Work Text:
“Raf? Rafa, are you okay?”
There’s a pause and then a bit of white noise as the line crackles slightly before the static noise fades and the connection begins to sound clear. Roger hears some sharp inhales, some hesitant breaths, before he finally gets a response.
“I am, Rogelio. I am.”
The voice sounds soft, but tired. It’s not surprising after the day Rafa had. He probably only wants to sleep and Roger knows he should let him. But Roger needs answers first. It’s selfish, he knows, but he needs them so desperately and he’s afraid he won’t be able to close his eyes otherwise until he sees Rafa again.
He can’t think of a single thing to say as his thoughts run wild, ripping the ability to speak from him. Too much is going on inside of him. After a short moment of relief because Rafa picked up, scorchingly hot anger sparks through his body for a second, only to be replaced by gut-wrenching fear and worry. Roger’s stomach twists painfully and in a way that makes him want to puke.
So instead of speaking up immediately, he tries breathing the nausea away first, and sorts his thoughts. He stays silent for a long time, clutching the phone in his cold, sweaty hand so hard that his knuckles turn white.
“Why do you say this,” Roger rasps eventually, his throat dry and his voice barely more than a whisper, “when you’re clearly not?”
“Roger–”
“Don’t. Rafa, don’t. Yesterday, you told me you were fine. Even when I explicitly asked you about your abdomen, you said everything was okay though it clearly wasn’t,” Roger says, leaning against the backrest of his couch and staring out of the big floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the Swiss countryside that he normally loves so much, does little to appease or distract him. The green trees remind him too much of the lawn in Wimbledon.
“Was alright yesterday,” Rafa tries to appease him, but it sounds half-heartedly. He seems to know Roger has a point here.
“Was it, though?” Roger has to force himself not to raise his voice, digging his fingers into the backrest and clenching his teeth. One emotion peaks above the melee – he’s suddenly so angry and he’s not even sure why, but the rage coiling in his stomach makes him want to punch something. Shit, why does it rile him up that Rafa always continues to play when he’s clearly injured, clearly in much pain? “I know you’ve been wearing that tape since Wimbledon began. I know that and I accepted it. I accepted it because it’s your career and I’m not your physio. You said you weren’t in pain and I believed you. But Rafa, don’t I deserve to know what’s going on? I am your bloody partner!”
Rafa inhales on the other end of the line and Roger hates that he has to stare at the green of the Swiss woods instead of the green of Wimbledon when looking out of the window. Why did he leave yesterday evening? He could have easily postponed the appointment he had today in the morning. But he didn’t want to distract Rafa or risk people annoying him by asking stupid questions.
“I am sorry I lie,” Rafa murmurs ruefully and falls silent for a long moment. Roger almost doesn’t dare to breathe in order not to miss Rafa’s next words. “Of course you deserve to know, Rogelio. Is just– I not want you to worry, no? You always worry–”
“Of course I worry.” Roger’s throat feels so tight he can barely choke out the words. “Of course I do. Winning or losing becomes so indifferent when it comes to your health. All I want for you is to be healthy, pain free, without injury.”
“I know,” Rafa whispers. “I know. But I live with an injury all my life, no? I know my body. I know what I can do.”
“But sometimes you don’t know where to stop,” Roger says, his eyes burning. Damn, why is he so worried? Why is he so scared? It’s Rafa’s career, Rafa’s body, Rafa’s decision. And yet. Roger is so helpless, so powerless in these situations, seeing Rafa suffer and unable to change anything about it. “You played with a numb foot during Roland Garros–”
“Which I won,” Rafa interrupts and Roger can hear the slight smile that must have crept on his face.
Idiot.
But Roger has to swallow the laughter that bubbles up inside of him. This is not the time. He hasn’t made his point yet.
“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” Roger retorts. “You played the Indian Wells final despite having a broken rib. You made it worse. After Roland Garros, you were limping so heavily that you used crutches whenever nobody was looking. I know that, Rafa, because I was there with you afterwards most of the time. So why didn’t you stop today? And why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
A long silence falls upon them, so long that if it wasn’t for Rafa’s even breathing, Roger would have thought he’d just hung up on him.
“I’m scared, Rogelio,” Rafa says eventually, his voice barely audible. “I’m scared that when I tell you, it becomes so real it will keep me from playing. I’m scared you watch my match and don’t enjoy it, only worry, no? I’m scared that you will not smile anymore when you see me, but only look at me in concern. And I cannot bear that. None of that.”
Now, it’s Roger’s turn to fall silent. His legs are suddenly heavy and shaking as he almost crumbles under the peer pressure of Rafa’s words. Does he really think Roger will not look at him the same way when he speaks the truth about his physical conditions? Does he really think Roger would treat him differently in the long run?
“I don’t want my physical conditions to be an excuse for losing,” Rafa snaps. “Is always discussed, no? ‘Rafa only injured when he loses’.”
“You know I would never say that,” Roger objects and bites his lip. He hates it so much when people talk shit about Rafa, no matter whether they are jerks from twitter or spiteful journalists. At times, Roger really has to pull himself together not to tell them to fuck off or throw a ball in their face. Of course, he knows he can’t change these people, especially not the media, and there’ll always be at least one person bitching about Rafa. And yet — Roger wishes he could shut them up for real. Because if someone doesn’t deserve to receive some bullshit feedback, it’s Rafa.
Rafa sighs. “Sorry, Rogelio. You will not say this, true. But you say health is most important. And it is, you are right. But I also wanna win. Always. Whenever I step on the court, I want to win. So I fight. Fight for myself and not let the opponent down. And when I fight, I can always win, no matter how low the chance.”
“I know you can,” Roger replies, suddenly with a smile on his lips. “I remember the Australian Open final, Rafa.”
“See? Sometimes, it works. And sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes my body is okay and sometimes it isn’t. I learn-ed to live with it,” Rafa explains, sounding rather matter-of-factly.
“And so do I,” Roger says, his voice softening. “And I promise I won’t look at you in a worried way forever. I won’t be concerned all the time. But please, Rafa, don’t shut me out. Don’t exclude me from your life. Please.”
“I’m sorry, Rogelio. Was wrong, no? I was scared, made wrong decision. There was the celebration you attended. I want you to enjoy it, no? Not worry about me.”
“Please don’t it again,” Roger begs. “I need you to be honest with me. No matter what, Rafa. I swear I can deal with it. And I won’t pull you down. I can’t promise not to worry, but know that I’ll always support you, no matter what. But please, please talk to me.”
“I promise,” Rafa whispers and Roger exhales in relief.
“Then tell me what's the issue with your abdomen.”
“Is just a strain, really, nothing serious. We decide to tape it so it will not get worse. But during the match today… I feel it cramping, somehow. Was so unpleasant I could barely breathe or walk. Everyone was worried I pulled the muscle.”
“Yeah, saw your team signing you to retire,” Roger says, remembering the cold sweat running down his back as he watched Rafa struggling to continue.
“Sí,” Rafa agrees. “But I know my body. Was bad but I had hopes. I did not want to stop. Was too early, no?”
“If you trust yourself to fight through it, fight through it,” Roger replies, although it’s kind of hard for him. A part of him still wants to yell at Rafa for not retiring, but supporting him is — and always will be — more important than his own concern. They are partners, after all, in good and in bad times. Always.
“I had to try,” Rafa repeats, as if he needs to persuade himself he made the right choice.
“Yeah,” Roger says softly, knowing how hard it must be for Rafa right now, how weary he is. Fighting over five sets, feeling pain and exhaustion, sometimes barely able to concentrate. And yet — Rafa did what seemed impossible. He always pulls off these amazing things, battles through matches, overcoming his pain and winning against all odds. He did it, despite everything, despite people telling him to retire, despite people not believing in him anymore. “And how you tried, Rafa. How you fought. I still can’t believe you made it. It was amazing. You were amazing.”
Rafa snorts in slight amusement. “Thank you, Rogelio.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to play on Friday?” Roger asks, forcing himself not to sound overly concerned.
“I don’t know, I hope I can play, no?” Rafa answers, blowing his cheeks. “Let’s see how it is tomorrow after training and then wait for Friday.”
“How bad is it right now?”
Rafa seems to think for a moment. “Is okay. Not as bad as during the match. I rest, I test tomorrow, then we see.”
“I cross my fingers for you,” Roger says, his heart already pounding in his chest when he does so much as thinking about the upcoming match. It’s not a secret neither him or Rafa like Kyrgios, so this is not only about playing, about being out there, but about winning, proving a point. “If someone can do this, it’s you.”
“If, if, if…” Rafa begins and Roger breaks into laughter, finally able to relax a bit. He closes his eyes as he hears Rafa joining in, the sound of his chuckling lighting Roger’s mood.
“Yeah,” Roger grins. “I know. No ifs.”
“Sí,” Rafa says cheerfully, “no ifs.”
“Then relax a bit instead of thinking about Friday,” Roger tells him, slumping down onto the couch and running his hand through his hair. “And be happy about what you achieved today. It was amazing, you know? I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Rafa whispers, as always almost shyly. After all these years, taking compliments is still not easy for him and Roger finds it extremely adorable. He can almost picture the slight blush on Rafa’s cheeks and his crooked smile. “You know it means a lot to me.”
“I’m always here for you, Raf, always, you hear me?” Roger inquires, trying to underline how serious he is.
“I hear you.”
“Good. Call me tomorrow after dinner, okay?”
“Sí,” Rafa replies, then hesitates a moment before continuing as if he needs to find the right words. “I miss you, Rogelio. Wish you were here.”
“So do I,” Roger sighs, his heart tightening. “I love you, Liebling.”
“Oh, cariño,” Rafa says softly and warmth spreads through Roger’s gut. Damn, how much he loves Rafa calling him that. “I love you too.”