get something to clean up them, Marat holds on to him, tucking himself into Roger’s neck. “I’m sorry.”
Roger kisses the side of his ear, arms wrapped around him protectively, realizing he’s not ready to let go just yet. “I’m learning too.”