Author: Kiya Sama
Title: The Deal
Pairing: Marat/Roger
Rating: R for language and sexual situation
Warnings: Hot moment between two smexy guys in denial None really. ^^
Notes: The sequel to 'Rivalry' as requested from you lovely people who left a comment. *g* I hope you like!

The Deal

It was going to be their first meeting since the semis at the Australian Open. The press had made a big deal about it as usual, wondering if the two rivals would get to meet in the Finals (as the draw had been set up) in this event. They hoped to see that fire rekindled - the same intensity they had displayed beneath the cool but yet heated Australian sky. Everyone wanted to see a Marat Safin and Roger Federer final and all the other players were nothing but obstacles in their way. They were expected to breeze through their rounds like the gladiators they were and if by chance one of them slipped on the wayside, then the other was free to gloat for as long as he liked.

Marat and Roger had been scheduled to play their opponents every other day, so there was really no chance for them to meet in the locker rooms until the Finals. Roger, for his part, was already feeling quite good about his chances. It was already the second round and he had whipped his first round opponent almost insultingly with a straight set 6-1, 6-0 win. The poor amateur hadn’t stood a chance. He ignored the whispers that followed him wherever he went, more so in the locker rooms as the other players eyed him with mixed looks of wariness and awe. Of course there were one or two bitter glances his way, but he ignored them and continued to fold his clothes neatly.

However, looks were deceiving, for behind that cool façade was a man whose insides were churning with nervous excitement and anticipation. Marat was going to play in a few minutes and the match would be shown on the big screen television in here. He knew that everyone was watching him, wondering if he would pay attention. He listened to the familiar name announced and the immediate cheers of welcome as the Australian Open champion sauntered into the stadium. Even without lifting his head, Roger could already picture that lazy gait of his rival’s, that charming smile, the lifting of his hand to acknowledge the crowd. Perhaps, Marat would run his fingers through his hair and then sit heavily on his chair. He would unzip his bag and begin to bring out the necessary items – towels, drinks, rackets…it was a routine that he had watched eagerly during their last match.

Roger swallowed tightly, his features a mask of impassiveness as he zipped up his bag. He wasn’t supposed to be in here today actually, but he had forgotten a few things yesterday and needed to pick them up. He had hoped to be in here with Marat still around, but he had missed his rival by a hair. It was going to be the final match of the day and as expected, many of the players would be making their way back to their hotel rooms. Roger knew full well that he would soon be left alone in here and so made sure he was as slow and deliberate as possible. He had plans to wait for a certain player, for tonight they were going to have a talk that was two long and painful months in the making.

__


Of course he won. It was a rather tricky match, but Marat had managed to pull off a 6-2, 6-4 win over the young up and coming Spaniard. Roger had found himself gritting his teeth as he watched error upon error being made by the Russian. He had cursed as the commentary kept blaming it all on ‘nerves’ but Roger knew better. Marat was being lazy and he didn’t like it. He hadn’t been training so hard all these weeks just to play a Marat that wasn’t going to step up. He wouldn’t allow it!

He stiffened as he heard their voices coming down the hallway. He rose to his feet quickly, wiping his now damp palms down the pair of dark sweatpants he wore. He pretended to be engrossed with a magazine on a stand beside a vending machine, biting his lower lip as he heard the two players laugh at some joke Marat must have made. Wishing he had paid more attention to his Spanish lessons, Roger tried his best to understand what was being said, while fighting down the jealousy that swelled within him at their easy camaraderie. It wasn’t a surprise to see that the loser was still amiable with the person who had beaten him. Marat had that power over everyone it seemed. The Russian could make friends with an enemy in an instant if he chose to. Why, Marat had even tried to chat with him after their match in Australia…but he hadn’t encouraged him in return.

So what makes you think he’ll want to listen to you now?

He felt his heartbeat quicken as the two men walked into the room – more so for the very man that had haunted his dreams - as the familiar scent of his sweat and cologne assailed his senses. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the sudden surge of heat that crept up from his very toes to the roots of his hair. He couldn’t believe he was already acting this way about a man he had and will always consider a thorn by his side. His stomach now felt as if a thousand and one butterflies were making a home there. He was beginning to find it difficult to breathe and as if things couldn’t possibly get any worse, there was an obvious bulge within his pants that was bound to make things a bit more complicated.

“Roger?”

His lashes flew open at the sound of his name and it took him another full minute to realize that the Spaniard had left the room and he was the only one now left in here with…him!

Suddenly all the things he had planned to say seemed so insignificant and unimportant. Heaven help him…just what had he planned to talk to Marat about?! And from the quizzical tone from the Russian, it was clear that he was just as confused. Forcing himself to breathe normally, Roger spun around with a polite smile on his face.

“Oh…Marat…I didn’t hear you come in.”

Breathe. Breathe. You are not staring at his bare chest and you are not wishing you could run your fingers through his hair and you are not wishing that he is now looking at you as if you have finally lost your marbles.

“Oh? You must have been too busy with your magazines to notice us,” Marat replied with a small but tight smile as he sat down on a bench to kick off his tennis shoes. He reached for a towel and began to wipe his body down quickly. “What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be back at the hotel getting ready for your match tomorrow?”

Roger bit back a rude retort at the deliberate jab but managed to maintain his polite smile. “I was here to pick up something I had forgotten….and managed to catch a glimpse of your match.”

“Did you?”

Roger could feel his fury rising at the nonchalant tone. It was as if Marat was silently laughing at him, mocking him for being this desperate. Well, no one laughed at him! No one!

“You played quite a terrible match,” he began in a voice that betrayed the tumultuous emotions within him. He sunk his clenched fists into the pockets of his pants and continued with a lazy shrug, knowing now that he had his rival’s attention. It was evident in the way Marat’s body had tensed at the statement. “Your forehand was pathetic. Your footwork…I wasn’t sure if I was watching a man walking through mud or playing a matc…argh!”

He bit back a cry as he found himself slammed against a locker and the unmistakable presence of the bigger man inches before him. He tried to move from his prison, wincing inwardly as he met the furious brown eyes above him. Marat had placed both hands on either side of his head and Roger knew that moving was completely out of the question. It looked like the Russian had no plans to release him any time soon and dear god! But Marat smelled like heaven.

“What do you want, Roger?” came the deceptively calm question. “What do you want from me?”

You. Every single inch of you. I want you begging for mercy, Marat.

But instead, he felt his cheeks heating up at the warm breath upon his face. He licked his lips slowly, blushing even harder as he knew that motion had been watched carefully by his opponent.

“I want…”

His voice sounded way too thick. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow and he found himself unable to continue staring into the eyes that seemed to have lost some of its angry heat. Instead, a darker and much more dangerous look now filled the Russian’s eyes and Roger could feel his insides quiver with a nervousness that he could not explain.

“You want…what?” Marat asked softly, a small smirk coming to his full lips as he watched the flushed Swiss with amusement and interest.

Think. Think! Damn it, think!! “I want you to…to…”

Kiss me…lick me…eat me if possible! Damn you for confusing me like this!

He gasped as he felt Marat’s thigh part his roughly and nearly whimpered in dismay as those strong hands suddenly sunk into his hair to hold his head steady. He stared into the smirking, handsome visage and gave a low moan of helplessness. He hated himself for feeling this weak, but how could he counter such a man whose very essence seemed to ooze with power and charm? He had fallen under Marat’s spell just like millions of tennis fans around the world. Fuck! Why? Why was this happening to him?

“Roger…Roger…” Marat whispered huskily against his lips. “You didn’t come here just to talk to me, did you? Did you really miss me that much?”

“I didn’t…mmphff!”

His eyes widened in shock, unable to believe that this was really happening. Hot. So damn hot. And he was melting into a puddle of goo in Marat’s hands. He had made the mistake of opening his mouth to speak and now he could feel, taste that delicious tongue within – sucking, searching, teasing his…over and over again. His lashes fluttered shut as he arched into the taller man unable to stop his traitorous body from responding to this mind-numbing sensation and heat that seemed to emanate from Marat’s pores. God, he wanted to be with his man, inside and out. And just as he thought his mind couldn’t take any more of this sweet torture, Marat pulled away gently, leaving a thin silvery thread of their saliva between them.

They were both breathing heavily now; lashes half-shut as they stared into each other’s flushed faces.

“Now, tell me, Roger,” Marat asked again “…what do you want?”

“Don’t…” He licked his swollen lips, no longer caring about how husky his voice sounded. “Don’t you dare lose to anyone, Marat. I want you in the Finals, do you understand?”

The Russian’s lips curved into a knowing smile as he released his rival to step away slowly. “And the same goes for you. You and I…we will meet again, not so?”

“You…you bet,” Roger replied weakly, already feeling bereft at the loss of warmth. “I’ll wait for you…”

Marat gave a mock salute and threw a towel over his shoulders before making his way towards the showers and like a man starved, Roger watched his every move hungrily. However, once out of sight, he released the breath he had, unconsciously, been holding. His knees finally gave way and he slumped to the floor, closing his eyes as he allowed his lips to curve into a smile. It soon gave way to a soft chuckle and then quiet laughter.

He had made a date with the devil and this time, he was going to make sure that they both kept to their promises. Who knew just what lay in store for the victor? For Roger now knew that they were going to be playing for a lot more than just a trophy.

They would be playing for each other.




-The End-