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Description
He lost.

He lost to NUMBER SEVEN.

It would be one thing to lose to his close companion, but to lose to a black sheep, a fellow countryman who came, seemingly, out of the blue was a painful, humiliating defeat.

Even with the injury he sustained.  But, he didn't account for that.

There was speculation about his injury—he heavily bandaged his left thigh and stretched continually—but he never came out and said it.  But, there was no denial: he was injured and it hurt.  He didn't want to think about it, though.  It took forever just to wave his coach and trainers away.  Number one ranked ATP player Rafael Nadal sighed; it was a long, tedious match and, right now, he just wanted to relax.

He sat back against the couch in his hotel suite.  He'd be flying out back to Spain in a week so he was glad to be in a nice, kept up suite.  He didn't care particularly what it looked like, but he was glad it was something decent—now he could go to sleep peaceably.

He had closed his eyes, relaxed his mind, and began to drift off.  He didn't know how long he had been out, but he was unequivocally disturbed when he heard the persistent rapping at the door.  He let out a low soft curse because he didn't want to move, not for anybody.

"Rafa, it's me!  Open up!"

Nadal perked slightly at the call of his affectionate nickname, but even more so at the voice which called it.  He knew the voice, heard it call many times on the court, and speak to him in amiable conversation.  But, he didn't want to move, even for him.

"Rafa, if you don't open this door I'm calling security."

"Mmmnnm, go away…" he called from the couch.

"C'mon, get up and open this door," his voice goaded.

Nadal rose slowly, forcing the dulled pain to the back of his mind.  With much effort, he unlocked his suite's door and opened it to reveal his smiling, jovial comrade and rival, Roger Federer.  Though, his smile melted instantly when he saw his rival—sweat still lingered in his unkempt brown hair and he wore the face of a man ran downright ragged, exhausting even to look at.  Now Federer's face moved from joy to concern, furrowing his brow.

"It's worse than they say…" he mumbled between himself and his friend.  Nadal just turned away, leaving the door open for Federer to enter as he nearly limped back to the couch.

"You should take care of that," Federer seemed to instruct him like a coach would.  Nadal just waved his hand at the suggestion.  He had lain down and shut his eyes and was surprised to see Federer standing before him, poinsettia flowers in hand.  Rafa just smiled subtly and inhaled their scent.  Roger knelt down in front of him, leaning in close.

"Thank you," he said quietly.  He curled under the touch of Roger's hand stroking his cheek, humming contently.  "So you come to… what?"

"Just came to comfort a friend," he said sweetly.

Rafa made a scoffing sound.  "One loss is not big deal."

Roger turned Nadal's face to face his own, eyes alight and solemn.  "You had an injury."

"It was just an injury, it's fine," Rafa dismissed it.

"It was little more than 'just an injury', Rafa."

"Don't be my mother."

"I'm just concerned…"

"It was nothing, stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop babying me."

"You were hurt, Rafa!"

"No I wasn't!  I mean, yes, but small.  Do not take away from Ferrer's win, Roger.  He won fairly," Nadal said a little crossly, glaring slightly at his counterpart.

"I didn't say it wasn't fair.  I just know you weren't at your best."

"I was good enough."

"Then you would've won," Federer said confidently.  At that, Nadal smiled quickly.  "I'm just concerned about you."

"Stop, Roger, it's fine."

Federer sighed.  "You cried, Rafael.  I saw you."

That shut the Spanish tennis god up.  He looked away, blushing, prying his face from his stubborn friend's hands.  "You watched my game?" he said smally, like a child afraid of rejection.

"Of course I watched your game, Rafa," Federer cooed.  "I am sorry I could not be there in person, but I saw your game.  I always try to see your games.  You…"  He stopped.  He couldn't say 'You should have quit'—that would be an insult to all tennis players, especially the sportsman and gentleman that Rafael Nadal was.  But, it upset him to see his close companion in pain.

Rafa sighed and closed his eyes.  "Thank you."

"Are you still hurt?"  Rodger questioned.

Rafa shrugged.  "Don't b—"

"Are you hurt?" he questioned forcefully a second time.  The severity in his eyes stunned the younger player to silence.  He just nodded his head.  Federer then cracked a small, strained smile.  "Okay."

He got up and walked away.  If Rafa was able to turn around and follow him with his eyes, he would have seen that Federer was going into the kitchenette area, pulling out pots and opening cabinets.  He started to boil some water, pulling out a ceramic mug and a box of tea.  He set a timer for ten minutes, then returned to Rafa's side.  His eyes were closed, as if he were going to sleep.

"Hey, no, Rafaaa~!  Get up, take a shower, then go to bed!" Federer instructed.  Nadal wasn't wearing his tennis outfit, but had changed into civilian clothes to return to the hotel mostly unperturbed.

"Mmnn…"

"Rafa, up."  When Nadal didn't move, Federer grabbed the Spaniard by his shoulders, making him sit up on the couch, then seized him by the waist, hefting him up over his shoulder.

"Ack, put me down, Roger!  Get me DOWN!" he began to whine, gently striking his companions back.

"Should have listened…" he seemed to sing.

He deposited Nadal on top of the vanity sink in the bathroom.  He seemed subdued and lolled his head around sleepily while Federer ran his bathwater.  Bubbles in place and sufficiently warm enough, he all but stripped Nadal himself before he was forced out of the bathroom by the defeated young player.  He smiled sweetly as Nadal pushed him away.

"Don't drown," he called through the door jokingly.

"Unn," Nadal grunted back.  Federer stood by the door until he heard him slip into the water.  Then, he returned to the mini kitchen to fix Rafael his tea.

Fifteen minutes later, when Nadal didn't reemerge, Federer got up and began to pace about the bathroom door.  He considered knocking but didn't know if his young friend would consider that intrusion, or if he was even decent.  He decided to risk it.

"Rafa?" he called through the door.  No response.  "Rafa, I'm serious answer me!"

"H-hold on!" he called back.  There was sounds of water sloshing, the squeak of the floor, then the dulling, sharp thump of something hitting the tile.  Or, someone.

"Rafael!" Federer called.  "What happened?  Are you okay?!"

"Y-yeah…  D-don't come in."

Federer laughed to himself a little—that's exactly what he planned on doing.  "Nadal, make yourself decent, I'm coming in!"

"Rog—"

"Don't argue, Rafael, hurry up.  I'm giving you twenty seconds.  Twenty.  Nineteen.  Eighteen.  Seve—"

"Okay, okay!"  There was the sound of the struggling tennis star frantically flailing for something.  "Alright, come in."

He was hesitant entering, but Federer did, eyes falling upon his pathetically fallen friend, lying slovenly upon the granite tiles, a towel strewn across his hips.  Nearly incensed, Federer was maddened that the coaches didn't pay any more attention to Rafa's condition; who would allow the number one ATP to fall into disrepair?  When his eyes caught Nadal's, Rafa blushed.  Federer laughed cutely, going back out to the closet and returning with one of the hotels complimentary robes.  Federer sat Nadal up and placed it around his shoulders, turning to let his European ally dress himself in it properly.  He snuck a quick peak into the mirror and blushed, but said nothing.  When Nadal tied his robe shut, he was abruptly whisked away by his dear friend, with little complaint, and deposited back onto the couch.

"Here, drink this," Federer said, handing Nadal the tea he had made.  "Careful, it's hot."

"Obviously," Nadal side sarcastically, blowing at the steam rising from the cup.  "Thank you," he said between small sips.  He looked up from his mug to see Federer sitting on the other side of the couch, smiling and staring at him.  "What?" Rafa asked, annoyed.

"Nothing."

"Stop staring."

"Okay," he seemed to comply.  But, just seconds later, he leaned over and tousled Rafael's hair.  Rafa didn't object, and trembled delightedly under the touch.  "Are you feeling better?"

"Mostly," he answered.  "My leg—"  Federer gave him almost no time to answer.  He shifted, almost jumping onto the couch, nearly knocking the cup from Rafa's hands.  "Hey, hey!  Watch out!"  But he hushed quickly as Federer put his hands to Nadal's thigh.  A heat spread across his face.

"Here?" Roger asked innocently.

"Y-yeah," the Spaniard nodded slowly.  He looked away and continued to drink his tea.  He winced slightly as Federer applied more pressure to his injured leg.  He clenched the mug and bit his lips shut; he didn't want any embarrassing sounds slipping from his mouth.

"You should have stretched," the Swiss man said, still feeling up the younger man's muscles.

"I-I did," Rafa said defensively.  "And iced it.  I didn't 'av time to put on the compress."

"Well," Federer rose, "I'll go get one."  He disappeared into the bathroom, shooting back glances at the red-faced Nadal.  He returned with a compress, but Nadal stopped him.

"I can do it myself, or get a coach to come up and—"

"You're so accident prone," Federer just laughed, ignoring Nadal's objections completely.  "Really, you need someone to take care of you.."  At that, Nadal just rolled his eyes and looked away.  He did agree with the Swiss, though—he had been feeling very ill lately, one thing after the other.

"Your match is tomorrow," Rafael announced from nowhere.

"Yes?"

"You should probably rest."

"I will… after I patch you up and you go to sleep," he responded confidently, as if it were not up for discussion.  He got on his knees before Rafa, once again feeling his left thigh.  And, once again, Rafa averted his gaze.  But, it was harder than before.  As the compress began restricting his upper thigh, working his way slowly down to the knee, the pressure was pinching.  He subtly grasped at the supple upholstery of the couch below himself, restricting himself to nothing more than the occasional grunt.  Federer noticed, looking up at his companion.

"You know, Rafa," he said with a tone of casual conversation, "there was something I missed, in your last match."

"Hmm?"

"Well, something that you didn't do frequently, but, I liked when you did."

"O-out with it."

"Your grunts."  Nadal cocked his head slightly as to question, which Federer answered immediately.  "After your injury, you were quiet.  I missed hearing your voice.  I'm glad I got the chance to see you, and hear it," he said nostalgically with a smile.

Rafa said nothing.  He blushed noticeably, but Federer had gone back to fixing his leg.  And, when there was a particularly tight wrap, Rafa didn't stop himself—he let out a low, soft moan.  This froze the older man for a second, but the then smiled and hummed to himself, finishing the wrap on Nadal's leg.  Then he planted a small kiss on his kneecap, returning to his seat beside Nadal.  Nadal shifted his position, placing his legs in the seat of the couch and leaning his head upon Federer's shoulder.  Federer kissed his forehead.

"I'm sorry about your loss.  But," Federer winked, "I will avenge you!"

Nadal laughed audibly.  "Right, right."

"I'll try to."  Once again spoken with resolve.

Nadal smiled, timidly placing a small kiss on his friends shoulder.  "Okay."

There was a quiet contentness between the two of them.  Nadal settled easily onto Roger's shoulder and, after his grueling match, the merciless photographers and the painful stretches, he was finally at peace.   It wasn't long until his breathing was a steady, continuous flow; the superstar had fallen asleep.  Soon enough the loving rival noticed, smirking to himself.

"Oh, Rafa," he said with a smile.  "I know you could have won.  I would have loved to play you." He kissed Nadal's forehead and tried to shift positions without waking him.  "…I'm not saying you should have quit.  But, I was worried.  Heh, if you retire before me, you'll never hear the end of it from me."  He got quieter.  "A guy like you would never quit…  You're quite the noble one."  He finally managed to lay down Rafael atop the luscious pillows.  He now knelt before him, leaning in close, his face scarcely an inch from the sleeping gentleman's.  His lips ghosted over his sleeping companions, but never a technical 'kiss'—not if he was sleeping.  He'd like Nadal to be conscious for their first.

He ruffled the superstar's hair one final time, giving him a final tender look.  He kissed his fingers and touched his heart.  He hated to not be there when the athlete woke up, but what Rafa said was true: he had a match tomorrow, and needed his rest.  It was more than just the semifinals—he also had to avenge the young noble player sleeping off his injury.

"Sleep well, heh, King Rafa," Federer whispered on his way out of the door.  He shut it gingerly, wishing to be on the other side again, but resolved to go back to his hotel and sleep, for he would need it against his Serbian opponent.

Unbeknownst to the Swiss, his drowsy rival peered open an eye as he crept away.  "Good luck," he whispered in response.  Then, the King of Clay, the noble gentleman, dragged himself to bed and promptly fell asleep.

Description
He lost.

He lost to NUMBER SEVEN.

It would be one thing to lose to his close companion, but to lose to a black sheep, a fellow countryman who came, seemingly, out of the blue was a painful, humiliating defeat.

Even with the injury he sustained.  But, he didn't account for that.

There was speculation about his injury—he heavily bandaged his left thigh and stretched continually—but he never came out and said it.  But, there was no denial: he was injured and it hurt.  He didn't want to think about it, though.  It took forever just to wave his coach and trainers away.  Number one ranked ATP player Rafael Nadal sighed; it was a long, tedious match and, right now, he just wanted to relax.

He sat back against the couch in his hotel suite.  He'd be flying out back to Spain in a week so he was glad to be in a nice, kept up suite.  He didn't care particularly what it looked like, but he was glad it was something decent—now he could go to sleep peaceably.

He had closed his eyes, relaxed his mind, and began to drift off.  He didn't know how long he had been out, but he was unequivocally disturbed when he heard the persistent rapping at the door.  He let out a low soft curse because he didn't want to move, not for anybody.

"Rafa, it's me!  Open up!"

Nadal perked slightly at the call of his affectionate nickname, but even more so at the voice which called it.  He knew the voice, heard it call many times on the court, and speak to him in amiable conversation.  But, he didn't want to move, even for him.

"Rafa, if you don't open this door I'm calling security."

"Mmmnnm, go away…" he called from the couch.

"C'mon, get up and open this door," his voice goaded.

Nadal rose slowly, forcing the dulled pain to the back of his mind.  With much effort, he unlocked his suite's door and opened it to reveal his smiling, jovial comrade and rival, Roger Federer.  Though, his smile melted instantly when he saw his rival—sweat still lingered in his unkempt brown hair and he wore the face of a man ran downright ragged, exhausting even to look at.  Now Federer's face moved from joy to concern, furrowing his brow.

"It's worse than they say…" he mumbled between himself and his friend.  Nadal just turned away, leaving the door open for Federer to enter as he nearly limped back to the couch.

"You should take care of that," Federer seemed to instruct him like a coach would.  Nadal just waved his hand at the suggestion.  He had lain down and shut his eyes and was surprised to see Federer standing before him, poinsettia flowers in hand.  Rafa just smiled subtly and inhaled their scent.  Roger knelt down in front of him, leaning in close.

"Thank you," he said quietly.  He curled under the touch of Roger's hand stroking his cheek, humming contently.  "So you come to… what?"

"Just came to comfort a friend," he said sweetly.

Rafa made a scoffing sound.  "One loss is not big deal."

Roger turned Nadal's face to face his own, eyes alight and solemn.  "You had an injury."

"It was just an injury, it's fine," Rafa dismissed it.

"It was little more than 'just an injury', Rafa."

"Don't be my mother."

"I'm just concerned…"

"It was nothing, stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop babying me."

"You were hurt, Rafa!"

"No I wasn't!  I mean, yes, but small.  Do not take away from Ferrer's win, Roger.  He won fairly," Nadal said a little crossly, glaring slightly at his counterpart.

"I didn't say it wasn't fair.  I just know you weren't at your best."

"I was good enough."

"Then you would've won," Federer said confidently.  At that, Nadal smiled quickly.  "I'm just concerned about you."

"Stop, Roger, it's fine."

Federer sighed.  "You cried, Rafael.  I saw you."

That shut the Spanish tennis god up.  He looked away, blushing, prying his face from his stubborn friend's hands.  "You watched my game?" he said smally, like a child afraid of rejection.

"Of course I watched your game, Rafa," Federer cooed.  "I am sorry I could not be there in person, but I saw your game.  I always try to see your games.  You…"  He stopped.  He couldn't say 'You should have quit'—that would be an insult to all tennis players, especially the sportsman and gentleman that Rafael Nadal was.  But, it upset him to see his close companion in pain.

Rafa sighed and closed his eyes.  "Thank you."

"Are you still hurt?"  Rodger questioned.

Rafa shrugged.  "Don't b—"

"Are you hurt?" he questioned forcefully a second time.  The severity in his eyes stunned the younger player to silence.  He just nodded his head.  Federer then cracked a small, strained smile.  "Okay."

He got up and walked away.  If Rafa was able to turn around and follow him with his eyes, he would have seen that Federer was going into the kitchenette area, pulling out pots and opening cabinets.  He started to boil some water, pulling out a ceramic mug and a box of tea.  He set a timer for ten minutes, then returned to Rafa's side.  His eyes were closed, as if he were going to sleep.

"Hey, no, Rafaaa~!  Get up, take a shower, then go to bed!" Federer instructed.  Nadal wasn't wearing his tennis outfit, but had changed into civilian clothes to return to the hotel mostly unperturbed.

"Mmnn…"

"Rafa, up."  When Nadal didn't move, Federer grabbed the Spaniard by his shoulders, making him sit up on the couch, then seized him by the waist, hefting him up over his shoulder.

"Ack, put me down, Roger!  Get me DOWN!" he began to whine, gently striking his companions back.

"Should have listened…" he seemed to sing.

He deposited Nadal on top of the vanity sink in the bathroom.  He seemed subdued and lolled his head around sleepily while Federer ran his bathwater.  Bubbles in place and sufficiently warm enough, he all but stripped Nadal himself before he was forced out of the bathroom by the defeated young player.  He smiled sweetly as Nadal pushed him away.

"Don't drown," he called through the door jokingly.

"Unn," Nadal grunted back.  Federer stood by the door until he heard him slip into the water.  Then, he returned to the mini kitchen to fix Rafael his tea.

Fifteen minutes later, when Nadal didn't reemerge, Federer got up and began to pace about the bathroom door.  He considered knocking but didn't know if his young friend would consider that intrusion, or if he was even decent.  He decided to risk it.

"Rafa?" he called through the door.  No response.  "Rafa, I'm serious answer me!"

"H-hold on!" he called back.  There was sounds of water sloshing, the squeak of the floor, then the dulling, sharp thump of something hitting the tile.  Or, someone.

"Rafael!" Federer called.  "What happened?  Are you okay?!"

"Y-yeah…  D-don't come in."

Federer laughed to himself a little—that's exactly what he planned on doing.  "Nadal, make yourself decent, I'm coming in!"

"Rog—"

"Don't argue, Rafael, hurry up.  I'm giving you twenty seconds.  Twenty.  Nineteen.  Eighteen.  Seve—"

"Okay, okay!"  There was the sound of the struggling tennis star frantically flailing for something.  "Alright, come in."

He was hesitant entering, but Federer did, eyes falling upon his pathetically fallen friend, lying slovenly upon the granite tiles, a towel strewn across his hips.  Nearly incensed, Federer was maddened that the coaches didn't pay any more attention to Rafa's condition; who would allow the number one ATP to fall into disrepair?  When his eyes caught Nadal's, Rafa blushed.  Federer laughed cutely, going back out to the closet and returning with one of the hotels complimentary robes.  Federer sat Nadal up and placed it around his shoulders, turning to let his European ally dress himself in it properly.  He snuck a quick peak into the mirror and blushed, but said nothing.  When Nadal tied his robe shut, he was abruptly whisked away by his dear friend, with little complaint, and deposited back onto the couch.

"Here, drink this," Federer said, handing Nadal the tea he had made.  "Careful, it's hot."

"Obviously," Nadal side sarcastically, blowing at the steam rising from the cup.  "Thank you," he said between small sips.  He looked up from his mug to see Federer sitting on the other side of the couch, smiling and staring at him.  "What?" Rafa asked, annoyed.

"Nothing."

"Stop staring."

"Okay," he seemed to comply.  But, just seconds later, he leaned over and tousled Rafael's hair.  Rafa didn't object, and trembled delightedly under the touch.  "Are you feeling better?"

"Mostly," he answered.  "My leg—"  Federer gave him almost no time to answer.  He shifted, almost jumping onto the couch, nearly knocking the cup from Rafa's hands.  "Hey, hey!  Watch out!"  But he hushed quickly as Federer put his hands to Nadal's thigh.  A heat spread across his face.

"Here?" Roger asked innocently.

"Y-yeah," the Spaniard nodded slowly.  He looked away and continued to drink his tea.  He winced slightly as Federer applied more pressure to his injured leg.  He clenched the mug and bit his lips shut; he didn't want any embarrassing sounds slipping from his mouth.

"You should have stretched," the Swiss man said, still feeling up the younger man's muscles.

"I-I did," Rafa said defensively.  "And iced it.  I didn't 'av time to put on the compress."

"Well," Federer rose, "I'll go get one."  He disappeared into the bathroom, shooting back glances at the red-faced Nadal.  He returned with a compress, but Nadal stopped him.

"I can do it myself, or get a coach to come up and—"

"You're so accident prone," Federer just laughed, ignoring Nadal's objections completely.  "Really, you need someone to take care of you.."  At that, Nadal just rolled his eyes and looked away.  He did agree with the Swiss, though—he had been feeling very ill lately, one thing after the other.

"Your match is tomorrow," Rafael announced from nowhere.

"Yes?"

"You should probably rest."

"I will… after I patch you up and you go to sleep," he responded confidently, as if it were not up for discussion.  He got on his knees before Rafa, once again feeling his left thigh.  And, once again, Rafa averted his gaze.  But, it was harder than before.  As the compress began restricting his upper thigh, working his way slowly down to the knee, the pressure was pinching.  He subtly grasped at the supple upholstery of the couch below himself, restricting himself to nothing more than the occasional grunt.  Federer noticed, looking up at his companion.

"You know, Rafa," he said with a tone of casual conversation, "there was something I missed, in your last match."

"Hmm?"

"Well, something that you didn't do frequently, but, I liked when you did."

"O-out with it."

"Your grunts."  Nadal cocked his head slightly as to question, which Federer answered immediately.  "After your injury, you were quiet.  I missed hearing your voice.  I'm glad I got the chance to see you, and hear it," he said nostalgically with a smile.

Rafa said nothing.  He blushed noticeably, but Federer had gone back to fixing his leg.  And, when there was a particularly tight wrap, Rafa didn't stop himself—he let out a low, soft moan.  This froze the older man for a second, but the then smiled and hummed to himself, finishing the wrap on Nadal's leg.  Then he planted a small kiss on his kneecap, returning to his seat beside Nadal.  Nadal shifted his position, placing his legs in the seat of the couch and leaning his head upon Federer's shoulder.  Federer kissed his forehead.

"I'm sorry about your loss.  But," Federer winked, "I will avenge you!"

Nadal laughed audibly.  "Right, right."

"I'll try to."  Once again spoken with resolve.

Nadal smiled, timidly placing a small kiss on his friends shoulder.  "Okay."

There was a quiet contentness between the two of them.  Nadal settled easily onto Roger's shoulder and, after his grueling match, the merciless photographers and the painful stretches, he was finally at peace.   It wasn't long until his breathing was a steady, continuous flow; the superstar had fallen asleep.  Soon enough the loving rival noticed, smirking to himself.

"Oh, Rafa," he said with a smile.  "I know you could have won.  I would have loved to play you." He kissed Nadal's forehead and tried to shift positions without waking him.  "…I'm not saying you should have quit.  But, I was worried.  Heh, if you retire before me, you'll never hear the end of it from me."  He got quieter.  "A guy like you would never quit…  You're quite the noble one."  He finally managed to lay down Rafael atop the luscious pillows.  He now knelt before him, leaning in close, his face scarcely an inch from the sleeping gentleman's.  His lips ghosted over his sleeping companions, but never a technical 'kiss'—not if he was sleeping.  He'd like Nadal to be conscious for their first.

He ruffled the superstar's hair one final time, giving him a final tender look.  He kissed his fingers and touched his heart.  He hated to not be there when the athlete woke up, but what Rafa said was true: he had a match tomorrow, and needed his rest.  It was more than just the semifinals—he also had to avenge the young noble player sleeping off his injury.

"Sleep well, heh, King Rafa," Federer whispered on his way out of the door.  He shut it gingerly, wishing to be on the other side again, but resolved to go back to his hotel and sleep, for he would need it against his Serbian opponent.

Unbeknownst to the Swiss, his drowsy rival peered open an eye as he crept away.  "Good luck," he whispered in response.  Then, the King of Clay, the noble gentleman, dragged himself to bed and promptly fell asleep.