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You have a visitor, Uncle Toni’s text had said when Rafa landed in Palma.
Rafa’s first thought was oh no, not now. Whoever it was, he didn’t have the energy to put on a smile and say reassuring things right then. Both his body and his heart felt heavy after the 21-hour flight home from Melbourne. He didn’t want strangers in his house. He just wanted his family and his team around him, people he could be open and vulnerable with, people he didn’t need to look strong in front of, if only for a little while. He would be fine; he knew he would recover and come back from this just like he had done so many times before in his life, but right now he was so tired of the injuries, the rehabilitation, the constant pain, and the struggle. He just wanted a day to rest and lick his wounds in private and not have to worry about everyone watching him and reading retirement into his every move.
But there was an unspecified visitor to deal with, so Rafa grit his teeth and prepared to put on a good face, until he got another text from Uncle Toni.
I showed him to the guest bedroom.
Oh. Not a visitor, then, but a guest. A friend. Rafa’s heart started to race as he thought of the possibilities of who it might be. Who would Uncle Toni know to let into the house and show to the guest bedroom without asking Rafa’s permission? Who would Uncle Toni know to be a welcome surprise for Rafa at a time like this? And who would Uncle Toni take delight in making a surprise by not saying who it is? If it had been Tomeu or Xavi or any of his other friends, Uncle Toni would’ve told him up front and had them wait in the living room. There was really only one answer, his pounding heart told him, but he wasn’t going to believe it until he saw with his own eyes.
Still, he showed Mery the texts, and she knew same as him who it had to be. She smiled up at him, the corner of her eyes crinkling, and kissed him on the cheek.
“It’s nice for him to come see you. He’s probably been worried about you. He’ll understand what you’ve been going through, more than anyone else,” she said.
When they reached home, Uncle Toni was there to open the door. The clan streamed inside like an invading army—his mother, his father, Maribel, Titin, Tuts, both Carloses, Marc, Gustavo, Benito, Dr. Cotorro, Sofia the nanny—and collectively dropped their one thousand kilos of luggage on the floor. Rafa set his tennis bag down heavily by the couch. Uncle Toni greeted him with a warm hug and gestured up the stairs.
“He said take your time, get settled, and come see him when you’re ready.”
Roger.
Rafa tried not to let his longing show too much, but his heart was racing and everyone around him watched him out of the corner of their eyes as they kicked off their shoes and hung up their jackets. They knew.
Mery placed a hand on his arm, her presence warm and steadying beside him.
“I’ll get everyone settled. Your father said he was going to the market for some things for dinner. We can drop everyone off afterward,” she said, quietly taking charge, for which Rafa was infinitely grateful.
It was always like this when they got home from a long trip: the first stop was always their house, where everyone dropped into armchairs and couches, exhausted but happy or exhausted and subdued, depending on the success of the campaign. Benito, both Carloses, and Tuts were on their phones texting and emailing. Titin was comparing notes with Dr. Cotorro. His mother was starting to pull pots and pans out of the cupboards. Maribel and Sofia had disappeared upstairs with the baby.
Rafa found the familiarity of the sights and sounds around him comforting. It was nice to know that, no matter what happened, whether he came home with the trophy or washed out in the early rounds, his family and team would always gather around and share a home-cooked meal together afterward.
“Do you need help?” he asked. “With the bags or with Rafito?”
Mery shook her head.
“Go,” she said, nudging him toward the stairs. “Sofia can hold on to Rafito for a while longer, and Uncle Toni can help me get the luggage upstairs. I’ll help your mother with the food in a little bit.”
He squeezed her hand and kissed her, then made his way slowly, carefully up the stairs, mindful of his hip.
The smart thing to do would’ve been to get in the shower and freshen up first. He was tired, he ached, and he probably smelled like stale cabin air and sweat. Still, he turned at the top of the stairs and went straight to the first guest bedroom on the left.
He paused outside the door and took his phone from his pocket. Just in case he was somehow mistaken.
Rafa: where are u?
Rogelio: guess :D
Rafa: at home in switzerland?
Rogelio: you know that i’m not ;)
Rafa grinned. He knocked on the door, and Roger opened it with a matching grin.
It was a sight that Rafa never got tired of: Roger framed in an open doorway, eyes beckoning with mischief or mirth, here to plow through whatever worries Rafa was trying to suppress. Today he was dressed casually in grey jeans and a navy sweater, and he looked like he had just happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to drop in, rather than having jumped on an international flight to be here.
“Roger,” Rafa breathed, knowing that his joy showed both on his face and in his voice. He didn’t care. He couldn’t help it.
Roger’s smile brightened.
“Surprised?” he said, clasping Rafa’s hand and pulling him into the room, shutting the door behind them.
Rafa let himself get drawn in and pressed up against the wall, Roger’s body fitting neatly against his own. It was still a pleasant discovery every time, even after all these years, to feel how solid and strong Roger was. Despite his lean arms and upper body, he was broad and well built, designed for grace and agility. Rafa took the opportunity to smooth his hands up and down Roger’s back and breathe him in. No matter what, whether he was coming back from a match or showing up unannounced in Rafa’s home, Roger somehow always managed to smell good.
“A little bit,” Rafa admitted. “Is good surprise.”
Roger beamed at him. His hands were at Rafa’s waist, gripping him tightly, holding him close, and that felt very nice. Grounding. It had been so long since they had seen each other in person—Laver Cup in London was the last time—and there had been hardly any time for them to be alone together then. Rafa had missed him dearly. A lot had happened in the intervening months, and they texted each other multiple times a week, but that wasn’t the same as seeing Roger in person.
Roger leaned in to press his lips against the corner of Rafa’s jaw.
“Mmm, maybe I should come surprise you more often,” he murmured.
Rafa could feel the warmth and softness of Roger’s lips beneath his ear, the pleasing weight of Roger’s chest against his.
“Is this that type of visit or…?”
“Yes,” Roger replied without hesitation, deadpan, which meant no. “Why else did you think I was here?” he asked, cheekily.
Their faces were so close that they were practically breathing in each other’s breaths. The air in the scant space between them felt charged. Rafa had missed this feeling, this closeness and electricity, something that only the two of them could generate.
“I don’t know,” Rafa mused. “Maybe to help me feel better after what happened in Melbourne?”
Though he kept his tone light, it had barely been 48 hours since he lost, so it still hurt to think about it. He pushed the pain aside.
“That was my original intent,” agreed Roger, kissing along Rafa’s jaw and down his neck, soothing him with gentle rubs along his sides, “but then I saw you and I got distracted.”
Rafa huffed a laugh. “I think every time we see each other, you are getting distracted.”
“You always distract me,” Roger returned. He paused to nose aside the collar of Rafa’s shirt and lick at his collarbone. “Maybe I can do both—have my way with you and make you feel better at the same time,” he said, lips grazing Rafa’s skin. “I’m very good at multitasking.”
Roger was definitely making a strong argument. Rafa, on the other hand, was not doing a good job of multitasking at the moment, given that he was having trouble thinking or talking while Roger sucked on the sensitive spot where his neck joined his shoulder and ran his thumbs along the jut of Rafa’s hipbones through his clothes. Rafa could feel his body relaxing into Roger’s hands, loosening up under his ministrations. It wasn’t until he tried to grind up into Roger and felt a shooting pain in his left hip that he remembered what he was going to say.
Roger stopped immediately at Rafa’s hiss.
“What is it? Is it the hip?” he said, pulling back.
Rafa missed the heat and weight at once. He had to tamp down the urge to drag Roger back in by the front of his sweater.
“Yes,” he admitted, grudgingly. “Hip flexor. Grade 2 tear, left side. I forget I can’t move some ways.”
“Hmmm,” said Roger, looking him up and down consideringly. “Maybe we should put you on the couch instead.”
He took Rafa’s hand and led him to the plush, light grey loveseat that lined the wall across from the bed in the spacious bedroom. To the right, sliding doors led to a large balcony with beautiful views of the hills around Manacor. On the other side was an open doorway that led to a walk-in closet and the ensuite bathroom.
Rafa wanted to protest that he was perfectly comfortable where he had been, as long as he didn’t move too much, but his hip was really starting to bother him now that the hassle of travel was behind him and his body was starting to relax. He sank down obediently when Roger pressed down on his shoulders.
Of course, this left him in the interesting position of looking up at Roger with Roger standing between his open knees. Several possibilities presented themselves to Rafa as he considered what to do with his current vantage point.
To his surprise, Roger sank down in front of him to his knees. Rafa had to shift back and spread his legs further to give him room.
Roger ran his hand over Rafa’s left hip, stroking him along his flanks down to the side of his thigh and back up again. Up and down, up and down, making Rafa relax into his strong and elegant hands. Rafa’s thighs fell further apart, and he dropped his head against the back of the couch, his body releasing the tension he had been holding this entire time and opening up under Roger’s attention.
“Can I see?” Roger said quietly.
It took a moment for Rafa to understand what Roger was asking. He craned his head around to see Roger with his free hand at the waistband of Rafa’s shorts, watching Rafa closely.
Waiting for permission.
“Nothing to see, injury is deep below the skin,” Rafa said, throat suddenly dry.
Undeterred, Roger stayed kneeling and kept touching him gently, reverently, gazing up at him like a disciple. He said one word:
“Please.”
If Rafa had trouble resisting the walking temptation that was Roger on a normal day, then he stood absolutely no chance denying him as he was now: on his knees and looking up at him with those deep-set brown eyes filled with heat and desire and tenderness, saying “please” and waiting patiently for Rafa to relent, to lower his defenses and let him in, knowing that Rafa would say yes but waiting for permission nonetheless. It was an image that seared itself into Rafa’s mind and stirred emotions deep in his chest.
He nodded.
One corner of Roger’s lips curved up, pleased. He undid the button and zipper, hooked his fingers over the waistband, and carefully slid Rafa’s shorts and underwear off in one smooth motion.
The feel of the fabric of the couch against his ass and the back of his thighs was strange and unexpected; Rafa was used to the smoothness of sheets against his skin when he was with Roger or Mery. He felt rather wanton and exposed sitting on the couch, bare from the waist down save for his socks, while Roger remained fully clothed, but he didn’t have time to tense up because at that particular moment Roger leaned over his groin and exhaled. The warm breath of air brushed the sensitive skin in the crease between his hip and his thigh, and that sent a jolt straight to his cock.
“Ah,” he gasped, hands digging into the cushions.
Roger smirked, pleased with himself, and did it again. And again. Rafa sucked in a breath, and this time he had to focus to keep his hips from arching off the couch, lest he aggravate his injury.
Roger pulled back and looked down at him consideringly, reading the lines of tension in his body, from the way Rafa had his hands fisted at his sides to the way the muscles in his thighs jumped. Rafa tried to hold still, tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, but Roger always made him feel naked, even when he was fully clothed. It wasn’t a physical nakedness. Rafa was naked in front of people all the time—in locker rooms, in medical exam rooms, on the physio table. As a professional athlete, his body was poked and prodded and photographed and examined by many.
But with Roger, there was a nakedness that was more than being naked.
Roger lay a hand on his leg, smoothing the twitches and gentling the shakes in his muscles. He traced along Rafa’s inner thigh with his thumb, where the skin was paler and less sun-kissed, the soft parts of Rafa’s body that few got to touch. Rafa dropped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. No, it wasn’t the nakedness that made him shiver. It was the intimacy of being with Roger. Roger, who knew his fears and his vulnerabilities, who loved the fight in his soul as well as he loved the fight in his game, who could meet him on the court and push him to his limits, and who could do the same to him in the bed.
That air of intimacy ratcheted up as Roger continued onward in his journey, tracing higher and higher with his thumb along the inside of Rafa’s leg, coming teasingly close to Rafa’s stiffened cock before veering off to skim the crease between his thigh and hip. Rafa had the impression that Roger was following his body like a map he knew by heart, searching for the hidden turns and winding roads, secrets only he and Mery knew to look for.
When he finally arrived at his destination, Rafa gasped as Roger lowered his head to kiss the delicate skin below his hipbone. On his left hip, where his injury lay. Rafa hated his injuries, felt betrayed by his body’s failings, but Roger approached it like a supplicant at the altar. He laid his hands on Rafa’s body like he was touching something rare and precious. His ministrations felt like a benediction, a consecration, a prayer written into his skin, transforming mortal failings into something rapturous, turning pain into pleasure, as if he were saying without words, this, too, is sacred.
With each touch, Rafa could hear the silent words Roger was trying to convey. A kiss on the ridge of his hipbone—I missed you. A sharp bite on the top of his thigh—I want you. A lingering caress of lips and tongue right over his injury—I’m sorry and you are a miracle.
It was too much. Rafa squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to hold himself together.
Without stopping, Roger placed his hands on the side of Rafa’s hips, letting his fingers settle like steel bands splayed across Rafa’s skin, and pressed his thumbs over Rafa’s hipbones to hold him down.
“I have you,” he said, softly, coaxing. “Just relax. You can let go now. I won’t let you hurt yourself.”
It was the gentleness and understanding in Roger’s voice, coupled with the unbending strength in his hands, that finally undid Rafa completely.
“Yes, please,” Rafa moaned.
This is what he loved most about their times together. This was why he felt drawn to Roger over and over. This feeling of being held, being anchored, being cared for—he loved being reminded of how strong Roger was, how strong his hands were, how he could trust Roger to hold him while he let himself fall apart. He was so used to being strong, used to pushing himself despite the pain, used to gritting his teeth and fighting his battles alone. On the court or in the rehabilitation pool or in the gym, it was always him pushing himself. He had been strong for so long, had fought for so long, that it was almost too much for him to know that he could let go. But with Roger, he learned that it was safe for him to escape, at least for a little while. He could be safe with Roger there to hold him, to catch him. With Roger, he didn’t have to be strong alone. He could rest for a little bit, let go of the fight, and Roger would watch over him.
“I’ve got you,” Roger repeated like a mantra, a promise, a spell.
And so Rafa let go. He gave himself permission to stop fighting, to stop putting on a good face and just be vulnerable and open and scared and maybe just a bit disillusioned. He gave himself permission to feel. And like a dam releasing, he felt sensation flooding his body, rushing from his chest outward, flowing down his arms and legs. He could suddenly feel every ache and strain, every pull and discomfort, now that he wasn’t actively trying to suppress his awareness of pain or dissociate from his body. The pain in his hip radiated like an alarm. But over the pain, in the uppermost reaches of his awareness, Rafa felt a counteracting rush of pleasure and love and joy—sensations that Roger was coaxing out of him patiently but insistently, reminding him that his body was made for this too.
There was no other way to describe it except that Roger made love to Rafa’s injured hip and battered body. He caressed him with tongue and lips and teeth and breath. He dressed the area with his affection, his commiseration, his sorrow, his love. He drove Rafa higher and higher, telling him with touch and taste and sensation you are loved, you are safe, you are a wonder, over and over until Rafa believed it. And he held Rafa through it all, not letting him go, until Rafa was squirming, straining, begging Roger to touch him where he needed it most, begging for release.
When Rafa couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t hold back his whimpers or his pleading or his tears, Roger finally took him in his mouth. Rafa clamped his hands around Roger’s head and tried to shout a warning, but he was too late, he was gone within seconds, swept away by the heat of Roger’s mouth, the push of his tongue along his length, the caress of his lips all the way down. And underneath all those sensations was the relentless ferocity of Roger’s care, sweeping away the ugliness of the injury, the disappointment of his loss, purging him of his fears and doubts, wave upon wave of sensation obliterating Rafa’s awareness of the outside world. Roger took all the hardships that weighed on him and swallowed them down, leaving Rafa boneless and light, floating in the haze of warmth and love that Roger wove around them. Even when Roger climbed up onto the couch afterward and gathered Rafa close to him, tucking him in against his side and his chest until Rafa’s head lay over his heart and he could hear the steady, rhythmic beat against his ear—even then, Roger’s care and affection was at the center of it all, cocooning Rafa.
Roger must’ve let him drift for a while, because when Rafa finally came back to himself enough to lift his head, the late afternoon sun was almost set and Rafa’s arm that was smashed between their bodies was falling asleep. He looked around muzzily and noticed Roger smiling softly down at him.
“Hi, welcome back,” said Roger, not unkindly, stroking his arm gently.
A corner of Rafa’s lips curled up, a little shy, a little embarrassed to have dozed off like this.
Roger dropped a delicate kiss on Rafa’s temple.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” asked Rafa, one eyebrow arched.
“You never let me do this for you after an injury or a loss,” he said, “but I’ve always wanted to.”
The curve in Rafa’s lips turned rueful. He looked down at where his body was pressed to Roger’s.
“I couldn’t. Too painful. Too exposed,” he said. When he looked back up, his expression was raw and honest. “Sometimes I want to see you too, but I couldn’t, because the losses are against you. Is not personal, was just too soon. Hurt too much.”
“I know,” said Roger, softly. “And I understand, because I’ve been there too. But that’s when I wanted to hold you the most. I wanted to erase some of the hurt if I could, even though I knew I couldn’t. Even though I knew I was the cause. It was silly, I know, but that’s how I felt.”
They don’t apologize to each other for winning. They never do, because they both understood that by the nature of the game, one was going to be the winner and one the loser and they were both trying their hardest to make sure the winner was them. Tennis was a cruel sport. They respected each other and the game too much to apologize for winning, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to see the pain and disappointment in the other’s eyes.
“Well, now you can see me any time since you are old and you can’t beat me anymore,” said Rafa lightly, trying to break the tension.
Roger laughed. “I’ll make you regret those words the next time we do an exhibition match. Just you wait.”
“I will be looking forward to it,” said Rafa with a grin.
Roger’s smile softened, and he ducked down to lay another kiss on top of Rafa’s head.
“Me too.”