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James is serving at match point when Sir John Franklin dies.
It’s the Round of 16 at Wimbledon, and he is so, so close to the Quarterfinals.
He’s gotten to the Quarters of a few Masters before; twice at Indian Wells, once at the Aussie Open, and once, very memorably, in Shanghai. His ribs and arm still ache on occasion from that last one.
The Quarters—but never any further.
Don’t think about that now.
He can do this.
He tucks a strand of hair behind his left ear, breaths out for a count of four, and bounces the ball three times. The serve he’s chosen is daring–straight down the T, not his strongest, but it’ll surprise Tozer, he’s certain, he can win this, he can—
It’s an ace.
James screams , he roars, he falls to his knees on the soft, lush, real-grass turf.
An echoing scream, not of triumph but of horror, rings out in the stands.
He doesn’t leave the court for another three hours.
It slows things down, when a spectator dies during a match.
Evidently, when Sir John Franklin–decorated former singles champion, pride of England, and longtime coach of one James Fitzjames—dies of a heart attack watching his protégés hit an unexpected ace down the center of the court to make it to the Quarters of Wimbledon for the first time—
Well.
James has been visited by paramedics, tournament officials, the police, an uncharacteristically quiet and numb Lady Franklin, the ball kid tasked with holding his umbrella–everyone, it seems, suddenly wants to talk to James Fitzjames.
Not only did his head coach just die during the most important match of his career to date, but James also has the distinction of being only the second Englishman to make it past the Round of 16 in singles at Wimbledon in over 30 years—the first having been Sir John Franklin.
It is all the more astonishing because, at the ripe old age of 35, he should by rights be fading–not catapulting into the top rounds of a Slam.
He is, as a result, most in demand.
There is, however, just one man with whom James actually wants to speak.
No time for grief—he has more important matters to attend to. Like the fact that he plays in the Quarters in two days and doesn’t have a head coach . Sir John would understand.
The moment he is given permission to finally, finally make his way to the locker rooms, James immediately goes to look for Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier.
He finds him with the physio, watching with a frown as Thomas Jopson is evaluated for a severely sprained ankle that will no doubt force him to withdraw from the remainder of the tournament.
James hangs back for a minute, observing.
The infamous Francis Crozier.
His star was on the rise just as Sir John Franklin’s began its decline. A competent singles player, his real specialty had been doubles. He and his partner, James Clark Ross, had ruled the courts together for nearly a decade, taking home every prestigious trophy in the books. Hell, they had a fucking Calendar Grand Slam together.
But Ross had his own game plan.
James Clark Ross infamously retired young—at the top of his game and the height of his fame—at the request of his bride-to-be, Ann Coulman. The young lady had not wanted to marry and start a family with a man who would be on tour over 300 days a year.
And so, Ross—who had the world in his hands—dropped it apparently without remorse.
Without him, Crozier’s career crumbled.
As did his life.
Lost, drunken, he had burnt through a string of disappointing doubles partners for a couple of years before it became evident he would never find the kind of success he had become accustomed to. His transition to coaching felt like something of a Hail Mary. A last resort.
It had gone well—then poorly, then fantastically, then disastrously, Crozier’s increasingly evident alcoholism robbing him and his players of all consistency.
Jopson had turned that around.
It remains a mystery what changed. Why this one kid, out of so many, made Francis Crozier get sober and rededicate himself, making a miraculous transformation into one of the best coaches in the game.
James only knows that he watched it happen.
Jopson isn’t that special, James can’t help but think, although he knows it’s uncharitable. Sure, the kid has potential, but it’s not like he’s fucking young Roger Federer or something. There isn’t anything seemingly unique about him—aside from an overly fastidious air and almost eerily striking blue eyes—that would give him away as the one to pull Crozier back from the brink.
And yet mere months after Francis took the young man on, he had gone cold turkey. Nearly died, the stubborn bastard, if rumors are to be believed.
Word in the locker rooms was that James Clark Ross offered to come out of retirement, if his friend would just do him this one favor and live to play another day. They teamed up in an exhibition match at the US Open the very next year, fueling the rumor mill further. It had been good to see Francis up and about, looking exhausted and gray but also alert, on top of his game. Alive, as if for the first time in years.
James has watched Francis’ career for nearly his entire life—at least, since he was aware that professional tennis existed and was something he wanted for himself. At first he had watched Francis on the telly, then on the sidelines, and finally in person on tour.
James has always, always admired him. Sometimes even thought— no , he reminds himself, that won’t do. Forget it. Now .
Early on, he had delusions of Francis noticing him, appreciating his hard work and talent. In James’ most secret daydreams, Francis saw him on the practice courts and strode right out to the middle, interrupting his hitting to beg James to hire him as his head coach.
Okay, so maybe it also involved Francis taking James in his arms and dipping him into a kiss, right there on the court in front of God and Serena Williams and everybody.
Whatever.
The unfortunate fact of the matter is that Francis does not like him.
At first, James had thought he merely rated below the infamous Francis Crozier’s notice.
But the tour isn’t exactly massive. The top hundred doesn’t rotate that quickly, and James has been solidly top thirty for most of his career. You get to know people–players, but also their teams. Their physios, hitting partners, psychologists. Coaches.
It didn’t take all that long for James to realize that the newly minted Coach Crozier scowled every time James entered a room.
That his short, curt answers were often for James alone, and that other players merited much greater warmth.
That when James catches Francis’ gaze on him–oddly frequent and intense—Francis consistently looks away as if burned by the contact, a snarling, superior sort of look on his face.
They’ve barely had a civil word between them, much less a full conversation.
And yet, James knows Francis better than some of his closest friends.
It’s a strange social circle they run in, nearly incestuous. Everybody knows everybody’s business, their intimate triumphs and failures, their odd habits and superstitious little rituals. Who dated who, who fucked who else that one year at the Olympic village, who has a desperate, embarrassing, unrequited crush on a man over a decade their senior.
Okay, nobody knows that last one, because James has been careful.
It doesn’t merit dwelling on in any case. Francis dislikes him, for whatever reason, and James has no leverage, no grounds on which he can build any attempt to change that.
Except that, now, he does.
More than that, he needs to.
His career—his legacy— depends on it.
So he takes a deep breath, opens the glass door between them, and walks to stand at Francis’ side. Francis must know he’s there, but he makes no sign of it, eyes remaining trained on a sweating and grimacing Jopson as he attempts some awkward steps.
The physio frowns, taking Jopson by the shoulder and kindly but firmly leading him to a chair. Jopson looks up at her, a pleading question in his eyes, and her mouth thins into a straight line as she shakes her head once. No .
“Shit. Fuck ,” Francis says from his place next to James. He kicks at the fake turf, spraying little rubber pellets in a small arc, and rubs his hands roughly over his face. “Damn it.”
James watches on in silence.
Finally, Francis slides his hands slowly from his face, letting out a put-upon sort of sigh. Without looking at James, he says “Fitzjames. What do you want? This is not a good time to ask me for favors.”
“No favors. I’ll pay you the same rate Franklin got.”
That gets Francis to look at him. His (beautiful, ice blue, stunning ) eyes are wide with apparent shock–one eyebrow has shot sky high, almost into his hairline.
“No. No . Abso- lute ly fucking not.”
“Francis—”
“Don’t call me that,” Francis snarls.
“ Coach Crozier ,” James says with a simpering little lilt to his voice, because he can be a right bastard too, thank you very much, “you may be aware that I have recently, ah, lost my head coach. As I see it, you have similarly lost your player.” He swallows, grimacing a little. It feels more than a little insensitive, saying as much when Sir John is dead and Jopson is nearly within hearing range. He forges on. “We might make a deal.”
“How about this–you go lose the Quarters by yourself, and I get to go home .”
James brushes off the lack of confidence as if it doesn’t hurt.
“No deal. Alternative offer, you coach me— just ,” he adds, seeing Francis open his mouth to protest, “for the Quarters. That’s it. If I win, we can reassess at that point.”
Francis closes his mouth. That’s when James knows–he has him hooked. He tamps down on the giddy, bubbly feeling rising up in his chest. He can’t give away the game so soon, he needs to seal the deal.
“Francis,” James says, aiming for sincerity and coming wincingly close to pandering, if Francis’ expression is anything to go by, “I know you know your game. You know Pilkington’s—don’t say you don’t, he was on the same side of the draw as Jopson and me.”
Francis’ scowl deepens.
“It’s a miracle he got this far anyway, he got lucky with those withdrawals. This...” he feels himself getting choked up and fuck, fuck , he can’t lose it in front of Francis, if the man doesn’t respect him now he’ll loathe him if James cries in front of him, "this is a big opportunity for me. Maybe…maybe the last one I’ll get.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back, but one tear escapes anyway, running down the crease of his cheek. “Please,” he says, and shit, it sounds weepy , far too honest, like a window into all his carefully concealed inadequacies, he’s completely blown it—
“One match.”
James’ eyes snap open. A smile quirks at the edge of his lips before he can suppress it.
It makes Francis scowl harder.
“ One, James. I make no guarantees. And,” he holds up a finger, stopping James’ forthcoming barrage of thank you’s and assurances, “you do everything exactly. as. I. say. Is that clear?”
Oh. Oh, it’s clear alright. James blinks a little and shifts where he stands.
“Yes, clear as a bell,” he manages, distressingly breathy sounding.
Francis rubs his temples and groans. “I feel a headache coming on.” He glances at Jopson and then back at James. “Two headaches, in fact,” he mutters, softly enough James isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it.
Then Francis straightens up, collecting himself, and starts ticking off instructions on his fingers. “First order of business, get cooled down, get something to eat, and then right back to meet me in the gym. You have two hours. We have a lot to do, and only a day and a half in which to do it.”
James wonders if he should be offended–a lot to do? What all does Francis think needs to be changed about James’ game?
“What—” he starts, but Francis stops him with a finger held up to James’ lips, not touching but close. Very close. Francis has closed his eyes, massaging at his temple with his free hand.
“ James , don’t make me regret this more than I already am.”
James bites back a reflexive retort and tries to ignore the way Francis saying his first name like that makes the palms of his hands tingle.
He shakes himself out of it. Not the time. He has a Quarterfinal to win.
“Gym. Two hours. Got it,” he says, trying not to irk Francis more than he clearly already has, and turns on his heel to stride towards the ice bath with more confidence than he feels. All will be well, he assures himself. He’s got the infamous Francis Crozier, irascible but undeniably effective, finally, finally on his side.
“Again.”
James wipes the sweat from his eyes with his wristband and takes a deep breath. He asked Francis to coach him, he reminds himself. He asked for critiques, for this, specifically.
But…it’s hard. It’s hard to take his volleys earlier, to come in so fast after his first serve. To switch things up and go down the T more on his second serve, capitalizing on the move that won him the match against Tozer.
It’s also hard, surprisingly so, to take Francis Crozier’s criticisms.
He’s a hard task master, and that’s no surprise, but James finds himself grudgingly growing in respect for Thomas Jopson’s sunny demeanor.
James thrives on praise, and praise does not seem to be a word in Francis’ lexicon. Or at least, not when it comes to James Fitzjames. Unfortunately, that only makes James want to try harder, to earn that elusive approval.
So he pushes. Probably too hard.
Beads of sweat are dripping off the point of his nose in a near constant cascade. He’s soaked, his entire kit a shade darker than usual. He’s been serving down the T for nearly an hour, practicing that aggressive second serve Francis seems to be convinced will be his secret weapon. James privately wonders how it could possibly be secret when he used it to get himself to the Quarters literal days ago, but…well, he meant it when he agreed to do whatever Francis tells him.
So he bites back the comments about how Franklin used to have him do it, grits his teeth, and tosses the ball.
Thwomp. Just wide.
“Needs more wrist,” Francis shouts from the sidelines. James bites back a retort and tries again.
Even wider. He’s missed the line by a good two inches. He grits his teeth, hard.
“More. Wrist.”
Finally, James can stand it no longer. “I’m giving it all the wrist I’ve fucking got, or are you trying to make me sprain it before the match,” he snaps. He’s hot, he’s tired, his coach died earlier today and he still bloody well won the match , he should be out celebrating or, or resting , not risking a stress injury with this repetitive nonsense—
“Peace, James,” Francis says, holding out a supplicating hand and walking slowly down the sideline towards him.
The strange softness of it, the unanticipated kindness, catches James off guard. He lowers his racquet and watches warily as Francis approaches.
“Perhaps,” Francis says, having stopped an arm’s length from James, “it is best that we be done for today.”
“I don’t need to be coddled,” James tries, but it comes out sounding…small. Francis’ face does something interesting, some complicated movement of the eyebrows James can’t quite track. He’s suddenly wildly, deadly tired.
Oh, right. Dead. His coach is dead. His mentor, his friend –
“Alright,” he hears Francis murmur, as though from down a long hallway, “let’s get you back to your room.”
He should by all rights jump when he feels Francis’ hand press delicately into the center of his lower back, guiding him towards the benches. Instead he slumps into it a little, desperately glad to have someone else take charge.
It’s Francis who packs up his gear and hefts James’ gear bag over one shoulder, who takes James by the wrist—and James isn’t so far gone that he doesn’t feel a dampened little thrill at that, at Francis’ calloused fingers brushing against the soft skin there—and walks him across the quad to the hotel the higher-level players are staying at.
“What room are you in?” Francis asks in the lobby, and James can’t for the life of him remember. What room? It was the room right next to Sir John’s, that’s all he can recall. He feels his face crumple.
Francis pats him awkwardly on the arm and bends to search through the side pockets of his racquet bag, eventually retrieving the keycard in its numbered paper sleeve.
Then it’s up the stairs and into James’ room, which he notes with detached relief is as spick and span as always. It wouldn’t do to have Francis think him a slob, on top of everything.
Yet he can’t come up with what he’s supposed to do, so he just stands there awkwardly in the middle of the room feeling numb. What does he usually do with his arms? He can’t remember—they hang alien and stiff at his sides.
“Come on,” Francis says, hand once more at his lower back and directing him towards the bathroom, “a warm shower should help.”
It should feel patronizing, mortifying, awful to have Francis doing this–turning the shower on, making sure the temperature is right and that all the necessary shampoos and conditioners and body washes are in there. It should be, but it’s not.
James only feels deeply, almost painfully grateful, though that too is stored somewhere deep down below the numbness.
“Alright if I leave you?” Francis asks, and James blinks up at him, having forgotten for a second he was even there. He nods, lifting the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt to pull it over his head, and then next thing he knows Francis has fled. His absence sits in James’ belly like a stone, but he manages to undress, and the shower does feel good. It thaws a little of the numbness, and the routine soothes him. Bathe. Pajamas. Sleep. Things will look brighter in the morning.
He exits into the humid bathroom, squeezing the excess water from his hair with one towel before wrapping another around his waist and stepping into the main room where he stops short.
Francis is sitting on the edge of his bed. James had thought he’d left, but there he is, looking out of place and distinctly uncomfortable, perhaps even more so now that James has emerged half-naked from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, blinking owlishly at him.
Francis has the kind of skin that shows a blush easily, James thinks abstractly.
He wonders, for an odd second, whether Francis’ jumpy gaze looking him up and down is an assessment of his physical fitness—something a head coach should certainly be familiar with—or…something else. It feels like something else, but James’ mind is so muddled at the moment it’s hard to parse things out.
After a few strange seconds Francis finally clears his throat and sits up a little straighter on the bed, taking charge of things once more.
“Better?” he asks.
James nods in return, feeling oddly shy but more than that just…tired. Tired, and sad, and still quite numb.
Francis takes a breath and looks away from him, at the ugly wallpaper, and James feels oddly bereft of his gaze. No , he thinks. Don’t look away.
“I’m…sorry,” Francis bites out, hard and clipped. He closes his eyes. “About Sir John. I know you were close.”
For some reason, it’s this strange and terse condolence that finally does it. Maybe it’s something about Francis and his blunt way of attempting comfort, so different from everyone else’s overwrought and flowery sympathies. Maybe it is the intimacy of the moment, the two of them alone in James’ hotel room late at night, James in a damp towel and Francis sat on his bed.
Whatever it is, all James can do is say, “Yes, we were,” voice cracking on the last word—past tense, now—before the dam breaks and he is crying.
It comes on suddenly, like a wave that’s caught him off guard, completely swamping him. Tears rush down his face, drip off his nose, and moisten his lips. It strikes him as hysterical, all at once. Sir John is dead, James is into the Quarterfinals of Wimbledon, and he’s beginning to sob forcefully right in front of an increasingly perturbed-looking Francis. Oh, and he’s still wearing only a towel.
A high, wet laugh bubbles out of him uncontrollably, and between gasps he manages, “S-sorry, Francis, I’m– sob –so very sorry, I’m not sure what’s– ha –come over me.”
Francis’ brow creases, and the corners of his mouth are downturned, but his eyes don’t look angry. No, they look—they look—
“James,” he says, and it’s soft, so very soft, and oh, James is really crying now, chest heaving, nose running, loud and ugly sobbing that’s bending him over and making him dizzy.
Gentle hands ease him to sitting on the edge of the bed, next to Francis, and James manages to hold himself back right up until Francis’ hand hesitantly alights between his bare shoulder blades, offering a tentative comfort. At that, he gives in and tips his head sideways into Francis’ shoulder, letting go.
He cries, and he cries, and he must be getting the shoulder of Francis’ track jacket absolutely disgusting, but Francis doesn’t tell him to stop. He doesn’t try and rush James through his grief, or pull him out of it. Just keeps his hand in the center of James’ back, soothing, and lets James snot all over his shoulder like some gross kid.
Eventually the tears slow, and James’ gasping, quavering breaths begin to return to a normal pattern. He feels utterly exhausted–like he would cry more, if he could, but all the necessary emotions have been wrung out of him. Like an old sponge. He feels a headache coming on.
“Stay right there”, is the first thing Francis says to him, and then he’s left James’ side to putter about the room. Soon a pair of James’ pajamas find their way into his lap–which, he notes with detached relief, is still modestly covered by his towel. Francis sets a glass of water on his night stand, then gestures to the bundle of clothing.
“Put those on. You need rest—” a pause, “—if we’re going to train tomorrow,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
James nods and stands to drop his towel, beyond caring if Francis sees him naked, but Francis gallantly turns around to give James a modicum of privacy. He turns back at the sound of James crawling under the covers and walks over, plugging James’ phone in and nudging the glass of water closer.
“Sleep as much as you need, but if you’re not in the lobby by 10:00 I’m coming up to get you. We need a full day’s training tomorrow. Now, rest.”
James nods, already partly asleep. He barely notices when Francis turns out the lights, but he does catch his soft parting words. “Christ,” Francis breathes, so low James can hardly understand him, “what am I doing?” It could be said in anger, but…but, it’s not. It’s gentle. Bittersweet. Almost like Francis is in pain. James doesn’t like that thought, but before he can do anything about it sleep finally claims him.
In the morning, he doesn’t remember Francis speaking at all.
The next day, James wakes feeling physically drained and mentally…well, also not great, honestly. Mediocre. Still delicate, but in no danger of repeating the embarrassing scene from last night.
Christ, he had draped himself all over Francis, wet and sobbing and oh, fuck, nearly naked, and Francis had—well, he had been kind. Helpful.
The thought of it makes James’ throat feel tight, like he might start crying again. It also gives the slightest breeze to the flame of hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, James’ ridiculous crush might not be in vain. Neither reaction is doing him any good, and so James puts the entire thing out of his mind.
He meets Francis downstairs (he’s dressed in an athletic kit, like he’s going to be the one getting a workout, and Christ but he looks good, all broad and solid, thighs straining at some slightly too-tight shorts, and—). They head to the practice courts straight away.
Fortunately, there is no awkwardness between them, possibly because Francis hardly looks at him and instead launches straight into discussing his agenda for the day.
The Quarters are tomorrow already. It always goes fast, the time between matches, but at the moment it feels like lightspeed.
Francis has him go through his normal warm-up routine and then has him do it again , plus about five more active stretches that have James feeling muscles he’d nearly forgotten he has.
They practice until lunch and it feels like running drills, like it did back when James was coming up through the Juniors. He would complain that Francis is treating him like a child except that he’s gasping for breath in no time at all, and…well, after the third interval repeat his volleys have gotten a little more consistent. It also feels oddly soothing to go through the same drills he did in his youth, helping him regain his sense of stability. He wonders, all at once, if that’s intentional on Francis’ part. No, no, that would be preposterous. How would Francis know what would be soothing to James?
They grab lunch from the players’ mess hall and settle into a ready room to watch through some footage.
They start with footage of James–from his match yesterday, other matches he’s won and lost this year, and then matches he’s won and lost over his career , dating back to when James used to wear his long hair in a ponytail for all his matches. Nowadays he leaves it loose, held back by a sweatband. He isn’t even sure where Francis found this footage, it’s practically part of the fossil record and, frankly, embarrassing as hell.
He looks so young . So incredibly fresh-faced and naive, lanky and long-limbed and brimming with an innocent sort of confidence.
It feels odd, private, intimate, even, to share this part of himself with Francis. To watch Francis watch his past self.
It also makes him feel defensive, which doesn’t help his resolve to keep things parsimonious between them because Francis is…well, blunt, but simultaneously sharp, his running commentary slipping between James’ ribs like a filet knife. Precise, painful, cutting.
“As you can see,” Francis is saying now as James clenches his hands into fists and reminds himself to breathe, “you win a greater proportion of your long points when you come in to the net.”
“That’s not my game, though,” James says as calmly as he can manage.
Francis looks at him sidelong. “Exactly. Your game has served you well, to a point. But it’s never won you a Slam.”
“It can, though. I need to win my way, I don’t need to be throwing gimmicks in at the last minute like this. It’ll just throw me off my game.”
“Good.”
James’ blood feels like it’s simmering, close to boiling over. He takes a deep breath.
“You need a shake up, James. If I were your coach I’d have been telling you to do it years ago.”
“Y-years ago,” James echoes disbelievingly.
“Yes.”
James closes his eyes, calms his breathing. “Francis,” he starts, and he’s about to tell him this isn’t working out, thank you so much for agreeing to do this, but James is just going to play the Quarters without a head coach after all, even if it means losing , but then—
“You’re good at the net, James. Someone must have told you that you weren’t, at some point, because you just…stopped doing it. And I know ‘serve and volley’ is considered an old man’s game now, but that’s bullshit. It’ll shake up your game, shake up your opponent. And from what I’ve seen, from the tapes, you can do it.”
James’ head whips up, staring Francis right in his serious big blue eyes. “You…you really mean that.” It’s not a question–he can read the sincerity in Francis’ face. He’s simply so stunned by it that he has to try it out, taste how the words feel in his mouth.
“Yes,” Francis says, looking surprised that James would doubt him.
James shakes himself a little, straightening his shoulders and letting the corner of his mouth quirk up, fixing Francis with the full power of his ambition. “Alright, then. Let’s get to it.”
They serve and volley until James is certain he’s never done anything else in his entire life.
In some odd way, it feels like coming home. (Francis was right , damn him, Sir John had told James early on that James needed to stop the serve-and-volley approach, that it wasn’t the direction the game was moving and wouldn’t serve him like transitioning into a powerful baseline striker would…)
They call it quits early in the afternoon–there’s something to be said for not utterly exhausting James before his match tomorrow. At this point he’ll have about 24 hours to rest and recover.
Unfortunately, after he and Francis part ways, James’ confidence in their plan—and himself—begins to falter.
Who is he, to think that he could get to the Semifinals at Wimbledon ? What delusion will he have next—getting to the Finals? Winning the Championship?
To even think it feels nigh on sacrilegious. He’s positively ancient by professional tennis standards and he’s never done this well in a Slam before. What’s going to make this time any different? One day of coaching from Francis? Having Francis in his box tomorrow during the match? It’s impossible for one person to turn James’ game around so quickly. He’d probably be better off sticking to his strengths, the strengths he and Sir John crafted over many meticulous and grueling hours.
On the other hand, perhaps Francis is right, perhaps James’ game as it is will never be enough to take him to the next level, in which case he should heed Francis’ advice and—
Things spiral like this for hours. While James eats dinner in his hotel room. While he stretches out his muscles on the scratchy carpet floor. While he flips through television channels, trying to find something mindless and calming (say what you will but Antiques Roadshow is stressful as hell).
He goes through the routine of preparing for bed, even though he’s positive he won’t sleep a wink. A first, it seems he’s correct—his brain is going a mile a minute, spinning out possible scenarios, castigating himself, encouraging himself, doubting Francis, mourning Sir John, trusting Francis, trusting himself—
It’s exhausting, and not exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep.
And, underneath it all, the small, consistent thread: that he will disappoint Francis, and that will be it. Francis will wash his hands of James, just like everyone else has, and their lives will continue to run in distant parallel to each other, close but never touching.
Dig deeper and there’s a concern buried even further beneath THAT—he’s not British enough. A bastard sired in another country, never fully accepted by the public, never owned as one of their own even when he bloody well played for them in the Olympics (so he just barely missed the podium, so what, give him credit for trying. )
He’s not England’s chosen son, not really. Not when he makes a mistake. That’s why he tries not to make mistakes, but tennis is unforgiving like that. You can make no mistakes, and still lose.
Though sleep is long in coming, he eventually tires himself enough through fretting to drop into a fitful, fragile doze.
The next morning, though, the nerves are back in full force.
James doesn’t know how he makes it to the afternoon, but he does. It’s something of a blur.
It all snaps into focus when he meets Francis in the ready room to warm up before the match, talking through some last minute strategy.
Francis looks handsome, is James’ first thought. He’s wearing white in an uncharacteristic nod to Wimbledon tradition. It looks good on him, highlighting the ruddy glow of his skin. James’ gaze drifts down to where he has the sleeves of his nice linen shirt rucked up, exposing his forearms. They’re freckled, corded with surprising muscle, and dusted with strawberry blond hair.
His hands look strong.
It takes James’ mind off his upcoming match for a few blessed seconds.
He knows he’s being terse and quiet as he goes through his active stretches, not his usual charming self, but he can’t turn it on like he normally does.
“So”, Francis says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “how are you… feeling about the match?”
“Feeling?”, James asks, incredulous. They’re done warming up, he needs to be on court in mere minutes, and Francis is asking him how he’s feeling?
“How am I feeling? I don’t know, Francis, I have no idea how I’m feeling minutes ahead of my first and likely last Wimbledon Quarterfinal two days after my head coach dropped dead in the stands. Please do inform me.”
“James…”
“How am I feeling ahead of changing up my strategy completely, on the biggest stage in tennis, in front of a hometown crowd who has never accepted me as one of their own?”
Now Francis’ already fragile and ill-fitting consolatory attitude dissolves with a frown.
“Fitzjames. Stop it, now.”
“No, no, Francis, please do ask me again how I feel .” He can’t help himself, knows he’s out of line and that Francis is only trying to help in his own way, but the stress is pressing down on him, and pressing, and pressing—
“ James. Stop. Now. That’s an order,” Francis says with a hard look, and James opens his mouth to argue but restrains himself at the last second. He did promise to do whatever Francis told him, didn’t he?
“I don’t know where this attitude has come from but it stops immediately. Do not carry this into the match.” Francis fixes him with a stern gaze and James swiftly tips into feeling ashamed, and small, and sorry.
“I’m sorry,” he says, chastened, but Francis dismisses it with a wave of his hand.
“Pssh, no need for that. Makes sense you’re stressed,” Francis tries, but James can’t stand how informal it comes off, how dismissive. His resolve to stay cordial wavers.
He doesn’t want to pick a fight, Christ he does not want to waste his energy on that, but he can’t help the clipped tone to his voice as he responds.
“I’m not just stressed, Francis, I’m grieving. And…and terrified.”
“Just forget all that,” Francis says earnestly, and James is fully back to wanting to strangle him. “Execute your game plan.”
James takes a deep breath. “I know that, I just don’t know if I can. Why should I be able to now, of all times?”
The insecurities are pouring out but he can’t seem to stop now that he’s started, fuck—
He keeps talking, voice getting higher and more frantic with every new flaw he catalogs, “I’ve always been shit under pressure, never done strategy mix-ups well, I’m old, washed up, barely even British to begin with, I can’t—“
“James. James. ”
And then Francis hits him.
Well, ‘hits’ is a strong word. Smacks, maybe. Right on James’ face, open-handed. That hand lingers once it’s there, over James’ stinging skin.
Over his mouth.
Was it meant as a slap, or just a way to stop James’ flow of self-deprecation? He’s not sure either of them know, but now Francis’ palm is pressed against James’ lips and that’s something they’ll need to deal with sooner rather than later. James needs to be on court soon.
He has the nearly irrepressible desire to lick. See what Francis’ palm tastes like, what it would taste like if James were to lick it nice and slick and wet before Francis—
He feels his face heating under Francis’ hand, prays that Francis can’t feel it like James can.
They’re staring at each other, frozen and wordless. Francis really does have such beautiful eyes, such an expressive face. The way he’s looking at James now feels…well, it feels hot. Stern. Possessive.
Intimate, in a way that has James breaking out in goosebumps all over, sagging a little as his knees go weak and his lips start to tingle.
Kiss me , he thinks, and is surprised by the suddenness of it, the strength of his own wanting. He doesn’t want to play the match anymore—he only wants…this.
Before he can do anything stupid, Francis jerks his hand away like he’s suddenly been burned.
While James watches, Francis looks down at his hand as if wondering who has control of it. He shakes it once, flexes it, then clears his throat and looks back up at James.
No apology, no shame, just the lightest blush on his cheeks and a serious, sincere look as he asks, “What do you need, James?”
“I need you to believe in me.”
He’s said it before he even knew what would come out of his mouth, but he realizes instantly that it’s true. Painfully so.
He needs someone to believe in him.
“Why would that make any difference?,” Francis asks him, surprised. It’s not rhetorical—he seems to actually want to know.
“It…” James can’t get into this now , this whole praise-approval-validation complex, especially not with Francis, “it just would.”
Francis looks dubious, but nods anyway.
An aide pops in to signal him. It’s time to go. He turns from Francis, shouldering his racquet bag and getting ready for the cameras. Francis will be up in his box, watching, coaching him through it, he doesn’t need any verbal validation from him—
“For what it’s worth,” Francis says, and James spins around to look at him, “I do. Believe in you, that is.”
All James can do is stare. He has no idea whether Francis is telling the truth.
“Now,” Francis says, clapping a hand on James’ shoulder (big, strong, capable, could probably hold him down and—), “get out there and win.
James nods, adjusts his racquet bag once, smiles for the cameras, and walks towards the tunnel.
He loses the first two sets in record time.
Now he’s down a break early in the third. To fucking Pilkington. It’s farcical, that’s how bad it is.
He can’t fully commit to Francis’ strategy, and it’s left him in an odd inbetween place with no real strategy at all. It is an unmitigated disaster.
Francis is sitting in James’ player box alongside Dundy—Will and Liz couldn’t make it, although they’ve sworn they will if James makes the Semis. ( They made plans during the Quarterfinals time slot. They love James, so much, he knows it, but they also never even considered he might make it to the Quarters, and how’s that for fucking validation— )
James’ one consolation is how uncomfortable Francis looks interacting with Dundy—they sit on far opposite sides of the box, Francis stiff and uncomfortable while Dundy lounges languorously, outrageously, clearly over-performing. The contrast is striking, nearly enough to make James break out in hysterical giggles.
At the same time, he wants to turn and scream up at Francis, like some players scream at their coaches mid-match. Those are the kind of players James hates, the ones he politely avoids in the locker rooms. So, he doesn’t scream. He wants to, but he doesn’t.
He does look at Francis, though, meeting his steady, unwavering gaze. Francis doesn’t look worried in the least. He looks solid, confident, unshakeable.
James takes a deep breath, and makes a split second decision. The decision is this: he decides to trust Francis, but more importantly, he decides to trust himself . He loved Sir John, and knows that affection was returned, but the truth of it is that James is a serve-and-volley player and Sir John was wrong to tell him not to be. Bless the man, but he was wrong .
James comes in to volley after his next serve.
He wins the point, and holds.
He breaks Pilkington’s next service game. And his next.
He wins the set and his eyes snap immediately to find Francis, who has stood up in the box and is clapping firmly, mouth is a straight, serious line. Dundy is whooping and struggling to stand from his affected insouciant lean, providing the wild energetic support Francis lacks.
Suddenly, James believes. He can do this.
Everything changes. It feels like the ball is moving in slow motion—like it’s the size of a grapefruit. Every swing is easy, every hit dead center.
He blows Pilkington away for two whole sets, bringing them back even.
It’s the fifth set where he starts to waver, but he manages to hold on and bring things to match point on his serve. It’s 40-15 and he doesn’t need to make an ace to win the match, but he wants to. He wants to send a message; to Francis, to the crowd, to himself.
He serves it hard down the T. Fault. Gasps and groans from the crowd, mixed with a smattering of applause.
A soft second serve would be the smart move, the move Sir John would advise. James looks at Francis in the stands. Francis inclines his chin, just slightly.
James tucks a curl of hair behind his left ear, breathes out for a count of four, bounces the ball three times, and repeats his first serve down the T, only harder.
Later, at the post-match interview, James is breathless and glowing. The crowd has been rowdy with cheering—if they were anywhere but Wimbledon, James fancies they’d be chanting his name.
He answers the interviewer’s questions in a daze, congratulating Pilkington on a match well fought, blathering some nonsense about finding his own second wind, thanks the crowd for their enthusiasm and support. Then, there comes a question that draws James out of his daze.
“We see you’ve got a new person in your box this match—may we presume you have a new head coach as well?”
James can’t help looking up into the stands where Francis is. Francis is looking right at him, and raises an eyebrow. James blushes.
“For now, at least,” he demures.
Murmurs break out in the crowd, and one brave soul wolf-whistles, causing a smattering of laughter. James’ face heats and he very purposefully avoids looking at Francis.
“That’s all we get?,” the interviewer asks, wheedling, and James almost says ‘yes, that’s all,’ but, well, fuck it. He’s onto the Wimbledon fucking Semifinals, his adrenaline is through the roof, he’s got the world on a string .
“I’ve always wanted to work with Coach Crozier–Francis,” he says, and lets his gaze flick over to where Francis has gone stock-still, bright red in the heat of the afternoon sun. “I’m very lucky and grateful to have had his support for this match.”
“And will we continue to benefit from this new collaboration? How much do you credit Coach Crozier with your win here today?”
James ignores the first question deftly by focusing on the second.
“I’m happy to share credit with Francis. He didn’t change my game, but he did loosen up a part of it I’d left dormant too long.”
“You and Coach Crozier have a bit of a…rocky relationship history on tour,” the interviewer proceeds, and James can practically feel the energy buzzing off her with how badly she’s wanted to ask this question, “what changed?”
“...I don’t know.”
Damn, he didn’t mean to be so honest. He glances up at Francis, worried he’s angered him, but Francis only has a confused, almost hurt look on his face. James doesn’t have time to process it because the next second the interviewer is repeating his name as Wimbledon’s newest Semifinalist and asking the crowd to give it up, and James loses sight of Francis in the roar and swirl of so much white.
He doesn’t see Francis again until he’s back in the players’ ready room. It’s absolutely packed—all the players who lost in earlier rounds are there, along with their friends, families, and coaches.
It’s a swarm, and James is positively engulfed.
Players he thought hated him run up to hug him, some he barely even recognizes slap him on the back, coaches want to shake his hand and a smattering of people are asking for his autograph. Somebody has brought him a bowl of strawberries with cream, which he can’t bear declining, so he stands there eating strawberries as people walk up and congratulate him. Every so often he lifts his head above the tumult to scan for Francis—an advantage of being so blasted tall—trying to ignore the drop in his stomach every time he comes up empty. It shouldn’t matter to him so much.
Unfortunately, the relief when he finally does spot Francis through the crowd is undeniable, as is the sincerity of the smile that breaks across James’ face. James can’t bring himself to care—Francis is smiling back, the gap in his teeth just visible from this distance.
Once the crowd catches wind of what’s happening, they part to let Francis through, just like in a movie, or a dream.
It seems like Francis walks towards him in slow motion—James feels rooted to the floor as Francis comes to a stop in front of him, a serious, unreadable look on his face.
“Good match,” he says, and nothing else, and for a second James thinks that’s going to be it, that’s all he’s going to get, which is fine , but then he catches a twinkle in Francis’ eye. All at once Francis steps forward and hoists James up about the waist, wrapping strong arms around him, and twirls him in a wild, unsteady circle. The crowd around them goes wild.
James yelps, throwing his arms around Francis’ neck, and lets it happen. When Francis sets him back down, which must take only seconds but seems endless, James is breathless, stunned, and dizzy. For one long, drawn out moment Francis’ hands remain over James’ waist, James’ arms still flung about his neck. They’re very close, pressed closer by the swell of the raucous and whistling crowd around them. “ Very good match,” Francis says, low and intimate and just for him.
It occurs to James that even if he were brave enough to kiss Francis now, even if he thinks it might not be poorly received, he can’t. Francis is his coach—hopefully, at least, for the next few days.
Starting an affair now, of all times, would be a phenomenally bad idea. He needs to concentrate on the championship, not on… courting or…or being courted.
Christ, he’s doomed. If he’s thinking of anything it should be a quick shag, dirty and meaningless, just to get it out of his system. He shouldn’t be thinking about courting, ever.
That doesn’t mean he can’t want it, can’t stare at Francis’ sparkling eyes and his slightly open mouth, can’t let his hips arch forward, just a little, into Francis’ lingering grasp.
But it does mean that he has to pull away, has to cut the moment off in a nice clean break.
He puts some space back between them. Francis lets go of his waist, fingers trailing as if he actually regrets it. The win is going to James’ head–he’s imagining things, now.
Out of nowhere, Dundy flies into his side, clinging to him like a limpet.
“James!,” he bellows at decibels liable to damage James’ eardrums, “the man of the hour! Come out with us, I’ve planned a benjo for you to celebrate!”
James glances at Francis. He probably shouldn’t–there’s a day’s break before he’ll have to play the Semi’s, but tiring himself out partying tonight isn’t wise regardless, he’s sure Francis will want a full day of training with him tomorrow—
Francis inclines his head. “Go. Celebrate, just not too much. I’ll need you in good shape on the practice courts tomorrow.”
Dundy blinks as if seeing Francis for the first time.
“You’re invited as well, of course,” he says belatedly, and James winces. It sounds prefunctorially insincere, even if Dundy hadn’t meant it that way. It would be awkward to have Francis there, but James also can’t help imagining it. Francis sipping a lemonade, sat across from James at some bar, surrounded by his drunk and rowdy friends. He imagines Francis leaning over, tucking a wayward curl behind James’ ear and saying, “Let’s get out of here,” low and suggestive in his ear, and Christ, James would let him, he’d leave with him, go back to the hotel with him and–
“I think that’s best left to the younger set,” Francis demures with a wry raise of the eyebrow.
James blinks out of his daydream. “I–I would like you to come, Francis,” he says, and Francis fixes him with an odd look.
“No, James,” he says, far too softly. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He turns and disappears into the crowd. James feels…well, he feels bereft .
“What,” Dundy says far too loudly in his ear, “was that ?”
What Dundy promoted as a ‘benjo’ (Christ, James needs better friends), turns out to be a small gathering of a few of their closest friends, but trails off quickly to just James and Dundy when it becomes apparent that James is in no state for a celebration.
He stares morosely into the depths of his single light beer.
“So,” Dundy says casually, “serve-and-volley?”
James groans. “Don’t start.”
Dundy used to play with James in the Juniors, he knows James’ game, and he knows when and why he changed it.
“No, no, I’m sure there’s absolutely no connection between your new coach, who you have a massive, embarrassing crush on–” James shushes him, regretting ever having told him, “and this sudden reversal of strategy.”
James takes a swig of his watery beer. “Francis said Sir John was wrong to try and make me a baseline player,” he says under his breath.
“Christ,” Dundy breathes, “he’s certainly blunt about it, isn’t he?”
“I almost hit him in the shin with my racquet.”
Dundy snorts. “Well,” he says slowly, “it seems to have worked. Is Francis–since when do you call him Francis , by the way? Do you call him that to his face? Okay, okay , nevermind—is he going to coach you for the Semi’s, too?”
James shoots him a warning look—he can only take so much teasing—but says, “I…think so. We haven’t discussed it, but he did say to meet him for practice tomorrow.”
“You don’t seem very excited.”
James breathes out a long sigh. “It just feels,” he glances over at Dundy, then back down at his beer, “it feels like I don’t deserve it.”
“James.”
“I know, I know. Imposter syndrome, and all that.” They’ve talked about this at length, over the years. “But I am–”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Dundy, I’m not even British . Not really”
“So what.”
“Well for one it doesn’t exactly help with the whole ‘imposter syndrome’ bit. And…I don’t know. The whole thing feels like cheating, like luck. I got an easy draw–”
“Your coach died mid-match.”
“Not mid-match, at the end.”
“Regardless,” Dundy says, waving a dismissive hand, “no one, no one, James, would say you’ve had an easy path to get here. And,” he adds forcefully as James opens his mouth to protest, “it doesn’t matter.”
James gives him a look. “Of course it does.”
“No,” Dundy says, turning towards James on his barstool, “it doesn’t. I mean, in my opinion you deserve it anyway, but…no one really deserves it, Jem.”
“What about Serena? Nadal? Federer?”
“Okay, fair,” Dundy concedes, “but that’s besides the point. The rest of us mere mortals…it just happens. You get your chance, however you get it, and you seize it, or you don’t. People have gone down as heroes in tennis history for seizing a chance they didn’t deserve.”
James blinks. Maybe the light beer is hitting him harder than he thought, but Dundy is right. Based on the smug smile gracing his face as he watches James noodle this out, he knows it, too.
It settles something inside James. He doesn’t have to deserve this.
He raises his beer, solemnly, gesturing for Dundy to do the same.
“To not deserving it,” he says.
“To not deserving it,” Dundy repeats, “but taking it anyway.”
Later that night, far later than he should be awake (he needs his rest, needs to be ready for practice tomorrow with Francis) he stands in his hotel room and looks down at the outfit he’s laid out on the bed.
A plain white men’s athletic shirt. Nothing special.
And a flirty, gauzy, pleated white tennis skirt. In his size.
James made himself a promise, once. If he made it to the Semi’s at a Slam, at any Slam, he’d do it.
Now, staring that promise in the face, he’s not so sure.
He’s had the same kit sponsor for ages, and this outfit change isn’t exactly sanctioned, although it is part of the approved set for the women this year. Having a sponsor drop you isn’t trivial—most pros in the top dozen make far more in sponsorships and contracts than they ever will in prize money. With James’ retirement dogging his heels, keeping a sponsor could mean the difference between any income and, well, none.
It is, also, an easier fear to focus on.
Easier than the specters of rejection, disgust, and dismay. From the public, friends, loved ones, colleagues—who knows.
He could, potentially, be ejected from the tournament entirely. He can wave farewell to any hope of winning his Semifinal match if he never even makes it to the first serve. And then there’s the scandal , the media frenzy. Certainly, he would be accused of trying to distract his opponent, to draw attention away from the match and to himself and his own flamboyance. His family would stand by him, and his closest friends, he knows that. But…he’s been surprised before.
And then there’s Francis.
Francis, who has stuck his neck out for James when he really, sincerely did not need to. Francis, who took him to the Semi’s, who, just possibly, really believes James can win it all.
Francis, who hated him, and hated him, and from whom James has only ever wanted approval.
This could ruin it all.
And yet. James promised himself, years ago, that, if he ever got this far, he’d play as himself–in the way that was most comfortable and true to who he is. That hasn’t changed. If anything, going back to his old serve-and-volley pattern has made the impulse stronger.
So he tries the skirt on, just to be sure, and it feels like his entire body relaxes, all the tension seeping out of him.
The tightness around his hips, flaring out into semi-sheer fabric that layers around his thighs, soft pleats subtly shifting with his movements. The support of the built-in compression shorts underneath holds him tight. He does a little twirl, and catches sight of himself in the mirror. He’s smiling.
The skirt goes into his tennis bag, the one he’ll be taking to the Semi’s, stuffed into a mesh pocket near the very bottom.
He’ll make a game time call. He can always back out.
Training the next day is more of the same, Francis drawing out James’ preferences and skills, the ones Sir John had thought not valuable or modern enough to pursue. He does a light workout, and deep stretches. Practices his serves, his volleys, his baseline strokes.
Jopson, freshly bandaged and semi-mobile, agrees to be his hitting partner for the day after what James imagines is some prodding from Francis.
It’s…awkward. He gets the odd feeling that Jopson doesn’t like him, although it’s never been that way before. Jopson has always been friendly, if distant.
Now, James keeps seeing a strange, intense glint to Jopson’s eye, particularly when Francis comes over to minutely adjust James’ grip for his overheads, laying his forearm along James’, his hand covering James’ own long fingers and pressing them into the configuration he wants.
James can hardly enjoy the feel of Francis all along his side, that’s how sour Jopson’s look is, like it could curdle milk.
He misses the overhead. Francis calls for a water break.
When James walks over to the bench, Jopson is already there, smiling and holding out a freshly mixed Powerade for him. James hesitates for half a second, as if it’s poisoned or something ridiculous—
“Francis Crozier!,” a familiar voice booms out across the court. James hears more than one of the handful of fans crowded around the practice courts gasp. “James Fitzjames! And is that the eminent Thomas Jopson?”
James swings around with a tight smile to greet Sir James Clark Ross as he walks onto the court, sauntering confidently straight towards Francis and wrapping him in a familiar hug. Ross kisses Francis on the cheek before releasing him; Francis turns a fetching shade of pink. James freezes in place, midstep. Fuck.
He can’t be jealous. Abso lutely not.
Ross raises his eyebrow at Francis, waiting, and James can see Francis’ eye roll even from here, but then Francis leans in and pecks Ross back, quick but clearly familiar.
James can practically feel himself turning green, his stomach simultaneously dropping into his shoes.
There’s no reason to be jealous of Ross. None at all. He’s only the most decorated British men’s tennis player in history, only infamously the handsomest man on tour, only Francis Crozier’s former doubles partner and bosom companion.
He’s no competition any longer, James reminds himself.
Ross is married–extremely married, if rumors are to be believed. Absolutely head-over-heels devoted. He’s also retired, although he commentates matches for British television now. That’s what he’s doing here, of course. He commentated for James’ last two matches, in fact.
But Ross reaches out and ruffles Francis’ graying strawberry blond hair as he releases him, smiles his dazzling smile, and makes some coy comment under his breath to Francis as he glances over at James. James knows it to be a coy comment because Francis frowns, and lowers his gaze, and the tips of his ears turn red.
And, well, James is jealous, reasonable or not.
What could he ever offer, that Ross does not already have in spades?
Ross finally releases Francis from his hold and turns to bear down upon them. James feels more than sees Jopson sidle over to stand next to him, nearly too close, as if they are presenting a united front as they stare down a common enemy.
“Boys, glad to see you both looking so well!,” Ross greets enthusiastically. “Tom, Frank tells me you should be healed up in just a few weeks?”
“Yes, sir, so the physio says,” Jopson replies, sounding so cordial and proper it almost loops back around into something else.
“And Fitzjames! The man of the hour.”
James smiles tightly. He admires Ross, he reminds himself. Likes him, even.
“You’re making your country proud. Seems as if Frank here has managed to flip something of a switch in you. Did you know,” he asks conspiratorially, glancing sidelong at where Francis has gone stiff and awkward as a block, “Francis has nearly talked my ear off about you these last few years?”
James blinks and frowns, certain he’s heard Ross wrong. “Pardon?” He glances at Francis in confusion, but Francis has his eyes fixed on the side of Ross’ face, looking pale.
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it! He insists we both watch all your matches, he’s made me watch recordings when he can’t catch them live–”
“I have to watch all the competitor’s matches,” Francis interrupts, “wouldn’t be much of a coach otherwise.”
Ross just raises a brow and gives him a look. “Yes, indeed. As I was saying, though, Frank really does admire–”
“James,” Francis fairly hisses, hand shooting out to grab Ross around the bicep, “can I speak to you a moment? In private?”
Ross flashes James and Jopson a winning smile. James wonders what brand of toothpaste he uses. “Excuse us a moment, would you boys?”
As they walk off to the far corner of the court, James turns to Thomas, a question already on his lips. “He watches all my matches?”
Jopson looks at him as if studying a bug that has suddenly become unexpectedly interesting. “Yes. Never misses one.”
They let both let that sit awhile, staring at each other in a tense but slowly thawing silence. Somehow, unlikely as it seemed mere moments ago, they seem to be building something of an understanding.
Turning to see what has become of Francis and Ross, James finds them bent head to head, talking intensely in one corner of the court. Francis is gesticulating in a way that looks just barely restrained. He seems…angry. They both glance over at where James and Jopson are standing, and James swears Francis meets his gaze, all the way across the court, and Christ, it feels hot.
He swallows, shifting awkwardly where he stands, and then turns to Jopson. “Practice some baseline strokes with me?”
Jopson looks as relieved at the suggestion of a distraction as James is.
Once they get into the rhythm of hitting, it becomes quickly apparent that something seems to have switched. They’re…better, together. More in tune. Jopson is smiling, and James is actually starting to have fun.
James almost doesn’t notice when Ross comes up to say goodbye, lingering on the sideline until there’s an opening.
“Best of luck in the Semi’s,” he calls to James, waving. James nods and gives him a tight smile. Ross looks sorely tempted to say something else, but in the end he only says, “I look forward to watching,” smiles strangely, and takes his leave.
When James turns back to continue practicing with Jopson, Francis is standing at the side of the net, glowering.
Later that evening, James is dithering in front of the full length mirror in his hotel room. A button-up seems too formal, a t-shirt too casual. He wants to get this right.
Francis has asked him out to dinner.
To talk strategy ahead of tomorrow’s match, of course, but for a moment it had sounded like he was asking James out on a date. James, fool that he is, can’t help but pretend. Can’t help but preen a little, giving in to his vanity—he wants to look good, for Francis.
He’s certainly getting ready like it’s a date, if an informal one. Maybe a 5th date, where you both finally feel comfortable enough to really relax, maybe comfortable enough to take them home with you and–
He chooses a lightweight knit v-neck at random and gathers his things together in a rush. It wouldn’t do to be late.
At the restaurant (fancy, if somewhat dated) he meets Francis (he’s combed his hair, he’s also wearing a knit, did he think about how much this feels like a date, too, or…?) and they’re led to a private booth complete with a curtain in the back of the main room.
The privacy makes sense , they’re talking strategy for the biggest stage in tennis, and besides, James has become something of a sensation. He could barely make it through the hotel lobby unmolested, earlier.
It may be logical, but it also feels intensely, sensually intimate. Close and warm and insulated from the world outside.
There are real candles on the table, and a rose in a vase. The waiter, when he arrives, turns to Francis to ask if he’d like to select a bottle of wine, as if it’s clear that Francis is the older man taking his fresh young date out to be spoiled at a fancy restaurant. That…that must be what this looks like, James thinks, face heating.
That may be what it looks like, but it’s not what it is.
Francis is dry and James has a match tomorrow—a match they’re here to discuss in detail as coach and player. There will be no bottle of wine, no fingertips lingering on delicate inner wrists, no brush of ankles, no hands surreptitious on thighs under the table.
But, to James’ astonishment, instead of waving the waiter’s offer of wine away entirely, Francis asks for his recommendation and orders them both mocktails instead. Like it is a date. Like he is treating James, like he intends to…to spoil him. The heat on his face spreads .
When the drinks come James finally breaks their prolonged silence, like he would on a date that’s starting out slightly awkward.
“What is it?” he asks, indicating his delightfully pinkish-orange drink. There’s a flower suspended in a large ice cube, plus a sprig of rosemary along the rim.
“Fuck if I know,” Francis says, sniffing suspiciously at his own light purple concoction. The flower floating on top matches his eyes.
James snorts, smiling as he takes a sip. Francis is still Francis, fancy restaurant and awkward first date atmosphere or not.
The drink is delicious.
“So,” Francis starts, “we both know how Little plays. I don’t think we need to cover that in detail. But if you beat him tomorrow, you’ll most likely be playing Hickey in the Finals. Unless I’m mistaken, you’ve never played him before?”
“Never.”
“Hmm. It’s odd, isn’t it? Jopson’s never faced him either, and I swear I’ve seen tapes of his matches in the past but hell if I can find them anywhere.” Francis frowns, playing with the swizzle stick that came with his drink.
“Well,” James offers, “we certainly know one thing. He’s not going to have a big serve.”
Francis’ mouth twitches in a smile he can’t quite suppress. No one that short is ever going to be serving aces to James Fitzjames. “No,” he agrees, “but he’s a sneaky one–like a rat. We’ll have to watch out for that; for surprises. Trickery.”
James feels warm with the implication that Francis believes he’ll beat Little tomorrow, making it to the Final to face Hickey. Believes it enough that he’s already thinking about strategies.
They fall into discussing it. Hickey’s unlikely to be a baseline player–his stature suggests something softer, sneakier. It’ll be different than James’ previous matches. They drift slowly over to discussing the upcoming Semi against Little, about how James can apply pressure–Little’s well known to crumble at vital moments.
James is so absorbed he forgets he’s hungry, nearly waving the waiter away when he comes to take their order.
“James,” Francis says with a disapproving look, “you need to eat.”
He already ate frankly too many strawberries with cream earlier, and his stomach is now lurching with nerves, but he knows Francis is right. As he’s staring down the menu, trying to decide what feels doable, Francis cuts in and asks the waiter for a selection of appetizers in place of a formal meal.
It’s just…it’s just good coaching, James reminds himself. It’s not like Francis is being thoughtful on a personal level, like he would if James were his date.
When the spinach puffs come, their hands bump when they reach for one at the same time. James blushes, then burns his tongue on the hot filling.
They’re watching old tape of James playing Little at Cincinnati nearly a decade ago, heads bent together over Francis’ frankly ancient IPad, when James winces noticeably, grabbing his arm and rolling his shoulder.
Francis is on him like a hawk. “Do they ache?,” he asks. The old wounds, he means. The ones from the Shanghai Open. Of course Francis would know about them– everyone knows about them. He made the international news cycle.
James gives him a tight smile. “Only when I’ve been serving too hard.”
Francis has the good grace to look slightly ashamed; James has only been serving so hard on Francis’ advice, practicing that serve down the T over and over and over again.
“Let me see.”
James’ gaze snaps up to meet Francis’ entirely serious expression.
“You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
“Francis, we’re in a restaurant. A nice restaurant, I might add.”
“Yes, and if you haven’t noticed, we’re also sequestered behind a rather stifling curtain. James,” he says, softer, “let me see. If I’m your coach, I need to know what we’re working with.”
James purses his lips, but it’s clear Francis isn’t going to let this go. He twists in his chair, pulling his sleeve up so Francis can see the old puncture wound on his arm. It looks fine, if a little pink, and Francis nods his satisfaction.
“The other one, James,” he prompts when James hesitates.
It almost looks like Francis is ready to pull the hem of James’ sweater up himself, so James beats him to it, yanking it just high enough up his ribcage that Francis can see the matching puncture wound there.
This one looks worse, James knows. He’d checked it in the mirror earlier. It’s puckered and stretched, looking red and angry. Nothing serious, but it does ache.
“Why didn’t you tell me?,” Francis murmurs.
“‘S not that bad,” James says to the curtain, very intentionally not looking at Francis.
It’s no use–he still feels the feather-light brush of Francis’ fingertips over his ribs, just at the edge of his old scar.
He gasps, ticklish, and squirms away as Francis pulls back, saying ‘sorry’ under his breath, which just happens to be the same time the waiter chooses to come check on them.
Once that mortifying encounter is concluded, James figures the bubble of distance between them is already thin enough. He might as well ask the question that’s been pinging around inside his brain all day.
“So,” he says, as casually as he can manage while he pretends to concentrate on selecting a bruschetta, “what was that all about with Ross earlier?”
For a moment, he thinks Francis will refuse to say anything. Then he lets out a long-suffering sigh. James looks over to see Francis looking soft. Vulnerable. Open, in a way he’s not sure he’s ever seen before.
“Ross and I have a complicated relationship.”
“Mmm,” James hums encouragingly, taking a big messy bite of bruschetta.
“God help me, I love the man. Always will. But…it was bad, when he quit.”
“I can imagine,” James says softly.
“I adore Ann, don’t go thinking I don’t, and I understand why she wanted him off the tour, but…” Francis trails off, but James thinks he knows what he means.
“It was never the same for you.”
“Yes,” Francis says simply. Then, “I’ll never get that back, what we had. I don’t know that I’d want it with anyone else, anyway. And I don’t begrudge him the happiness he’s found. But, yes, it was never the same.”
It’s the first time Francis has been so open with James, so open with anyone that James has been witness to, and it makes James’ heart ache. He sits in attentive silence, letting Francis work the words out.
“Like we were one soul in two bodies. And then, it was gone. Felt like cutting off my own hand.”
James has to restrain himself from reaching out to take said hand, which Francis is now holding up to inspect as if imagining it gone.
“No one else knew me like he did. I thought, for a while, that Sophia…I’ve never belonged to anyone, James.” Here Francis looks at him, deadly serious but shockingly tender, “Eventually, I had to start belonging to myself.”
James can read between the lines. He needs to be himself, needs to play the match his way, whatever that is.
He looks at Francis, who’s gone back to casually eating spinach puffs like he hasn’t just rocked James’ world, and thinks about the skirt in the bottom of his tennis bag.
This time, the hope feels like it just might, maybe, be stronger than the fear.
The day of the match, he waits until the last minute, after his warm up, after the coin toss, after everything.
He keeps his breakaway track pants on, even though it looks awkward and bulky with the skirt scrunched up underneath. He waits until the start of the match, until he needs to get into position to receive Little’s first serve, before he takes them off.
When it’s finally time, James does it as nonchalantly as he can, trying not to think about the fact that Tom Cruise is apparently attending in the Royal Box. That Will and Liz, and their kids, and Dundy, and Francis are all in his own box. That there are cameras, and a stadium full of people, and international broadcasts–
He just takes the pants off and folds them, setting them neatly on the bench, and heads to the baseline.
It takes half a second for people to realize.
Ned Little is the only person not surprised–James talked to him earlier, got his blessing. He would have felt too guilty, otherwise, but Little was surprisingly supportive.
It starts with whispers, a susurration sweeping through the crowd. James and Little both ignore it. By the time the chatter starts to grow louder, Ned’s already hit his first serve.
James’ skirt swishes around his thighs, comforting, as he returns it.
Their quick start doesn’t cut off the growing swell of crowd noise, the whistles and jeers and scattered applause that is becoming louder and more distracting. At least James doesn’t have to hear the broadcast commentary, though he does wonder what James Clark Ross has to say.
He dares not look at Francis.
In the end, though, it’s surprisingly simple to play the match.
The chair umpire has to say ‘thank you’ and ‘quiet, please’ so many times the words start to lose meaning, but eventually everyone just…calms down.
It helps that he and Little are playing absolutely lights out amazing tennis.
Slowly, the crowd seems to forget that one of the players is wearing a skirt and just starts rooting for longer rallies, crazier gets, balls that just barely clip the line.
The pinnacle comes during the longest rally of the match–it’s for break point, if James wins this he’ll have a solid chance at the whole match. Little is smoking it, the top spin absolutely ridiculous, and James is holding his own but he can’t do this forever, he’s not as young as he used to be, and so on his next stroke he hits it as wide to the other side of the court as possible and sprints forwards to the net but Little is surprisingly fast, he puts some amazing spin on it, and it’s out of James’ reach, he’s going to have to dive, going to have to hit it around the post–
He dives.
It’s a stupid, reckless decision, but James has made his career on stupid, reckless decisions. It’s who he is.
He makes the shot, wide around the post, and his body slams into the turf.
The crowd explodes.
There is a sharp pain, high up on James’ thigh.
He looks down and sees blood.
His racquet lies, frame splintered, at his side. He has no memory of how it happened.
James looks up from his position sitting on the grass, wide-eyed, to find Francis in the crowd.
He’s standing up, mouth a tight line, hands clenched in fists. He looks like he wants to jump out of the stands and run down onto the court. James gives him a small smile and a silly wave he immediately regrets. All well.
It is all well, too. The medics come out and patch him up; it’s not a deep cut, just a long one. Somehow, his skirt has come out of the ordeal with only grass stains. The compression shorts underneath are particularly green up the side, but whatever scratched him also pushed them up out of the way of the blood. He doesn’t even have to change his clothes, just gets a big gauze patch taped over his thigh and some painkillers and he’s good to go.
It also breaks the spell that was keeping him from looking at his box; from looking at Francis.
Now, when he hits an ace, his eyes fly to Francis in the stands. He looks for Francis’ hand signals, his fist pumps.
Little is clearly shaken by the incident, the timeout cracking open the pressure of the moment. He folds like a wet napkin. It’s less that James wins the match and more that Little loses it, but it doesn’t matter.
When he wins, he goes to the net and gives Little a consolatory hug, shakes the chair umpire’s hand and then walks to center court, waves to the crowd, and does a little Serena Williams twirl, skirt flaring out around him.
The crowd loses it, in the best possible way. His family, friends, and Francis clap and holler from the box.
During the post-match interview, James cries. He’s so overcome, so happy, so settled in himself, he can’t help it. The interview is blessedly short, mostly because he’s too choked up to give meaningful answers.
It’s perfect. It feels unreal. He’s into the Finals, and he did it his way.
He walks off court on a cloud, and is immediately swarmed by well wishers. Everything seems to be happening so fast . This time, he doesn’t even have time to wonder where Francis is before he appears out of the crowd, looking stern, and grabs James by the arm.
“Excuse me,” he tells the crowd, and drags James back toward the players’ private ready room (god, he’s far enough into the tournament to get a private ready room, it feels like a dream).
“Francis? Is everything alright?,” James asks as he’s pushed inside, as Francis backs him up against the closed door.
“Are you alright?,” Francis asks tersely, fingers at James’ bicep, probing his scar. James is so shocked at it, at the intensity of the touch, that his mouth falls open, wordless.
Once he’s satisfied James’ arm is fine, Francis checks the old wound on James’ ribcage, pulling James’ shirt partway out of his skirt to do so. His fingers tickle, once more, on James’ skin.
“What are you doing?” he finally manages to ask, somewhat breathily, but Francis just grunts and lets his shirt fall back down.
Then Francis turns to James’ other injury, the one he must actually be most concerned about. They both look down at the edge of James’ skirt, where the gauze bandage is just peeking out.
Francis reaches down, business-like, and flips the edge of the skirt up with one hand. He hooks his thumb under the edge of James’ grass-stained compression shorts and tugs them up, enough that he can see the full bandage, the length of it reaching indecently high up James’ thigh. The edge of his compression shorts is pushed into the crease of his thigh, bunched up tight. Francis runs his thumb along the edge of the bandage, the place where the tape overlaps with James’ skin. The middle of the gauze is stained a reddish brown. It’ll need changing.
“May I?” Francis asks. He’s calmed, his stern voice soft once more.
James nods, breath coming quick and shallow. This feels indecent, somehow, although of course it’s not.
Francis rips the bandage off without warning in one quick, clean stroke. James makes a high, ridiculous sound and his head thunks back against the wall. Fuck , that hurts.
When he glances down, Francis has a mean little smile on his face. James thinks, for a dizzying second, that he may be in love.
Then Francis’ expression goes serious again as he looks where the wound has started bleeding again, sluggishly.
“Stay right there.”
James’ knees are near to buckling, it’s not like he could go anywhere even if he wanted to.
When Francis comes back he kneels in front of James with the first aid kit, lifts his skirt up again and looks at James, one eyebrow crooked. “Hold this,” he says, and James shakily reaches out to bunch the fabric of the skirt in one hand, out of Francis’ way. He sticks his leg out a little towards Francis, trying to be helpful. Apparently it’s not helpful enough.
“Up,” Francis says, slapping his own thigh to indicate James should set his foot there. It seems fraught, somehow, but what is James going to do? Say no? So he delicately lifts his foot, still clad in his court shoe, and rests it hesitantly on Francis’ thigh. It does make things easier, bringing James’ thigh closer to Francis’ face so he can see what he’s doing.
It also, undeniably, makes the temperature in the room rise a few degrees.
Francis has to grab around James’ thigh to hold it steady, to smear antibiotic cream on and get the bandage in place, smoothing down the adhesive strips. His fingers press at the back of James’ thigh, his thumbs running down along the front. James continues to hold his skirt, the skirt that Francis hasn’t commented on once, up out of the way.
Once he’s finished Francis sits back on his haunches and looks at his handy work, tilting his head one way and then the other. At one point his chin tips forward and James is certain, absolutely certain that Francis is going to kiss the place where the bandage meets skin, run his dry lips along the length of it, but he doesn’t. Just stays there for a moment, too close. If someone walked in on them right now they’d definitely get the wrong idea. It probably looks, from a certain angle, like James has lifted his skirt to allow Francis’ mouth access to the most tender parts of his skin. His hips twitch forward minutely just thinking about it.
He wants Francis to do it. Wants it very badly. It is possible, from Francis’ angle on the ground, that it is becoming visibly evident just how much James wants it.
His breath catches in his throat when Francis lifts his hand, hovering it high over James’ thigh. If James dropped the skirt, Francis’ hand would be well underneath it. He almost does, just to see what it would look like, but then Francis breaks the moment by smacking James’ thigh twice, firmly and decidedly companionably. James twitches in surprise and makes a choking sound. Fuck.
“All set,” Francis says, groaning as he pushes to standing, coming eye-to-eye with James once more.
“I should release you back to your adoring fans,” he says. It doesn’t seem like he wants to release James. In fact, as he says it, his hand comes to rest on James’ bicep, thumb rubbing softly over his scar.
Right. His fans. He just won the Semifinals at fucking Wimbledon. Which means he’s onto the Finals. Oh. Oh, shit.
Francis clocks the moment it hits. He doesn’t let go of James’ arm.
“Let’s get you out to see Will, hmm?” he offers, and James nods, shaking off some of the panic.
“Yes,” he manages, “let’s go find Will.”
Francis keeps hold of his arm as they leave the room, as they walk down the hall, only dropping it when the crowd catches sight of them.
James is utterly exhausted.
He’s out to dinner with Will and Liz and the kids–and Francis. He’d thought Francis would decline, like he did with Dundy, but to his surprise he accepted.
It’s going well, Francis carrying the conversation and being surprisingly charming, but James is too out of it to even appreciate it. He’s more or less falling asleep facedown in his side salad. He’s got chills, everything aches, and his stomach isn’t too excited about the prospect of a heavy meal.
In short, he’s over-exerted himself. He needs rest.
Francis notices first.
He makes their excuses, shepherding James back to his hotel room. It feels like an echo of the other night, the night after Sir John died, when Francis held him as he cried.
This time, though, Francis stops at the door to say goodnight instead of following James in.
“We’re going to take it easy tomorrow,” he instructs James before he lets him go, “some light movement, a little hitting. That’s it.”
He looks so incredibly stern, so wildly handsome, mussed up a little with the length and strain of the day they’ve had.
“Play me?,” James asks sleepily, and oh, he must be really tired if he’s asking Francis for this, this closely-guarded and most secret of desires.
Francis looks taken aback, but he hasn’t shut down or left in an angry huff. That’s a good start, because Francis doesn’t play anymore. With anyone, exhibition matches with Ross excepted. He hits with Jopson, of course, but that’s different. It’s not a game . James wants a game. He wants it badly.
He reaches out, blearily, and grabs Francis’ hand, falling bonelessly back against his hotel room door at the same time, tugging Francis a step towards him.
“Please.”
Francis closes his eyes, brow furrowing, and he looks like he’s in pain again and oh, that’s not what James wants, it’s okay, he takes it back, Francis doesn’t have to play with him—
“Yes,” Francis says, sounding strangled. His eyes are still closed.
“What?”
Francis’ eyes open, fixing James with an unreadable expression. “We can have a friendly game tomorrow. Consider it your warm up.”
James can feel himself glowing, a ridiculous, lopsided smile overtaking his face, but he’s too tired to hide it.
“Alright.” Fuck, he sounds love drunk.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then. Get your rest, James.”
Francis reaches towards him and James realizes, belatedly, that a lock of hair has fallen in front of his eyes. Francis means to push it back. At the last second, though, his hand stills, trembling and suspended just short of its goal.
James leans forward, slightly, just enough that Francis’ fingers brush against that lock.
It must unfreeze him, because Francis moves, tenderly tucking the hair back behind James’ ear, fingers brushing hot along the shell of it.
“Rest, James,” he says, and all James can do is nod and try not to stare like his heart is flayed open and fully evident on his face, and then—then Francis leaves.
James isn’t sure if Francis will keep his word and actually play a game with him, but when he shows up to the practice courts the next day Francis is there, dressed to play in some outdated Nike gear that must be from the 90’s, maybe even the mid-80’s. James remembers–Nike was Francis and Ross’ sponsor at the height of their fame.
Earlier, in the hotel, James fretted over whether to wear the skirt or his normal shorts, but eventually just threw on the skirt and left before he could change his mind.
They don’t really talk about it beforehand, don’t set any rules or expectations. Just say good morning, work through their respective warm-ups, and get to it.
As James walks to the line to serve, Francis says, “One set?”
James nods, and bounces the ball three times.
It’s. Well. It’s like magic.
Sometimes, in tennis, you play against your opponent. Sometimes, you play with them.
That kind of ease should only come from long association, and yet James seems to know what Francis is going to do several strokes ahead of time.
It shouldn’t work, but it does. Oh, Christ, it does. It’s smooth, effortless, the kind of playing that’s just pure fun. James finds himself laughing, breathless and delighted, meeting Francis’ own poorly suppressed grin across the court.
Francis isn’t as fast as he once was, and he was never a singles player. It shows in his technique, his preferences. But it matches James’ style, the give and take of it like dancing.
Francis hits strong and flat, but with a finesse that is as striking as it is surprising. He’s lost very little of his touch over the years–it feels like he can place the ball exactly where he wants on the court, every time, like he’s threading a needle. It’s positively magnetic.
James has to think, hard and fast, quick on his feet to even have a chance of keeping up. Francis has the advantage of skill built from long experience, catches him with a dropshot more than once, but James has relative youth and speed.
James wins the set, but not by that much, and when he walks to the net to shake Francis’ hand Francis just raises his eyebrow and says, “Again?”
They end up playing three full sets. James takes the win 2-1. He would play more, and more, forever, if Francis wanted, but Francis promised him one game and gave him three sets, so James is trying not to be greedy ( he feels greedy, so fucking greedy, God, he wants–)
Instead, sweaty and smiling, a pleasant burn in both their muscles, they sit on the bench and talk about the final.
They also talk about the skirt.
“I just wanted to let you know, I’m not planning to wear this,” James says, spreading his hands to indicate the grass-stained skirt.
“Why not?” Francis asks neutrally, delicately.
“It’s distracting. It’s unfair to my competition, and it sends the wrong message. Makes it too much about me.” He’s thought this through, over and over.
“Hickey doesn’t play fair.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“It’s…Christ, I’m bad at this,” Francis says, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “If this is you, it’s you. Don’t apologize for that. And besides,” he says, looking down at James’ lap, where the skirt is spread across his thighs, “it’s just a skirt. They can fucking deal.”
It’s so sweet. So blunt. So Francis.
James can’t help himself. His muscles still sting with the sweet aftermath of their playing, his heart light with the simple joy of it, and Francis just told him to wear a skirt to the Wimbledon Finals because it makes James feel good. He sets his hand over where Francis’ is splayed wide on the bench between them. He leans in, slowly, watching to see how Francis reacts. Francis’ eyes go heavy, his gaze flitting down, then back up. He looks heated, heavy, wanting. A weight to balance James’ lightness. A thrill runs up the back of James’ spine. Francis’ pinky finger twitches slightly and brushes up against James thigh, through the skirt.
Before James can do it, though, before he can cross that last distance, he hesitates.
This is awful timing. If he does this now, he won’t be able to think about anything else. Maybe, if he knew it would go well, he’d take that leap. But he doesn’t know. They could end up having zero chemistry, or maybe it’d be a quick fantastic fuck only to turn awkward and distant afterwards, or James could be totally wrong and Francis could not want him at all.
Any one of those possibilities, and James is dead in the water. He needs a coach, not a potentially disastrous one night stand that could ruin everything.
Francis seems to come to a similar conclusion. He clears his throat, pulls back, extracts his hand from underneath James’.
“Concentrate on the match,” he says, not unkindly, and it could mean nothing. It could mean everything.
James smiles, helplessly, and nods.
He goes to bed early that night, and fingers himself to the thought of Francis’ hand up his skirt, coming sharp and almost painful as he muffles his cries in the thick hotel pillow. Maybe, he reflects, he’s fucked either way–he can’t stop thinking about Francis whether they’ve started something or not.
The day of the final dawns rainy and chill.
Breakfast with Will, Liz, and the kids helps break some of James’ early nerves–the kids don’t give a rat’s ass that James is in the final beyond the fact that they’ll probably get to see the Princess of Wales and her kids in the stands.
It helps put things in perspective. To them, James isn’t famous. He’s just their uncle.
The rest of the day passes in a blur, until James finds himself back in the private ready room alone with Francis.
The same room where, two days ago, Francis rucked James’ compression shorts up and put his hands all over James’ thigh while James held his skirt up out of the way.
Memory sits awkwardly in the air between them. Or, at least, it does for James. He’s not sure if Francis feels it or not, if he can sense the strange, spiced quality of the air in this room.
If he does, he isn’t showing it. He isn’t really doing much of anything.
They’ve talked strategy round in circles for the last few days–there’s no point in reviewing it again–and any empty platitudes from Francis would just make James even more nervous. He’s already trembling.
He’s been trying to avoid social media, trying to avoid the news, but it’s hard, and it’s even harder to ignore his phone, which has been blowing up so much James had to turn off all his push notifications. His phone is still nearly unusable.
Nonetheless, some of the chatter has filtered through to him. A lot of it has been great–the people who see themselves in him, see representation on an international stage. That part has been overwhelmingly good. Of course, there are other opinions. James has tried to let those slide off him, like water off a duck, with mixed success.
He’s still confident in his decision to wear the skirt, and no one close to him has implied that he should do so much as think twice about it.
Still, his nerves need something to focus on.
It’s a different skirt from last time–same design, just…one that isn’t all grass stained. He plucks at it, adjusts it on his hips again and again, dissatisfied with how it’s sitting. Gets up and looks at himself in the mirror, twists so he can look over his shoulder and see if it’s flattering his ass. Adjusts it some more. Then the way his shirt is tucked in doesn’t look right, so he redoes that–
“James,” Francis finally cuts in from his place on the small couch. “Leave it be.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“...James,” Francis says, flatly.
“I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I? A man in a skirt and it’s not even a flattering skirt, Christ, what was I thinking, for all the comments not one person has even said I look good in it,” he says, realizing with a shock that it’s true.
“ James,” Francis says, getting up from the couch, “I–-you—,” he continues, helplessly.
James can see his face in the mirror. There are several long, drawn out seconds of tension in which neither of them speak nor move. They just stare into each other’s reflected eyes.
“You look good in the skirt.”
“I– Francis.”
“You look so good, James, Christ.”
That pained look is back on Francis’ face, but James is starting to think there’s something else underneath the pain. His heart thumps unevenly, swollen and off-kilter.
He smooths his hands self-consciously over his hips. “I do?”
“Fuck, James, I–”, Francis says, and he takes a step closer.
“James Fitzjames? We’re ready for you!”, the attendant calls through the door. Oh, it’s time for the match. The Wimbledon Final. That match. Right.
He spins around, meets Francis face to face. They’re close, closer than James thought.
“You look,” Francis starts, casting his eyes about like he can’t let them settle on any one part of James for too long, “beautiful. Trust me, James. And you’ll be amazing. Go on, now, “ he says to James’ collarbones.
“Fitzjames, we’re ready for you!” the call comes again, a little louder and more insistent this time.
James needs to leave. He’s about to be on the biggest stage in tennis, having the biggest moment of his career.
Fuck it.
He steps forward, quick. He can’t afford to be slow right now. When the hem of his skirt brushes Francis’ pants, Francis looks up into his face, searching. James reaches out, grabs Francis’ hands where they hang uselessly at his sides and draws them in, pressing them firmly to the place where James’ shirt is tucked into the waistband of his skirt. Francis’ eyes are big, dark. “James–”
James kisses him. Once, fast but full, and fuck, it’s so good, so good that for a second James forgets what he’s doing because Francis’ big hands, those hands that are so nimble with a racquet, hands that James has watched for years, tighten on his waist and Francis’ tongue slips into his mouth with a low, hungry noise, and James has to rip himself away and fling himself out into the hallway, no looking back.
Fuck, he thinks standing in the hallway alone, breathing heavily. Well, he’s done it now. But, instead of nerves, he feels a strange, bubbling lightness. He smiles, takes a deep breath, accepts the bouquet flowers from the attendant, and heads out to center court.
He has a match to win. The rest…the rest will follow.
The first thing that happens after the roar of the crowd quiets down is that Hickey makes a nasty comment about the skirt. Of course he does.
But James can still taste Francis on his tongue, so he doesn’t rise to the bait.
Besides, Hickey is small compared to the scale of…everything else.
The stadium is packed to capacity, the Royal Box stuffed to the brim with princesses and celebrities. Everyone– everyone –has come out to see whether James can do it, whether he can win the Championship for the home team. And sure, Hickey may be Irish, but it’s not quite the same as being English, or, well, half-English. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. James has the crowd on his side, that much is evident from the start, from the wild cheers that go up as he walks onto court, compared to the weak claps for Hickey–no one seems to even know who the hell he is.
It’s hard to shut out all the noise, the swell of it reverberating in James’ bones, but he does his best. He smiles for the pre-match photo, even as Hickey puts a smarmy arm around his shoulder, going up on his tip-toes to reach.
He wins the coin flip, elects to receive first. And then, before he’s really ready, the match has started. It’s all happening so fast. Shouldn’t something so big, so important, take more time?
He goes down 2 breaks early in the first set before he even knows what’s happening.
Hickey is sneaky, just like Francis said.
James adjusts. He’s got height on Hickey—a lot of height—and he uses it to his advantage with big serves, smashing returns. He loses the first set, but takes the second.
In the third, though, something changes; Hickey starts playing mean . James should have known when he took a 20 minute bathroom break between the sets that something nasty was coming.
James is trying some serve-and-volley, switching it up from the shattering baseline strokes he’s been pounding Hickey with. It’s working–he’s got Hickey on the ropes, and James is about to break for 4-2 when-
Hickey takes a volley out of the air and smashes it, right at James’ face.
It’s not against the rules, per say, to hit a body shot at your opponent, but it is frowned upon. A face shot–no one ever does that on purpose, but Hickey had the entire court wide open, a good angle for something down the line and away from James, and instead he hit it like a canon straight into James’ eye socket.
James goes down. Hard.
His ears are ringing, his head is throbbing, and the boos from the crowd are so loud it hurts . He wishes they would be quieter in their displeasure, even if it is for his benefit.
Someone helps him to the bench, and then there are medics–so many medics, he didn’t even know they had this many medics on call.
One of them pries James’ hand away from where it’s covering his left eye.
The crowd gasps as one, angry shouts and more boos ringing out. They must be showing a close up of James’ face on the board. That, or the damage is evident even from a distance.
There’s an ice pack, and a handful of pills someone makes him swallow, and an extended medical timeout.
Eventually, James is coherent enough to open both eyes. The vision out of his left is a little fuzzy, but not terrible. He can play on. Then he notices an argument already in progress just a few feet away from him–Hickey is smiling up at the chair umpire, arguing against his being given a warning for unsportsmanlike conduct.
He’s achingly polite, showing all of his teeth, but James doesn’t trust it one bit. There’s something darker under that smile.
Then he notices the yelling. Not the crowd, this time. Just one person.
“How could you even consider not giving him a penalty? He should lose the point for arguing with you about it! Do you have eyes in your head? Did you even see that shot? That was intentional, that was meant to disable my player–”
“Please,” the chair umpire says into her microphone, “Coach Crozier, if you continue to argue, you will be given a warning.”
James looks up into the stands. Francis is leaning over the railing of the box, near to falling out. He’s red in the face and his hair is mussed, sticking up at odd angles. He looks furious, apoplectic, but his expression softens when he catches sight of James looking at him. James shakes his head, just a little, and mouths, “I’m okay.”
For a second, Francis’ knuckles go white where he’s grasping the railing. Then, as if it takes a very great effort, he sits back down.
Hickey is given his first warning. Another infraction and he’ll lose a point–James hopes it doesn’t come to that. He’d rather win a clean match.
Walking out to the baseline to receive Hickey’s serve is harder than it should be–his depth perception is a little off. Hickey’s first serve is out, and his second is soft, but James misses it entirely. Concerned murmurs go up from the crowd.
It doesn’t get better from there. James misses easy shots, even whiffs a couple entirely. Once, he gets off balance and hits the grass, falling hard on his side. The cut on his thigh stings, his old puncture wounds ache, and his eye feels very strange indeed.
He gets back up. The crowd roars their support.
His one saving grace is his serve; he could do it with his eyes closed, and Hickey’s weak on his returns. James still loses the third set.
By the fourth, though, things have improved. The vision in his left eye is less blurry, and he’s serving out of this world. It’s ace after ace, the crowd going wild every time. Hickey’s relaxed demeanor is starting to crack. He smiles less, glowers more.
James begins to think that, just maybe, he can do this.
Soon enough, he’s serving for the set. He looks up at Francis, periodically, noting how he tilts his head, the subtle signs they’ve agreed on. They get through it together, keeping one step ahead of Hickey.
The last serve of the set is a big one, and James nails it. It sails past Hickey’s outstretched racquet, hitting the backboards with a massive thump.
The second James hits it, though, he knows he’s in trouble.
The old puncture wound in his side flares with a bright, enormous pain. It’s practically blinding. And then…it’s not. It’s only a problem when he extends his arm out above his head. It’s only a problem for his ball toss; that is, for his serve.
Fuck.
That’s the one thing that’s been working against Hickey, the one thing James is confident in given his bad eye.
As he walks to his bench for the change over, he looks up at Francis in the stands, sees the paleness of his face. Francis knows. He looks at James and makes a signal, shrugging his shoulders. The match depends on James’ volley from here on out–no more big serves, no more blistering baselines. He’s going to have to win it on finesse alone.
At the start of the fifth, he tries a serve and winces, hard. It smacks into the center of the net, and Hickey smiles.
From there on out, it’s brutal. James is on the defensive; Hickey’s clearly hitting as hard as he can, taking advantage of James’ weakness. At one point he smacks a ball straight into James’ torso and gets called for his second infraction, losing the point automatically.
It doesn’t seem like it’s going to matter. James is on the ropes. He’s worried he won’t be able to finish the match, much less win it. In the stands, Francis has his head in his hands.
James feels like giving up. He’s given it everything he has. There’s nothing left. There’s a sort of peace, in that. He decides, in his heart, that he’s going to lose.
Then, on Hickey’s next serve, he hits it underhand. Underhand. An underhand serve, to James Fitzjames, at the Wimbledon Finals, in the fifth set?
Oh, absolutely not.
James will not let that stand. It’s an insult to him, but it’s also an insult to the crowd, the tournament, to the sport of tennis itself. It smacks of insincerity, a superiority complex that’s nearly godlike in its delusion.
The next return he blasts back down the line, right past Hickey’s racquet and his stupid stunned face. James’ side pulls and sears with pain. It’s worth it.
He can’t do that every point, so he relies on his speed for the rest, sprinting to the net and hitting drop shots, top spin, ridiculous angles. Hickey’s face begins to look like a storm cloud.
All at once, it’s match point. Championship point, on James’ serve.
He’s used every trick he knows on Hickey—there are no surprises left to throw at him. He’s bruised and beaten and bloody—he can feel that the cut on his thigh has reopened under the bandage.
Should he try a body serve? Take it out wide? Something short and soft?
He looks into the stands, looks at Francis.
His first serve, down the T, is gorgeous. It’s also called out. He challenges it, but the replay shows it confirmed out by mere millimeters.
Every part of him feels like it’s on fire. He could die, right here, and he wouldn’t even be surprised.
His second serve follows his first and it’s fine, but it’s no ace, and Hickey executes an amazing drop shot return, James will never get there in time but he has to try, so he pushes off on tired legs, gives it everything he’s got, reaches with his racquet at the last second—and makes the best shot of his life.
He’ll never forget the moment as long as he lives.
As the chair umpire says, “Game, set, and match, James Fitzjames,” and every single person in the crowd, every last one, leaps to their feet and roars.
James is already on his knees from his last shot, which is a good thing, because his legs wouldn’t support him anyway. He buries his face in his hands, lets the cacophony of the crowd wash over him, and cries.
He needs to get up, needs to shake Hickey’s hand, thank the chair umpire, wave to the crowd, but first–first, he needs this. One small, single moment to himself. A moment to be grateful.
Once he’s had it, he takes a deep breath and stands. Somehow, the crowd gets louder, and then they’re chanting his name and James beams , but he’s still got to shake Hickey’s hand–problem being he can’t find Hickey. He looks, confused, in every corner of the court. There’s Hickey’s smashed racquet, there’s his bag and his water bottle, but no sign of the man himself.
Stymied, James simply goes to the next step, walks over to thank the chair umpire, and looks up at his box.
They’re all standing—Will is crying, Liz is crying, even Dundy is looking teary eyed. Francis...Francis looks in love.
James vaults the low wall into the stands, to much delighted screaming, and climbs through the sea of people, running up the stairs, he has to get there, he has to, now, he needs–
He gets to his box, climbs over the barrier, and flings himself into Francis’ arms, skirt flaring out behind him. The crowd’s cheers are deafening. James doesn’t even hear it. His face is buried in Francis’ shoulder, Francis holding him tight so he doesn’t fly to pieces.
“James,” Francis whispers low in his ear, “James, you did it. You clever thing, you did it.” He sounds close to tears himself.
James pulls away from his shoulder, a watery smile on his face, meaning to reassure Francis, but then the world slows. They’re nose to nose, closer than they should be. Francis’ eyelids droop, half closed. He tilts his head, just a little, to the left. His hands slide down James’ back, trailing fire.
It’s Dundy who saves them from themselves, tugging James out of Francis’ arms by the shoulders to wrap him in a gigantic hug. The world rushes back in. Then it’s on to Will, and Liz, and the children, James smiling and laughing so hard his cheeks hurt, then back to Francis for good measure, and then James has to make his way back down onto court for the trophy ceremony.
Hickey doesn’t come back.
It makes for an awkward ceremony, with no runner-up to give an interview or receive the second place silver platter. Still, Kate Middleton compliments James’ skirt, and James’ friends and family are positively beaming from the stands, so it’s not all bad. He muddles through his speech, makes the crowd laugh, and neatly sidesteps the question about that intimate hug with his coach after the match.
Soon enough he’s hoisting the trophy—it’s heavy, makes his side twinge even through the adrenaline–with it’s stupid little pineapple on top, and then he’s led back to the main building, ushered through another interview he forgets as soon as he’s given it, sees his name carved on the plaque, and then out onto a balcony to greet the fans who couldn’t fit in the stadium.
The entire time, James’ head is filled with Francis.
Francis’ hands, his lips, his eyes, which were full of James in kind.
Eventually, they end up in the same room. A room that’s packed with reporters, tennis officials, players and families and God knows who else. It’s not exactly private, but it feels like there’s no one else the second he lays eyes on Francis.
His hair is still standing up at odd angles, and he’s got a near frantic gleam to his eyes as he pushes through the crowd to get to James.
James stands still and lets him come. He feels suddenly overaware of the bareness of his legs, the throbbing of his eye, the ache in his muscles.
Francis reaches him, but instead of picking him up and twirling him like last time, he just wraps James in a hug so gentle it hurts all the more, his hand cupping the back of James’ head like it needs protection. When he pulls back he settles his thumb on James’ cheekbone, just under his hurt eye.
“Are you alright?” he murmurs, low enough it should be just for James, but they’re so crowded in with well-wishers there’s no way for them not to be overheard.
Which means James can’t say what he really wants to, can’t say that he hurts, that he’s tired, that he’s so very grateful for everything this tournament has given him but he’s ready to go home, now. That he’d like it most of all if he could go home with Francis.
So instead he just says, “I’m fine,” in a way that is clearly unconvincing. Francis frowns at him, then glances down to where the bandage on his thigh shows a spot of bright red blood.
James is flooded with the sense memory of Francis ripping off that first bandage, holding his thigh steady and running his fingers up and down the length of it–
“Fitzjames! Coach Crozier! We’d like to interview you together now if that’s alright?”
He is not free, not yet, to let that particular memory run wild.
The interview is agony, pressed in close next to Francis so they both fit in frame, in front of a reporter and camera, listening to Francis’ short but glowing review of the match. Halfway through, while Francis is answering a question about James’ injury and Hickey’s unsportsmanlike penalties, his hand sneaks over to press into the dip of James’ back. It’s so warm. James misses the next question and has to have it repeated.
At the same time, he presses back into Francis’ hand, trying to let him know the contact is welcome. More than welcome. It feels like the only thing keeping James grounded.
That interview is the last time they’re near enough to touch for hours. James’ heart aches for it, and then the rest of his body starts in on the game. All the adrenaline is starting to wear off, and probably the painkillers are as well, and oh. Ouch.
He manages, somehow, to weave through the crowd and get himself to the medics for some more painkillers.
“You want some extra to take with you, for the Ball later?” the woman helping him asks, and James feels a flood of cold, from his head down to his toes.
Right. The Champion’s Ball. He’d forgotten, never having had reason to think about it in the past. Christ, he’ll need to find something to wear, he’s only got—he checks his watch and deflates, he’s only got 3 hours.
He leans forward, achingly slowly, and covers his face with his hands.
“...I’ll take that as a yes?”
“Yes, yes please,” James tells the medic. God, he’s going to be expected to dance. With the winner of the women’s singles, specifically, as is tradition. At least it’s Silna, she won’t make a pass at him or anything, but James also has a sneaking suspicion she may have two left feet despite being one of the strongest players on the women’s side.
Did he even pack a suit? It’s black-tie, he thinks, fuck, what’s the dress code…
He needs to get going. Shower up, do his hair. He can put it in curlers while he chooses an outfit. At least Francis will be required to attend as well, the saving grace of all this.
Right, Francis. He should find Francis.
He can’t find Francis.
It’s a zoo out there, a thousand people milling about and tens of thousands more just outside the doors.
He tries a text to Francis’ number. He only added it the other day; they don’t even have a message history yet. This is the first one. He agonizes over the wording for precious minutes, trying to decide whether to add an emoji and if so which one. Eventually, he decides simple is best.
Where are you? It’s James.
There, sent.
He stands to the side, greeting well wishers with a tired smile, phone in his hand waiting for a reply that doesn’t come, and doesn’t come, and doesn’t come.
He frowns down at his phone. Did he type the number in wrong when he added Francis’ contact info? Should he send a second text–no, that feels needy.
His side twinges, and his calf is starting to cramp up now that he’s stopped moving. He’s only got 2 hours and 45 minutes until the Champion’s Ball.
Making his excuses to the crowd, he drags his achy body back to his hotel room, but not before he sends Francis a text letting him know, pocketing his phone immediately afterwards so he doesn’t obsess about it.
He means to get straight into the shower, but his big fluffy bed is freshly made and he’s so blessedly tired, and he ends up collapsing on it, face down, in his full kit. It’ll only be for a minute, he just needs to. Well. To lay face down on a big fluffy bed for a bit.
Fuck, he just won Wimbledon. Fuck, he just won €2.5 million!
He rolls over, eyes huge. Right, the prize money. That should make for a nice retirement. Shit, he can pay for college for his niece and nephew. Maybe he can even afford to take a big vacation. He’s always had this vague dream of going somewhere he can see the Northern Lights, maybe a polar bear or two. Then again, there’s always Hawaii.
Okay, he needs to move. If this tournament is paying him the big bucks, the least he can do is show up to their stupid party.
Getting off the bed is hard, but he does it. He feels a million years old as he bends to unlace his shoes, then hobbles over to the bathroom. In the mirror he gets his first good look at his hurt eye. The skin looks like an oil slick, all purple and black and a yellowing green. He must have popped a vein—there’s a big red splotch spreading across the white part of his eyeball.
He looks a mess, but he also looks kind of badass. Roughed up but strong, pretty in his skirt with his hair all wild and curly from his drying sweat. He’s still flushed a little from all the exertion and adrenaline.
He wonders if Francis thought he looked good, too. He wonders if Francis has thought about their kiss at all, like James has.
Christ, their kiss. The way Francis’ hands felt heavy on James’ waist, the noise he had made as his tongue pressed, hot and sweet, into James’ mouth. Like he’s been aching for exactly this, for James.
The way, when James pulled away, Francis’ grip had tightened for a second, as if trying to hold him there. Don’t go.
Just thinking about it is making James go weak in the knees; he grabs at the bathroom counter for support. He needs to shake it off, he’s on a time crunch here. But…maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, as it were. Take a much-needed shower while also relieving some, uh, tension. He suddenly feels like he has a bit more energy than he thought.
Before he can strip out of his clothes, though, there’s a knock on the door. James sighs deeply and ignores it, hoping it will go away.
It comes again, more insistent. He thinks he hears his name called, muted through the door.
The shower will have to wait, but it can’t wait long. He really does need to get a move on.
He stumbles awkwardly towards the door on cramping legs, stooping a little to peer through the peephole. It’s Francis on the other side, and James’ heart lurches with joy before plummeting, because it can’t be anything good . He’ll see Francis at the Ball in just over 2 hours–anything that’s urgent enough for Francis to visit his room before that must be bad news–well, unless Francis is going to answer the door and immediately drop to his knees, they’d need to be quick and there’s still probably not adequate time–
James cuts that train of thought off post haste and opens the door.
Francis hasn’t changed either, still in his rather wrinkled outfit from the Final. He looks a little harried, although he brightens visibly upon seeing James.
Several moments pass.
“...Can I come in?”
James realizes he’s been hanging all over the doorframe, staring, as Francis stands awkwardly in the hallway.
“Oh, right, of course.” He steps back, allowing Francis to enter and close the door behind him. Now they’re standing in the small entryway, looking at each other silently as if neither knows quite what to do or say.
“Your eye–is it paining you?” Francis finally asks, brown drawn and fingers twitching upwards as if he means to check it himself.
“Oh–no, no I’m quite alright. It looks much worse than it feels,” James says, raising his own hand to gently probe the delicate skin just under his eye.
“It looks rather dashing, actually. You’ll be on the front page of all the papers.”
It’s such an odd comment from Francis that James finds himself frowning a little. “Well, perhaps, but I do wonder whether I should put some coverup on for the Ball…speaking of, what did you need me for? I should really start getting ready.”
“Oh, right, Ball’s been canceled.”
“What?!” The Champion’s Ball has never been canceled—ever. Francis must have gotten bad information, or, or–
“It’s Hickey,” Francis says, as if that explains anything.
“Hickey? Did they find him?”
“Yes. I don’t know much more, didn’t stick around to find out, I wanted to come tell you, uh—” his eyes drag down James’ body, his mussed appearance and dirty gear from the match “—tell you not to bother with getting cleaned up.”
Right. He doesn’t have to go to the Ball, now. Neither of them do.
“Oh thank Christ,” he breathes, sagging back against the entryway wall, “I’d have never survived it.”
“I suspected as much,” Francis says with a soft smile, “but James, are you truly alright? Your eye, the cut—” his eyes dash to James’ thigh, skittish, then back up “—I could tell your side was hurting you, as well.”
James fairly melts at the concern in Francis’ voice, his body relaxing naturally in response to someone taking care of him—to Francis taking care of him. So much has changed in just a few short days.
“I’m well, truly. Although I won’t deny I ache something powerful,” he admits, grimacing and leaning harder into the wall. “And I should probably change my bandage.”
Everything sounds like so much effort.
“Help me check it?” James asks, and he doesn’t mean to look at Francis through his eyelashes, in a darkened hallway, alone in his hotel room together, but he’s tired, and Francis looks so handsome and solid and rather as if he would like to help in any case.
After a moment’s hesitation in which Francis is so still James wonders if he’s even breathing, he says, “Of course,” and steps forward.
Although James asked Francis to check his cut, the first thing Francis does is crowd in close and raise his hand to trace light fingers over the delicate skin around James’ hurt eye.
“I would have killed the bastard, if it wouldn’t have cost you the match.”
“ Francis,” James says in a faux scandalized voice.
“I would have,” Francis repeats, voice low, and his fingers slide softly down James’ cheek.
All James can do is swallow and let his eyes wander over Francis’ beautiful, pockmarked face, drinking it in.
“Might still, now they’ve found him,” Francis grumbles.
James smiles. “There’s no need. I handled it.”
“That you did, and beautifully. Christ, that last shot–James, I’ve never seen a shot like that in all my life.”
James flushes at that. The praise—ah, fuck.
“But—,” Francis continues, and ghosts his hand over James’ side, over his old scar, and James knows what he means. It was beautiful, but it hurt you.
“It is an old wound. A little achy, nothing more.”
“I saw the way it made you serve.”
James cannot deny that, and so says nothing. He had barely been able to raise his arm by the end of the match.
Francis presses two fingers to James’ ribs, gently, over top of his shirt. It occurs to James, abstractly, that Francis knows exactly where the scar is. “Does it hurt, still?”
“Only when I raise my arms, and even then, not so bad. I’m on quite a lot of ibuprofen,” he explains, with a wry smile.
“Hmm,” Francis murmurs, a dissatisfied look on his face, but he removes his hand.
Those injuries surveyed, they both look down towards James’ thigh.
The moment feels fraught again–tight and heavy. A little shiver runs down James’ spine, despite the fact that the air seems unusually hot in the entryway.
Francis reaches down, but doesn’t go straight for the bandage. Instead, he takes the hem of James’ skirt between his fingertips, passing it back and forth as if simply feeling the fabric, hesitating a bit.
He looks up at James through his beautiful, light lashes. “May I?”
James’ chest is starting to heave noticeably with his breath. “You can. Please.” He bites his lip, and hopes.
Francis only nods, turning his attention back to James’ leg. He lets his hand skim under it, just toying with the edge of the built-in compression shorts. James’ breath is coming heavy, now, and he’s glad he’s against a wall—his head is spinning.
Gently, slowly, Francis edges his fingers under the shorts, stretching them to accommodate his hand so he can press lightly into the center of James’ bandage.
“Like this?,” he asks, and James has never heard his voice so low, “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“Y-yes, I mean, no. Francis—” James says, trying to regain his balance and completely unable to accomplish the task
“Hush, James. I’ve got you,” Francis soothes, and pushes the compression shorts higher, hot and steady, forcing the stretchy fabric up, and up, further than he realistically needs to in order to check the bandage. The tips of his fingers graze the crease where James’ thigh meets his groin.
James dares not look down, because he knows what he’ll see—his skirt covering Francis’ arm nearly to the elbow, as Francis’ thumb presses firmer and firmer into James’ delicate skin.
Francis steps in, closer, and tilts his head so he’s breathing into the space just between James’ ear and his jawline.
“So pretty,” he groans.
James quivers. “The skirt?”
“The skirt. You, in it.” Francis squeezes his thigh under the skirt and suddenly stops avoiding touching James’ hardening cock, instead letting his knuckles drag against it.
“F-Francis. Please.” He doesn’t even know what he needs, exactly, just–just that he’s urgent, quickly becoming desperate, the strain and adrenaline of the day making him shake for some, any, kind of release.
The first light touch of lips to James’ neck makes him gasp. Francis doesn’t stop there, though, just keeps pressing, lips firm and then parting wetly, and he—he kisses James’ neck, but it feels like something more, akin to consumption, as if Francis would take him whole within his mouth. He makes a sound of such relief as he does it, low and groaning, and it shoots through James like electric heat, making him tingle all over.
“James, tell me you want this, Christ,” he says, sounding broken, as desperate as James feels. His fingers are on James’ thigh, under his skirt and up his shorts, caressing him, circling little movements and firm presses, brushing against his cock as they edge further towards his inner thigh where the skin feels thin and delicate.
James wants it so badly he almost cannot say it.
“I– ah –I want to…,” he tries, but his head is spinning, the words swirling away from him.
Francis stills, though it seems to take a great exertion of effort. “James, I won’t take advantage if you want to stop–”
Suddenly, James finds the words. “Christ, Francis, I’ve wanted this since before we even met.”
“I– James , you cannot be serious–”
“You have no idea, it’s been ages, Francis, ages , but you hated me, I could never–”
“James,” Francis says, pained, “I never hated you, I was trying to stay away because I wanted–” Now it’s Francis’ turn to stop short.
“Tell me,” James says, soft, pleading.
“...you. I wanted you, so badly it scared me. I was only trying to do the right thing, keeping you at a distance. I thought you could never want…I had no idea I was hurting you…”
James makes a pained noise, and kisses him, stopping the flow of words. They wasted so much time. When they part, just barely, a string of spit hangs lewdly between them. Then they both tilt their heads, getting a better angle, and slot their mouths together, hot and wet and perfect, moving in a rhythm that’s slow and deep and quickly driving every single thought from James’ head. He feels dumb with it, wanting only more.
“Christ,” Francis says, pulling back with a gasp, “wish I could fuck you like this, with the skirt on, damn these shorts, God, James–”
“Oh, Francis please–”
“-do you know how good you look? It’s been driving me mad, you have no idea.”
“Tell me, tell me, please, tell me you liked it,” James pleads, nose in the soft hair just above Francis’ ear.
“James, fuck, I dreamt of you.”
Oh. Oh.
“You never said anything– nothing –”
“Didn’t want to be inappropriate,” Francis says, kissing the side of his face, “make you uncomfortable, I’m–I was your coach , James.”
“I thought you didn’t like it.” He sounds sad, childish, petulant to his own ears but he can’t help it.
Francis settles his hands on James’ waist and pulls, bringing their hips flush so James can feel him thick and hard and hot, oh, so hot, through his shorts. “I like it,” he says against James’ neck, and then he bites.
James gasps, hips stuttering forward, hands scrambling at Francis’ back. Francis reaches down and yanks James’ thigh up, high, and James gets the picture and flings his leg around Francis’ waist, bringing them close, oh so incredibly close, Francis fitting into the cradle of James’ hips, skirt bunched between them.
They make out like that, against the wall wrapped around each other, like horny teenagers, James’ leg thrown around Francis’ waist and rutting against him through the skirt because fuck he needs it, needs it bad, needs Francis.
When James starts whining needily, Francis pulls back and cups his face with one hand. “What do you need from me, James, what–”
“Finger me,” he says, because it’s been filling all his fantasies, he can’t help it, daydreaming about Francis cornering him in the ready room and flipping his skirt up, getting James off with his fingers fast and dirty before he has to walk back out on court—
“Fuck. Christ, James, Jesus Christ, I–”
Francis sucks on his own fingers, quick and dirty, and plunges his hand back under James’ skirt, works it up under his compression shorts, but then slows, toying with James’ hole, getting the rim slick, and James is whining, nearly sobbing, rutting his pink and leaking cock up against Francis’ belly through his skirt, and then Francis presses his finger in , just the tip, and James makes an ahh sound like it’s been punched out of him and falls forward against Francis’ body, head lolling onto his shoulder.
“Feel good? Christ James, tell me it feels good–”
“Ah, y-yes, keep…keep going,” he manages to pant into Francis’ shirt, hips stuttering back and forth, unable to decide which he wants more–to have his cock pressed against Francis’ front, or to rock back on his finger, making Francis push it deeper.
“Yeah?,” Francis asks, and all James can manage is to whine, “ yes,” and Francis holds his James’ hip steady and slowly, achingly, pushes deeper.
James is pretty sure his eyes roll back in his head, his mouth lolling open as he full body shudders, clenching down on Francis’ finger. “A-ahhhh, Francis, y-yes, keep–please, more, I–”
“James, James, fuck you’re gorgeous, so good, you were marvelous today, I couldn’t take my eyes off you, wanted to kiss you right there in the stands, so bad–” He eases another finger in.
James sobs with it, arching his back, becoming frantic in his movements against Francis, the skirt rucked up between them, fucking himself back on Francis’ fingers as Francis twists them, curls them, eases James slick and open and wanting.
“Could do this forever, Christ James, are you–do you want–”
James kisses him, messy and desperate, half missing his mouth, but Francis fixes the angle, sucks on his tongue and fingers him rough and messy and urgent, and as James’ cock slides against his stomach through their clothes, he thinks about how long he’s wanted this, how long he’s wanted Francis.
It’s been—it feels like it’s been forever, since the first time he saw Francis on TV, winning a match alongside Ross, grabbing Ross’ neck like he might just kiss him, and James had imagined—
James makes a frantic, nearly panicked noise, clutches at Francis’ shoulders, ruts into him once, twice, and comes into his skirt, Francis finger-fucking him through it, James pressing himself as close as he can and hiding his face into Francis’ neck, shuddering and going all lose and trembling as his orgasm rolls through him, hitting him with little aftershocks of pleasure as Francis slows the movements of his fingers and holds James to him, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear before finally, tenderly pulling out and wrapping James in an encompassing hug, his nose in James’ hair.
James floats in his arms, lets himself be held. Supported.
It eventually occurs to him that perhaps he should return the favor, in some way, but the pleasure, the emotional release of finally, finally knowing Francis wants him, has wanted him a long time–-well, it’s conspiring with his injuries and his aching body to form a kind of lassitude that is proving hard to roust himself from. All the aches that had faded in the face of clamorous pleasure are back with a vengeance.
He groans, shifting his head to plant a messy kiss at the juncture of Francis’ neck and shoulder.
“Shh, James. There’s no need, not right now, not with the shape you’re in.” He strokes his hand through James’ sweat-stiffened hair, and James lets out a long, shuddering breath. He’ll make it up to Francis later—Christ, they’re going to have a later. A tired smile breaks out over his face.
“In fact,” Francis says, “we should probably get you showered up.”
“Hmm?”
“The Ball may have been canceled, but Will asked if I would come fetch you for dinner with Liz and the children. And myself.”
“What?” James exclaims, raising his head with a concerned look. “Christ, how much time do we have? I’m a–” he feels, distinctly, the wet stickiness inside his compression shorts and blushes “ –a bit of a mess.”
Francis smiles, and James’ heart does a loop-de-loop.
“We’ve plenty of time.”
James sighs in relief, resting his head back on Francis’ shoulder. “Good. With the way I’m moving it’ll take me thrice as long as usual.” He wonders, vaguely, if he’ll be able to wash his hair with one hand. He’s not sure he can raise his other arm to the task.
“Let me help.” Francis sounds so deeply, achingly sincere. James could not deny him, even if he wanted to. No one has helped him bathe since he was a child, and it could feel odd, but at this moment the idea is instead as soothing as a warm cup of tea on a rainy evening.
“...Alright.”
They strip him together, clothes ending up in a nasty pile on the bathroom floor. James realizes, with a shock, that some museum or other might one day want that skirt for their collection—the first skirt a man ever wore in the Majors, and to win Wimbledon no less. He imagines, just briefly, the skirt in some display. Only he and Francis would know what else happened in it. The thought brings a blush, and a smile.
Francis runs the shower, getting the temperature right, then gives James a hand as he navigates the high sides of the tub with legs that are once again making their soreness and stiffness known.
It’s…bliss.
All the urgency has gone out of James, the frantic, grasping desire satiated for the time being.
In its place is this; Francis, unabashedly naked in James’ hotel shower. Francis, shampooing his hair, careful hands combing through the strands and fingertips massaging his scalp. Francis, standing in the stream of steamy water as he soaps James up, running his hands tenderly over every part of him. He lingers at the places James hurts, brushing over them lightly again and again, reverent. These are the places that could have ended him, but didn’t, and they should be loved for it.
Francis presses his hands in firm, long strokes along the planes of James’ back, easing the ache out of him, rubs his thumbs in circles over the base of James’ stiff neck before planting a kiss there. James loosens, mind and body going warm and soft and pliant. He’s floating on a cloud, warm and swaddled, no need to think or worry or plan.
When they’re done, Francis helps him towel off, wrapping him in a big fluffy robe the hotel has provided.
He asks James for a brush, and his usual hair product, and sits him on the edge of the bed, settling behind him so he can comb out his hair.
When Francis is finished James leans back into him, practically boneless.
“I don’t know if I can go to dinner,” he mumbles, “Too comfortable.”
“Hm, you can. It will be good for you to see your family.”
James smiles. It will.
Francis helps him get dressed in the most comfortable and painfully unfashionable thing James packed, some sweat suit he doesn’t even remember bringing.
It feels so, so much better than a tuxedo.
Francis retreats to his own room to get cleaned up and changed, and James has a few minutes to himself to just sit on the edge of his bed and contemplate how extraordinary his life is, right now, in this very moment. Everything seems to glow with an unusual, simple beauty—the generic landscape painting above the bed, the window curtains, the stray sock Francis somehow left behind.
When he makes it to the lobby, Will and Liz and the kids are waiting. They wrap him in a massive group hug, laughing in their joy, and James feels some lingering thing slot into place. Within minutes Francis shows up, freshly washed and shaved, trailing an unexpected Dundy right behind him.
“James!” Dundy exclaims, giving him a near painful hug that squashes all the breath out of him, “Francis said we’re having a little family dinner to celebrate, but I didn’t expect to find you wearing pajamas!”
James laughs, hugs him back. “I think you’ll find I’m suddenly rather more relaxed about such things.”
“Well, that’s more like it! If I’d have known winning Wimbledon is all it would take I would have demanded you do it a decade ago at least! Now,” he says to Francis as they turn to leave, “you must tell me how you convinced James to come to net more, I’ve been hounding him on it for years—“
It is a perfect dinner, light and casual, no pressure–the exact opposite of the Ball that was supposed to be but wasn’t. James is awash in compliments, in pride, in love. He starts to settle, bit by bit, back into his own skin. He may have won Wimbledon, but he is still himself–still James Fitzjames.
They don’t linger long, although they do have a celebratory dessert—something rich and chocolatey and so decadent James could swear he actually feels his teeth decaying.
Francis takes James’ arm to walk him back to the hotel like it’s nothing, like it’s what they do.
When they make it to James’ door, Francis pauses.
“I suppose I’ll see you in the morning–you should sleep, James.”
“You don’t have to go,” James replies, playing with Francis’ fingers and trying not to let his heart shine right out of his eyes. Say yes, say yes, say yes…
“Oh,” Francis says, as if he’s actually surprised.
James takes his hand with a small, almost shy smile, and pulls him into the hotel room.
They fuck on the bed, this time, James layed out naked and decadent among the soft white sheets. Francis kisses him silly, as if he can’t help himself–soft brief kisses and deep searching wet ones, trading little nips, tongues on each other’s teeth.
It’s slow, unhurried, and Francis takes his time opening James up, making him beg prettily for his fingers, his tongue, his cock, until James thinks he will absolutely die from it.
By the time Francis presses in they’re both nearly delirious, reduced to soft breathy noises, movements hot and slow like warm honey.
Francis fucks him like that, sure and steady and slow, driving little gasping moans out of James with each dragging thrust. “James, James ,” he says, over and over, his voice caught between awe and worship. He kisses James when he comes, holding his face in one big hand, then he brings James off with his other hand, telling him how pretty he is, how perfect, how he intends to keep him.
James’ orgasm hits him so hard he nearly blacks out, fingers digging into Francis’ shoulder to keep him earthside.
After, they lay splayed across each other in James’ big hotel bed, bedside lamps turned down low, and they talk. About the past, and misunderstandings, and desire.
About the future, as well. They fall asleep in the middle of planning their lives.
In the morning James wakes, yawning, to the sight of Francis already sitting up in bed. James didn’t peg him for a morning person, but it’s a pleasant surprise. There’s sunlight in his hair, he’s wearing an endearingly wrinkled sleep shirt, and he’s looking at his phone, frowning.
When he notices James is awake, his eyes brighten but he does not smile—instead, he holds out his hand, wordless, and shows James his phone. It takes James a long, sleepy moment to comprehend what he’s seeing. Finally, the headline blurs into view: ‘IMPOSTER AT THE WIMBLEDON MEN’S TENNIS CHAMPIONSHIPS’.
James bolts fully awake, grabbing Francis’ phone right out of his hand, and scrolls frantically through it, his eyes getting bigger and bigger the further he goes.
At some point, Francis reaches over and takes James’ spare hand, soothing his thumb across it.
When James finishes reading, he looks over at Francis in undisguised shock.
“Hickey…wasn’t Hickey?”
“It appears not.”
They sit wordlessly. There is not a thing James can think to say, except, “How did they catch him?”
“Apparently—do you know Billy Gibson? He’s a player, never cracked the top 100, though, too many injuries—anyway, apparently he and this Hickey imposter used to date. Gibson was at the Final, saw him play, and knew. He alerted the authorities after the match, but by that time Hickey had already skipped town.”
“Christ. Who—if he wasn’t Cornelius Hickey, who was he? Where’s the real Cornelius? How did nobody even notice?”
“There’s chatter this imposter used to play in the Juniors, a rising star, but he messed up. Started fixing matches, taking bets, convincing other players on the tour to throw games, conspiring with bookies—he was banned for life. Seems like he thought if he took some low-ranking qualifier’s spot at Wimbledon no one would notice. And they almost didn’t.”
“Did they already transfer him the second place prize money?” James asks.
“Yes.”
“Christ. So he’s got nearly €2 million to run on, as well.”
“Yes. There’s a rumor Gibson’s gone with him, no one can seem to find him either. Looks like he informed the detectives and then immediately skipped town. It’s a mess, but James, look at me.”
Francis turns serious, sincere eyes on him and takes James’ hand in both of his. “This does not discount your win, not at all. Apparently this imposter was star material, before he was banned, and he used dirty tricks besides.”
“Oh, Francis, that doesn’t matter to me.”
“Good, only I thought, perhaps, you would be upset.”
James laughs, good natured. He’s been so well-fucked in the last twelve hours, and is millions of euros richer besides, nothing else seems all that serious, even a conspiracy scandal by his opponent.
He leans in and kisses Francis, smiling through it.
“Not at all. It’s rather exciting, actually! Like a drama.”
Francis strokes the side of his face, looking exceedingly fond, and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.
Later, they’ll go to breakfast, and shop for a new suit that James can wear to the rescheduled Champion’s Ball tonight—something brightly colored, happy—and later they’ll get ready together, and Francis will comb James’ hair for him, and after that, well—they’ll figure it out, together.
Post-Script
James Fitzjames retired from singles immediately following his historic win at Wimbledon. However, instead of quitting the sport outright, he transitioned to playing doubles with Thomas Jopson, a surprise move that caused a ripple of shock through the tennis community. Coached by former doubles legend Francis Crozier, the pair quickly rose to the number one ranking and won numerous titles together before Fitzjames’ eventual, and final, retirement. He and Francis Crozier, now married, can frequently be spotted in the stands of matches around the world, to which they regularly travel as fans.