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Roger got to Madrid early; he said it was because he had not played since the Davis Cup, and before that since the US Open. He said he had to get back into the swing of things, get used to the surface.
When he walked on court to practice, he saw Rafa to one side zipping up his racket bag. He stood still, just watching, till Rafa looked up. A smile spread across his face and he pushed sweaty strands of hair back behind his ear.
“Hey, Rogelio,” he said, straightening up.
“Hey, Raf,” said Roger, smiling back at him and wondering how it could be five weeks since he last saw Rafa’s face, when suddenly it felt like they’d never been apart at all.
Evening poured across the Spanish sky like dark honey, the haze of the city softening the blue black shadows of night. The air was slowly becoming cooler, but it still smelled of sun-baked stone and the half-open jasmine that trailed along the trellising to one side of the terrace. Roger had stopped by because the house Rafa was renting was between the stadium and his hotel. He had not expected to find Rafa alone.
“Come in,” said Rafa, when he opened the door, that smile spreading across his face again.
Roger stepped inside and the silence hit him with its strangeness; he had never seen Rafa alone before, always surrounded by people, by his family and Toni and Carlos Moya. And yet a single step inside this house and he could feel that it was otherwise empty. “Just you?” he asked, as Rafa led the way to the back of the house and out to the terrace, where he had been sitting in the last of the autumn sunshine.
Rafa glanced over his shoulder as he gestured to the chair beside his own. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t feel like going out tonight, I think.” He smiled quickly, sheepishly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you alone before, Rafa,” said Roger. “Always people around you.”
Rafa laughed and then half shrugged, his mouth pressed in a shy smile. “Sometimes even I like to be quiet, no?” he said.
“Yeah?” said Roger, quietly. The sounds of the city barely made it into the garden of this house, they were hushed and gentle as if silenced by the setting sun. “If you like to just be alone, I can go,” said Roger, moving as if you stand up again. Rafa leaned over to him, pressing his arm.
“No, no,” he said, hurriedly. “I didn’t mean you to go. Stay.” His fingers trailed over Roger’s skin before he removed his hand. “Stay,” he said again, and it was settled.
Roger nodded. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
Rafa said nothing to that, just tilted his head to one side and looked at Roger for a moment. Then he said, “You want maybe a beer or something? Just one, you know, won’t hurt practice tomorrow.” He grinned.
Roger laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah,” he said. “That would be great, thanks.”
Rafa disappeared inside. The terrace was totally private, the houses to either side low and shaded like this one, with high walls in between. There was a large wooden table with chairs around it. Rafa had taken two of the chairs and placed them side by side on the terrace, angled towards each other. Roger ran his hand over the varnish of the armrest and wondered who had been sitting here earlier. Wondered who Rafa could have wanted sitting so close. Xisca, he supposed; his stomach tightened at the thought.
Rafa reappeared, two cold bottles in his hand. He held one towards Roger and sat down, sighing contentedly. They clinked their bottles together in a silent toast and drank.
They didn’t talk tennis. Rafa told Roger the best places to eat in Madrid, and Roger told Rafa the best places to shop. Rafa laughed at Roger’s Spanish pronunciation, and Roger grinned and shrugged. The beer sank warmly into his veins, just a touch of relaxation, and if the proximity of Rafa’s knee to his own had anything to do with it, he didn’t think about it.
“So where is everyone?” he asked after some time.
Rafa swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Out to dinner somewhere,” he said. “I don’t know where, maybe a place you like so much.” He flashed a smile.
“And you didn’t go with them?” replied Roger. “A shame, you miss some great food.”
Rafa quirked his mouth wryly, half shrugging. “I’m not hungry,” he said.
The sun was setting below the level of the far wall now, and the garden was sinking into blue twilight. Light shone in Rafa’s eyes despite the shadows; the last vestiges of sunlight, perhaps, thought Roger, the Spanish sun in dark Spanish eyes.
“And you are not going to dinner tonight, Rogi?” asked Rafa, those eyes fixed on Roger’s.
“Yeah, later,” said Roger. “Eight or so, usual time.”
Rafa looked at his watch. “Huh,” he said. “I think you’re late.”
Roger frowned and looked at his own watch. Nearly eight o’clock. He sat forward with a jolt. “Damn,” he said, under his breath. He frowned some more, as if somehow willing it so would change the time, move it backwards, leave him more time here in this garden with Rafa. But of course it could not be so. “I guess I should go,” he said reluctantly.
Rafa sat forward, each of them leaning towards the other now. Then once again Roger felt those fingers on his arm, that skin against his own. “Or maybe,” said Rafa, his voice little more than a whisper. “Maybe you could stay.”
Roger looked up and met his eyes, so close now and so warm, and in that expressive face such openness. Roger loved that face, all of Rafa’s wilful expressions, the way he frowned when he spoke in interviews and the way he didn’t when he spoke to Roger, quietly and privately like this, alone. The way he smiled so gently, his mouth soft in the falling light, the way he pressed his fingertips against Roger’s skin, slowly finding his way to Roger’s hand and entwining it in his own. “Stay,” he said again.
And Roger kissed him. There was no thought, just a spark of desire that that exploded in Roger’s mind and his body responded, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Rafa’s, their lips meeting softly at first. But the spark that had been lit in Roger was impatient, and he surged forwards, taking Rafa’s mouth against his own. He held Rafa’s head with his free hand, the fingers of the other hand still entwined in Rafa’s, and kissed him insistently, determinedly, as if he had only this time to tell Rafa what he meant to him and this is how he had to tell it.
And then he pulled back. Tell what? Meant what? Rafa’s eyes were locked into his own, his breath coming fast, and Roger stared wonderingly at his fingers against the angles of Rafa’s face.
“Rogelio,” breathed Rafa, his grip on Roger’s hand tightening.
“Rafa,” whispered Roger, and then he understood. Understood this burgeoning thing between them, understood every touch and glance and hug at the net. Understood himself, when he said he looked forward to Madrid, he looked forward to seeing Rafa again. He had told the world, and yet he hadn’t even known it himself till this moment.
He smiled, then, and pressed his forehead to Rafa’s. “Oh, Rafa, I’ve been so stupid,” he said, his voice a murmur. He saw the crinkle of Rafa’s eyes as he smiled, heard him laugh low and gentle in his chest.
“I know, Rogi,” he said quietly. “I wait a long time.”
“And tonight, here, on your own, you were waiting for me?”
Rafa nodded. “Sí,” he said. “I see you at the court, I think maybe you come.”
Roger kissed him again, the merest brush of lips. “How long can I stay?” he murmured against Rafa’s mouth.
“Long enough,” whispered Rafa in reply.
They kissed again, kissing in the way of new lovers, heady and impatient. Rafa brought Roger to his feet and led him indoors, winding through the house and upstairs, kissing and murmuring nothings all the way, Roger’s hands pressed against Rafa’s skin, his face against his neck, breathing in the smell of sunlight. They stepped into Rafa’s bedroom, a large, pale room overlooking the terrace below, and Roger stripped Rafa’s t-shirt and then his own shirt. Rafa laughed when Roger pushed him back against the bed, and Roger watched him, smiling, till Rafa pulled him down. They lay skin to skin as the fading twilight of the day fell over their bodies, entwined in each other on the bed.
They made love hungrily. It was nothing Roger had ever done before, but he did not hesitate. The taste of Rafa in his mouth, his tongue, his skin, his cock, all of it was like something he had never even known he needed till this moment. And the sounds Rafa made under him, desperate, breathy gasps, made Roger feel drunk on every sensation. Roger could feel the strength of Rafa’s thighs against his shoulders, the gentleness of his hands in his hair while he ran his tongue along Rafa’s heavy cock and took it into his mouth. It was exhilarating, the hot feel of it, the taste, and when Rafa came in his mouth he swallowed it down, Rafa’s cries of pleasure echoing in his ears.
And then it was his turn to lie back while Rafa kissed him everywhere, every inch of skin covered with hands and lips, Rafa finding every sensitive spot on his body. His breath hitched when Rafa took his nipples in his mouth, a playful touch of teeth, and then down further, till he was kissing and licking along the top of his thighs and nuzzling against his balls. He moaned when Rafa took his cock in his mouth, and moaned again at the loss when he stopped and moved back level with Roger. Roger could feel Rafa’s cock, already hard again, nestled between his legs and a question in Rafa’s eyes. He could taste himself in Rafa’s mouth as he kissed him, and he whispered, “Yes.”
Roger arched against the bed, Rafa deep inside him, and wrapped his legs around his solid, muscular body. Rafa held him as if afraid that Roger might change his mind at any moment, as if he might suddenly think this was a terrible mistake. Roger brought Rafa’s face to his own, attempting to reassure him, tell him he wasn’t going anywhere. They began to move together, their mouths open and panting, their bodies sinuous and strong, and when Rafa hit that spot Roger saw stars, crying out, his head thrown back against the pillow. It was impossibly good, and could not possibly last; they moved and breathed together till Roger could no longer hold back and came in hot waves of pleasure against Rafa’s belly. Rafa cried out at the feeling and Roger held him while he fell apart in his arms.
They lay together in silence, catching their breaths, Rafa still collapsed on top of Roger in the bed. The room had darkened, and Roger could feel rather than see Rafa’s slowly spreading smile against his shoulder. “I can’t believe you make me wait so long,” he said at last, his voice muffled against Roger’s skin.
Roger laughed gently, his nose pressed against the side of Rafa’s face. “But worth waiting for, yes?”
Rafa turned his face towards Roger, just a breath between them. “Yes,” he said.
The night fell too fast, and too soon they had to disentangle their legs and climb out of bed, dressing hurriedly. They found their clothes and stumbled downstairs, Roger’s hand in Rafa’s, their bodies falling against each other in the desire to be pressed together again.
Roger stopped at the doorway, the door still closed behind him. He took Rafa’s face in his and kissed him again. “What will we do?” he said, pulling back, his thumb still resting against Rafa’s lower lip.
Rafa ran the back of his fingers against Roger’s cheek. “I don’t know, Rogelio,” he said. “We work it out, no?”
Roger did not move and did not speak, just let his eyes take in that serene face, perfectly formed of planes and angles and unexpected softness. Then he smiled. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’ll think of something.”
Then with one more kiss, he turned, opened the door, and walked out into the night.