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Novak Djokovic was a natural when it came to immersing himself in crowds of people and socialising at big events. He thrives on the energy of people. To his favour, he currently found himself in that position. Along with fellow past holders of the desirable rank of world number one, he’d been invited to attend a gala celebration event with the ATP. Naturally this invitation extended to all of the big number ones; Sampras, Agassi, Borg, McEnroe, Nadal… Federer.
Federer.
The bane of his existence. See, whilst Novak would ordinarily be thrilled to be in attendance at such an event, humbled by the presence of so many greats in one sitting and prideful that he currently holds the coveted rank, he instead finds himself plagued by that ridiculously-charming laugh ricocheting from every corner. Novak is immune to Roger’s charm where everybody else seems to get starry-eyed and giddy, and none more so than the object of his current affections.
Rafa.
Of course they’re at a very high profile gala event which will eventually be broadcast, which means the two famous rivals are glued together at the hip to maintain the image of their dazzling off court friendship. Or rather, Roger is gliding through the crowd, shaking hands and generally being smooth as he always is, and Rafa is following him like a lost puppy and laughing at every word that comes out of his mouth. His Rafa is flirting shamelessly with Roger, and Roger is lapping it up. Fuck him. Fuck Rafa. Fuck this stupid event.
Novak is lurking in the corner, accepting one too many proffered alcoholic beverages and silently seething. He notes Murray’s absence with dismay as they usually keep one another company at these events, used to being overshadowed by team Fedal and their numerous fangirls. So where Murray would usually be sat with him in this corner, politely making conversation with the other attendees and joking between themselves, he’s now alone.
He texts Murray at some point in the evening to let him know exactly what he thinks of his absence and the lack of a world number one ranking that caused it. Unsurprisingly, he’s ignored.
He spends the first few hours drowning in self pity and glaring daggers at Federer across the room. He tries to make light conversation with other tennis players, officials and the event organisers in between attempting to kill Federer with his glances. Although feeling sorry for himself, he does genuinely enjoy chatting to some of the guys, especially the veterans in attendance; Lendl is here, he notes. Of course Andy’s coach would be here when he’s at home playing on Pro Evolution Soccer. Typical. He texts Andy again, this time receiving a response.
Muzza:
y dnt u hang out with him then??? nice no mates, loser!
Nole:
He scares me, he only has one expression. I hate you, why aren’t you no 1 yet? This is all your fault.
Muzza:
with great power comes great responsibility ;)
Novak growls and shoves his phone back in his pocket angrily before he hears the organiser calling for the crowd to convene for the ceremony. He scans the area quickly looking for a certain Spaniard, eventually catching the familiar smiling face practically leaning against Federer’s side in the front row. He steels himself and makes the decision to join them, offering Roger a particularly friendly grin as he sits beside Rafa, hand grabbing his knee possessively.
Since you know, Rafa is his. Technically. They are fucking, which Novak presumes to mean they are exclusive. They’ve not actually had that conversation yet which is making Novak have doubts, but he pushes those to the back of his mind as they begin to announce names and introduce each player to the stage.
It takes approximately ten minutes to reel off the list of names and achievements, before he’s finally called up last, being the current number one. He duly partakes in a quick embrace or handshake methodically with each player, notably longer with Rafa and retreating from Roger so fast you’d think he was a leper, before finally taking his seat besides Rafa. He simultaneously wants to thank and skin whoever designed the seating plan, since although he’s next to Rafa, they’ve also placed Roger on his other side. Rafa is sandwiched between them and looks like he couldn’t be happier about that actuality.
Apparently at some point during the Q&As Rafa has clocked on to the fact that Novak is pissed with him, because he’s being poked in the side and there is a stupidly loud “psssst” sound coming from his left. Novak eventually caves and looks towards the noise, shifting uncomfortably in his hard seat. Roger has of course also become aware of Rafa’s conspicuous actions but offers nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a pompous shrug of the shoulders before diverting his attention.
“What?!” Novak demands through gritted teeth as he pretends to be interested in whatever Jimmy Connors is saying.
“Why you mad with me?” Rafa whispers, pouting.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe because you’ve been whoring yourself out all night.”
“What!” Rafa shrieks in protest, his Spanish accent coating his surprise.
The sound brings a few glances their way, Hewitt and Roddick adorning matching looks of confusion. Rafa simply responds with his giggle and shrug of the shoulders which says “me don’t understand English.” Always the same cop out.
They both stay silent for the next five minutes or so, coming to terms with the close call before Rafa starts up again.
“What you mean whoring out, you not jealous no?”
“What? No, of course not. What do I have to be jealous of.” Novak falters after catching Roger’s stupid grin in the corner of his eye.
Rafa sees it too and smiles knowingly. Of course he knows. He acts stupid and dense but the language barrier is just something he falls back on when he doesn’t feel like answering a question. Smiling Rafa he can deal with, but he sees the moment where that smile transcends into something more feral, dangerous even.
Which is around the time that Rafa slides his hand under his suit and starts to stroke the skin there soothingly.
“I see I give you a hard time, maybe you need relax no? I gonna take care of you.” Rafa says as his hand starts to tug Novak’s crisp white shirt from his suit pants. Novak splutters and adjusts how he’s sitting to disguise Rafa’s actions. The innuendo isn't lost on him.
“What the fuck are you doing, we’re in public... in front of every tennis legend ATP ever saw, are you crazy!?” Novak chastises him, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle away from the hand without rousing the attention of the other players or the watchful audience and cameras before them.
There is a twinkle of arousal and excitement in Rafa’s eyes which says yes, he is crazy, before he’s expertly unbuckling Novak’s belt with one hand and slipping a warm, strong hand into the cotton briefs he’s wearing.
Novak had every intention of telling him to stop, he really did. It was a lost cause though, the words dying an instantaneous death upon his lips the moment that rough hand gripped him. He masks a soft groan behind a cough and uses the moment to lean forwards, elbows on knees, pulled together and hunched to conceal the public groping that he's currently undergoing.
Rafa also shifts his position, leaning slightly towards Novak’s end, resting his chin on one hand whilst feigning concentrated interest at the answers being given at the other end of the room. Roger is casting them occasional bemused glances, but if he suspects anything he keeps quiet. Probably enjoying the show, voyeuristic fuck.
Rafa is careful in his attention, slowly moving his hand up and down Novak’s shaft, applying pressure now and again and gently massaging the tip in between pumps. Novak is putting every ounce of focus that his sex-addled brain can muster into looking like he had any idea where he was at that moment, wearing his “Rafa Nadal doesn’t have his hand down my pants” face. It seemed to be working.
Feeling himself getting closer from the unwavering treatment, his right hand sought out Rafa’s thigh between the chairs, beginning to tap out a steady rhythm against the muscle there, hoping Rafa would understand what he was asking for. He is rewarded seconds later when Rafa calibrates the motion of his hand in line with the rhythm Novak is issuing against him. When Novak tapped faster, Rafa pumped him faster, when he tapped harder, Rafa tightened his grip.
He was close now, release nearing with the tension of the evening ebbing away from his limbs with every tug of Rafa’s talented wrist. Just as he feels himself nearing the edge, the worst thing happens.
“Novak, same question; to be the best, what does it mean to you?”
If Roger was a leper, so is his dick, judging by how fast Rafa jolts away from it. Novak flounders and scuffles about in panic, wide eyed and speechless as a microphone is shoved in his direction. He adjusts his legs to hide the evidence of their prior actions and awkwardly starts talking, still in the midst of comprehending what it was he’d been asked.
“I think… hello?” He begins nervously, looking at the mic as if it is a foreign object before laughing quietly. The audience joins him, oblivious to the cause of his state. He can see Rafa in his peripheral, hands clutching his knees and intently staring at the ground, trying not to burst into laughter at almost being caught. Rafa has the best poker face on the tour, after all.
Novak tries to compose himself to answer, before giggling nervously again, caught somewhere between wanting to throw himself into Rafa’s lap and disbelief at being cockblocked by his heroes. Eventually he relents, head falling into his hands and letting out fits of uncontrolled laughter. Rafa soon follows him, face cracking into a large grin and facepalming in the same manner, hands covering teary eyes.
The audience finds it hilarious, Roger simply looks amused. It’s an awkward moment and nobody really knows what they’re supposed to be laughing at before Novak wipes his eyes and mumbles out “sorry, guys… distractions.”
With great power comes great responsibility.
He shifts once more in his seat, uncomfortably trying to adjust the problem in his pants before answering the question.