Work Text:
“Let no one enter here who is ignorant of geometry.”
Words on top of the entrance of Plato's academy
melbourne, australia
Thomas never asks for anything. Instead, he bites his tongue and lives of implications. Wants and wishes are pushed to the back of his throat, mixing with bile that threatens to spill when things don’t go as planned. He is an actor, performing swiftly in plays. He started forgetting his lines long ago, now he is just stuck in the same scene, trying to catch up and failing as he watches his colleagues move along.
He doesn’t want to quit it, he only wants to be great again. Greatness lives in a nostalgic past, as unreachable as his youth. He is almost thirty-two. Most people are starting their lives now. Buying houses and having children. He is on the brink of retirement, his last great season. Thomas regrets signing up for it, drunk on his newfound passion. It’s tasteless to describe it like that, talking about his prestigious legacy merely work.
Thomas loved tennis. He lost the lust for it years ago but that’s in the past. There are only so many tears he can cry over his lost years, now, as if he has awakened from a deep, paralyzing slumber. This is his last shot at being a winner. He can go back to his prosaic melancholia.
“We can’t train today,” Aldo comments over breakfast. It’s a casual, omissive statement. Thomas stares out of the window and faces the reason. Thick, gray smoke engulfs the town, causing the government to ban non-essential outdoor activities. Tennis isn’t vital to anyone but them.
“I’ve heard some people quit. Did you put a curse on them to get Thomas to win?” Goffredo jokes, smirking while looking him in the eye.
Aldo pretends to not listen to him and goes back on his phone.
“The hotel court is occupied?” Goffredo asks. “We can always go there.”
“This would have been a revolutionary idea five hours ago.”
Thomas sips on his smoothie. It tastes like bitter medicine.
“It doesn’t matter. Playing indoors is as good as nothing.”
Fed up with the useless banter, Thomas walks to the other room. He holds his phone and considers calling his mother. The clock on the wall tells him it’s not a great idea. She is probably skiing with his father at their winter retreat. It pains him to leave her so soon after the holidays. In this path, celebrations are universal, holidays lose their importance and become one more training day.
Days bleed into nights and weeks go by. In the blink of an eye, he lost half of his life to an ungrateful craft. Tennis and Thomas have a complicated affair. It’s all he knows and all he is. For years, it was the fuel that moved his world. There was no need to have a perception of himself when others could have one for him.
Aldo made it clear his love is unconditional. He loves him, no matter what, but his love is stronger when Thomas wins. It’s not only about winning, it’s about dancing to the right beat and pouring his heart into every game. He is playing for them. There is more at stake than his name.
If he could, Thomas would’ve taken his last name. He belongs to him more than he could ever belong to Thomas.
“Aldo is on the phone trying to get us a car. There is a town nearby with nice enough air for us to practise.” Goffredo sits on the bed, their knees touching. When Thomas doesn’t reply, he holds his face with his hand. “I thought you were excited about it.”
“I am. I’m just a different man at the game. There is no use in being excited to just sit in my hotel room.”
Goffredo throws himself on the pillows and opens his arms. Thomas nests his face on his chest, closing his eyes. All of his anticipation is making him exhausted. He wants to play and he wants to win, not necessarily in that order. If only he could bend time to make things more fun.
“Do you wanna go there? You can always rest, you know. You won’t play until Sunday.”
Thomas sighs, his hands reaching Goffredo’s. He doesn’t know what he wants. There is no use in inflicting temporary solutions to his longtime problems. He is always like this when something is at stake. All the excitement vanishes, giving place to dread.
“I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted this,” Thomas apologizes. He feels overwhelmed by guilt whenever he complains about something his lovers would kill to experience. He has always been the weaker of the three. “You wouldn’t be complaining about it if you were in my shoes.”
“Hey,” Goffredo calls him, to no avail. His face remains buried in shame. “I’m part of your team now—Thomas Lawrence’s training partner. I want what’s best for you so I can brag around in bars about it.”
“Don’t be this nice to me. Please,” Thomas sniffs.
“I’ve had my shot, Tommaso. Fucking blew all of them. There is no guilt you carry about me that I haven’t felt years ago. You couldn’t have helped me. You had your own life to worry about.”
“I could’ve-”
“But you didn’t. I don’t blame you for it. Life goes on, everything is fine now.”
As fine as it can be.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas tries again. He hopes Goffredo doesn’t feel the tears running down his face or his ragged breathing, this isn’t something to be proud of. When Goffredo let go of his hands and wrapped his arms around his torso, Thomas knew he couldn’t keep his breakdown a secret forever.
He can’t remember the last time he cried. When Goffredo walked back into his life, he gave Thomas parts of their youth back. On one hand, he regained the eagerness and joy to live and play, but he also feels more insecure and unstable. He is a livewire, a reactive crybaby going through a second puberty. Everything is a reason to spill tears.
Goffredo does his best but always fails to comfort him. The kind of sadness living inside Thomas can’t be tamed. It has become an organ, a permanent place in his chest that aches more often than it doesn’t. He appreciates Goffredo’s efforts to care for him and waits for the inevitable day he gives up on it. Thomas wishes his pain could be healed quickly and only leave an ugly scar.
“Hey,” Goffredo says. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” he sighs.
“I’m telling Aldo you aren’t feeling well and you can sleep until lunch.”
Thomas’ hands reach for his phone and hands it to Goffredo. He seems to understand it.
“I won’t move. Don’t worry.”
Thomas is thankful for it. He doesn’t dwell on it, that’s another hurtful discussion he can have later. Now, he smells Aldoi’s perfume on Goffredo’s shirt and tries to relax, until sleep washes him over.
-
“Mr Bellini told me you didn’t feel up to training yesterday.”
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s your last Aussie Open, Thomas. It’s normal to be nervous,” the therapist says. “What is not normal is to surrender to it. Everyone has tough days, but it’s important to remember you have done this before. You’ve won two of them, Thomas. That’s more than most people in this sport do.”
“I don’t wanna go out as a failure,” he explains, embarrassed.
“Losing a game isn’t failing.”
‘Yeah but…” He stares at the screen, seeing his therapist’s disappointed face. Months of work turn to dust whenever he steps on a court. It’s hard not to base his perception of himself on his work performance when being a tennis player is all that’s left of him.
“Let’s do an exercise. Tell me why you decided to not retire after last year’s Open.”
They have discussed this multiple times. It helps to repeat it. There is some truth to words when shared with others.
“I wanted to try again. I knew I could do better. After playing Goffredo again, I knew I could get something else out of tennis.”
“Do you feel like you have to do it for him? You can’t avenge all tennis players that didn’t make it big.”
“He is my friend.”
“He is not you. You want the best for him but you have to want it for yourself.”
Thomas avoids her gaze, looking out the window. He wishes it could be easier to absorb her words and believe in them.
“They lifted the outdoors ban. I will probably go train after this. I should go, actually. I still need to have breakfast.”
“Well,” she sounds frustrated. Thomas recoils when hearing her speak. “You can call me whenever you need. I would like to talk to you tomorrow.”
Thomas smiles, nodding. He waves goodbye before logging off the session. Sighing, he turns off the lights. The sun hasn’t risen yet. There is still time to sit on the couch and breathe.
-
He sneaks out afterwards. He can’t figure out what he craves so he settles for a cigarette.
It matches the smoke outside. It brings him back to his younger days when smoking was synonymous with bad behaviour. Thomas misses it sometimes, the controlled ambience of a boarding school and how every minor transgression felt like a revolution.
These days, a cigarette is just a cigarette. He remembers taking it out of Goffredo’s lips and placing it on his own. An indirect kiss, a promise of something else. The smoke tasted like freedom, now it’s just a bad habit. Thomas wishes he could share it with someone again.
Aldo hates smoking, just like he hates his neediness and dietary habits. Every night, Thomas lies next to him and wonders if he wishes he were another man. He still complies with his wishes, petting his hair until he falls asleep. That’s all he asks. He leaves the decision-making to him.
He is the sun in his sky. He dictates his mood, his present and future. Possessiveness writes every line of their relationship. Thomas is his husband, his client, his friend. Ownership is Aldo’s way of saying I love you.
When the sun shines on you, it means you are blessed. When Aldo pays attention to you, you question how you have lived your entire life without his presence. Thomas isn’t scared of getting burnt. He was reduced to ashes long before him.
“Tommaso,” Goffredo calls. He smiles when he sees Thomas putting off his cigarette like a kid getting caught. “Come on, you have an interview before the match.”
“It’s not a habit of mine,” he explains, gesturing towards the cigarette. “I ran out of gum.”
“Relax, man. Not gonna snitch on you. Not before your big final.”
He walks back to the small room he sneaked out of. It’s not bigger than a bathroom stall. Aldo waits for him there, face closed like a sphinx.
“Your mother called,” he states. “She wishes you good luck.”
Uncharacteristically, he leans over to kiss him. Affection is reserved for after the matches when they have a definitive result to obsess over. Aldo mimics Goffredo’s tongue, gifting Thomas with a familiar feeling he tries to suppress. It’s fine if he is the one offering. His hand in his tight, Goffredo’s favourite way of holding him down.
Aldo says he is a machine, only good for one thing, but he is wrong. Tennis isn’t his only talent. He absorbs people like no other. That’s why he returns from his late-night walks so passionate. If he kisses Goffredo long enough, he acts like something big is at stake. Suddenly, they are young again, making a name for themselves. No marriage, no sponsorships, no legacy. They are playing for their next meal and the right to call themselves great.
Thomas has always envied how Goffredo’s intentions bleed through. He likes to drink from his poisoned water. When delivered by Aldo’s lips, Goffredo’s immaturity tastes like hope.
He pushes Thomas against the wall, biting the shell of his eyes. Thomas wishes he would be his husband, not his coach, for the night and forget about his appearance. He wants to wear his love bites on the court, showing everyone he is more than a title. He is loved, above all. Trophies wear out. A season goes by and they stop meaning something. Their wedding rings are nothing more than a formality. Thomas needs to wear his love on his body. Ephemerous bruises that can be renewed. Their vows have always been physical.
“I want you to know this matters,” he whispers. “This means something.”
Thomas nods. As soon as the words are said, they get lost in translation. It’s been so long since they talked about anything other than tennis, he is unsure how to carry this conversation. His eyes find Aldo’s, wide and wet. Someone knocks on the door. It’s time to go.
-
“...and what a surprise that was! Considering his performance on hard courts, it was an impressive performance coming from Lawrence.”
“Well,” the other commentator says. “To be fair, Lawrence’s games on hard courts seem to have improved significantly after last season. He did pretty well at the US Open, so his victory isn’t a complete surprise.”
“I’m excited to see if he can keep the momentum throughout the tour. A Grand Slam is quite the way to get back on his feet. Needless to say, we will be watching-”
Thomas turns off the radio. It’s patronizing to hear journalists analyzing every move he makes, even the ones that lead him to victory.
He sits in the passenger seat, looking out the window. He isn’t ready to go back to the hotel so they just drive. In the backseat, Also takes multiple congratulatory calls, one after the other, and occupies herself with joy. Goffredo drives, eyes on the road.
“Look,” Goffredo says, breaking the silence. “I know you never liked when we discussed our games but I have to say it. You killed it. Having a great training partner helps, hm?”
He smiles with a devilish grin as if he won the title. Thomas laughs. He clutches the trophy, feeling the cold metal resting against his chest. The summer air makes it hard for him to breathe. Sweat drips down his neck, he craves a shower more than anything.
In a different world, winning means spending the day with his family at a park, no photos or interviews involved. He could lay his head in Aldo’s lap, admiring Australian skies and listening to old stories with meanings that change over time. Privacy is a luxury he can’t afford.
“I’m hungry,” Goffredo mutters. “Can we stop somewhere?”
“We can order room service,” Aldo suggests. His phone is buzzing next to him, unattended, much like Thomas', who sits in his hotel bed. “Or you can cook for us.”
“Unless you want food poisoning for dinner, I suggest going to McDonald’s. Eating fast food like normal people.”
Thomas flinches. He can’t remember the last time he had something outside his meal plan. Food has always been a scripted part of his day, a thoughtless choice. In the tennis academy, he ate what was provided, food cooked by chefs who dedicated their lives to knowing what was best for him. He never found any pleasure in eating, all things tasted the same.
He feels no connection to what sits on his plate, so he plays with food until it looks unrecognizable and swallows the bare minimum. This is a secret he keeps to himself, one of the few things that truly belong to him. A sense of pride comes from controlling his already controlling diet. It's almost childish, a feeling of naughtiness that blooms after doing something forbidden.
Goffredo's suggestion catches him off guard. It doesn’t tempt him at all. Thomas feels unusually nervous over such a small thing.
“How is this better than room service?”
“Cazzo, Aldo. You can’t seriously think cold, soggy hotel salads are going to be better for your body than some fries.”
“That’s why you got stuck in the top 300 forever and Thomas won 7 Slams,” he teases.
“Because he at his fucking greens?”
When it comes to discipline, Thomas wins every game. He walks the line with his head down, doing what he is told. Others know what’s best for him and put in the effort to execute their plans as best as they can. There is no resentment towards it. He can’t do it by himself.
“I’m glad I didn’t agree to coach you.”
Goffredo sticks out his tongue, stopping at a red light. “I’m in the mood for a cheeseburger. You can make up your mind before I turn left and have fun or stick to your tasteless chia puddings.”
He rolls her eyes.
Thomas is terrified of getting sick. An irrational fear that sparks in his mind occasionally. He has heard stories of alcoholics drinking for the first time in years and getting sick after only one sip. Somehow, he thinks his body will react the same and he will ruin his glorious day by vomiting on his rental car.
“I could use a milkshake,” Aldo says after a while. “What about you, baby?’
“Yeah,” he replies, unconvincingly. “A milkshake sounds great.”
rome, italy.
“It’s impressive, man, honestly,” Goffredo says. They are sitting on the tennis court after training. Goffredo is teasing him about his awful new habit. “Smoking one cigarette a week is more impressive than not smoking at all. You could write self-help books on it.”
“Ugh,” he complains, laying down on the floor. “Just don’t tell Aldo about it.”
“Trust me, he knows.”
Thomas stares at the sky. As pleasant as it is to have a routine, it’s wearing off. He finds loneliness in the repetitive acts he performs. Spontaneity is long gone, he doesn't know if he can ever touch it again. All his feelings are planned, he knows exactly what will hurt him and when.
There are occasional sparks of joy. He is surrounded by people he loves; Aldo, his parents, Goffredo. Their nameless relationship morphed into something else, a modern family structure he doesn't think about. Goffredo, who was once his brother, his game partner, his love affair, became his partner, his work colleague and his best friend. He is eighteen again, unsure and so full of love to give.
“Hey,” Goffredo calls, fingers brushing against his arm. They lay side by side, contemplating the same sky. “Are you scared of playing again? It has been a while with all of this-” he gestures around. “ -things going on.”
“Not really,” he lies. Selfishly, he believes God decided to punish him for being so greedy. He gets one Slam and the entire world is put on hold. There are worse pains to go through during a pandemic, but Thomas can't help but think this is a personal punishment to destroy his last season.
“Come on. Just say you are scared of going against Djokovic.”
Goffredo grabs his hand and bites his wrist. Thomas laughs, thinking about the times they did that to each other in locker rooms. Every touch of nostalgia feels fresh, like he has never grown up. Confined to his house, Thomas feels like he is a junior again; a long layover before he can step into real life.
“You don't have to be. In a few years, he will be losing Masters in the quarterfinals and getting water bottles thrown in his direction. I doubt he will play, anyway. Aldo told me he refuses to get vaccinated.”
When Thomas stays silent, Goffredo talks once again. “Come on, let's shower.”
He stands up and offers Thomas a helping hand. Before he can take it, Goffredo grabs him by the wrist and pulls him into a hug. “I will race you back to the house. If you lose, I’ll sell pictures of you smoking to the media.”
“Deal.”
-
Out of all the feelings in the world, the one that hurts Thomas the most is jealousy. It hits him again when he is in the backseat of his car, flicking through a magazine he bought at a gas station. It’s hot, unusually so for this time of the year, and he misses the cold childhoods he spent in England more than ever.
Aldo and Goffredo banter in the front seats, driving back from the beach. They live in a fossilised adolescence, picking it up where they left off. All their arguments are passionate, decisive. The slightest of things spark arguments or, in the brighter days, sex.
Goffredo is driving. Thomas can’t remember the last time he sat in front of the wheel of a car.
His hand is up Aldo’s leg when they reach a parking lot. Thomas shivers, picturing his fingers brushing against his cock, bringing his pleasure in such a casual touch. Effortlessly.
Hurt cuts through his chest like an arrow. Thomas hates himself for it, for envying his loved ones' love. He is greedy, wanting all the happiness he never had while wanting others not to experience it. He wants to be happier but doesn’t know how, so he fantasizes about a world where no one else feels anything positive. That kills him slowly, it’s a childish aspiration a man like him couldn’t have.
Thomas loves beating himself over it. He is living out Goffredo and Aldo’s dream but he hates it. He fell out of love with it when his rotator cut off and he faced a failure that couldn’t be remedied. He got the guy and got the titles but all the satisfaction that should’ve come with it faded. Someone else would make better use of his fame.
He wants to crawl back to the wound he came from and start his life again. Give happiness another shot.
When the engine stops, Thomas opens his door and bolts out of the car. He makes it to a bush before falling to his knees and throwing up. He pretends the tears stem from the discomfort in his stomach, not the pain in his core.
-
His first summer vacation after joining Saint Sebastian's Tennis Academy was marked by blasting loud music on his Walkman. His parents, once a perfect couple, fought more often than not. For the first time in his very calm life, Thomas faced a fear he couldn’t control.
His father’s company was on the verge of bankruptcy. Thomas started mourning his future, a process that still hasn’t come to an end. He got desperate, grasping at straws trying to convince himself it would pass. It did. By Christmas break, his parents' worries were caused by the lack of silver wrapping paper.
Thomas was forever scarred by it. He places this incident as the cause of his need to have it all. Everything, everyone. He is just simply too scared to admit it. No one likes a greedy man.
-
“I’m going to fuck you like I fucked your husband,” Goffredo spits. They are cramped in the backseat of his car, cheeks pressed against the window. Goffredo’s calloused hands are on his belt. They are close, jeans clashing like they are teenagers.
Thomas can’t ignore the humour in this situation, how they fucked many girls and guys in cars during junior championships out of selfishness, desperate to lose their catches to the other. Thomas always told himself he did it to give himself privacy. Now, in their shoes, he feels like a bitch, unworthy of respect. He could afford any hotel room in the country, yet here he is.
Goffredo’s bedroom is at the end of the hallway. Thomas sleeps next to him every night. He chooses to ignore it, focusing on their roleplay. Their words were true at some point. They are just remembering a time when their relationship was as volatile as gasoline.
“Don’t talk about him,” he complains, putting on his best impersonation of a madman. He knows he failed by the way Goffredo’s nose scrunches when he laughs.
“I feel like we’ve done this before. You are always with us when he fuck.”
Confused, Thomas raises an eyebrow and stares at his wedding ring.
“Oh!” Goffredo exclaims. “Didn’t he tell you? You are our dirty talk.”
Our. He doesn’t like how the word sounds. Aldo and Goffredo shouldn’t have anything for themselves. Call it greed, call it love, but Thomas needs to be included in every part of their relationship. He was there when it started and there when it ended. If Goffredo wants to be part of their marriage, he needs to accept there are two people in it already.
“Don’t worry,” Goffredo says, trying to calm him down. Thomas has always been dramatic, wearing his feelings on his face. “I’m not a homewrecker.”
“Fuck off.”
“Tell me you want this,” he demands.
Thomas does. He is the one who sought him, not for explanations or a fight but just to see him. He is not used to this. Usually, he is the one begging Aldo for reassurance. He keeps him this way, a little leashed dog hungry for something to be proud of.
“Goffredo,” he says, voice clouded by embarrassment. He has wanted this for so many years. His desire for Goffredo is as old as his love for tennis.
“I won’t be mean to you,” Goffredo says, kissing his neck. “I’m letting you win. Again.”
“I want you to do it. It should be a fair fight.”
Goffredo smirks, pushing him against the seats. He grabs Thomas' hair, making him wince. “Tell me you want me.”
Thomas grabs his neck, making their faces impossibly close to each other. He closes his eyes, waiting for a kiss. He tastes his tongue, fast and sloppy tracing his teeth. He is getting to know Thomas again, inside and out.
Thomas pulls away from the kiss, closing his eyes to avoid Goffredo’s disappointed gaze.
“You don’t have to mock me by being so passionate. I’m not starved.”
“Not everything is an attack. Maybe I’ve just wanted to do this for years.”
“You’re late,” Thomas states. He licks Goffredo’s neck, tasting the sweat on his neck. It’s summer and they are locked in a car with closed windows. He savours every droplet, marking Goffredo’s skin like he owns it. He sinks his canine teeth on his shoulder, making it bleed. “You are not my first.”
“Firsts are outdated. I’m the one who matters.”
“I want you to fuck me, Goffredo, but I want you to do it properly. I want you to win it.”
I want to be deserved. I want to be more than a consolation prize.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just let me have this. Just this once.”
Thomas kisses him again.
-
He forgets to lock the bathroom door. It's a small relapse that takes a big place in his routine, similar to sleeping through his alarms and skipping lunch. He only notices when Aldo walks into the room, taking his attention away from the razor. He drops it, as if he was doing something illicit.
Shaving is a lifelong habit. He picked it up after marriage, just like most of the defining traits that formed the man he is today. It became part of his pre-game rituals, making sure he is presentable enough to the spectators. He feels like a statue, a body of marble, the idealized version of what a human should be. Presentable enough to be exposed in museums, collecting crowds from overseas.
Thomas likes how the razor feels against his legs, likes the intimacy of it all. He is in control. One slip and he sees blood. Aldo meditates, Goffredo smokes and Thomas shaves his legs until he looks like a Ken doll. All perfectly acceptable behaviours.
“You don’t have any games coming up,” he states.
“It’s a habit.”
He turns off the shower, razor forgotten in the cold tiles. Thomas dies his legs and wraps himself in a towel. Water droplets falling from his hair decorate the floor. “So…”
“So?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here, Thomas. I’ve been living here for seven years.”
He expects a lecture. That’s not his type. He gives him a cold shoulder when it comes to their personal life and saves the resentment to yell over practice. “The ATP released a statement.”
He freezes, noticing the world blurring.
“You better get back on track. You have an Open to win.”
He doesn’t ask which one he is talking about. He knows it. There is only one at stake.
“When?”
“August,” he leans in, cradling his cheek with his hand. Aldo kisses him softly, tenderly enough to disguise the intention behind it. “You better win it, Mr Lawrence.”
“Or you will leave me?”
“If that works for you. It won’t break my heart more than it will break yours. It’s your dream, after all.”
“What’s yours?”
“Aren’t yours enough? Do you have to entertain yourself with mine?”
He takes off his hands out of his face and walks towards the door. Giving one last look at him, he smiles. “I will let you know once they come true. It’s bad luck otherwise.”
He shrinks when he closes the door. Thomas is alone, once again.
-
Face down on a pillow, Thomas reflects on his choices. Goffredo bites his shoulder, leaving a mark similar to the one Thomas left on him a few days earlier. He moans, breathy and desperate, waiting for Goffredo to do something. They are on a cheap roadside motel. Thomas hopes Aldo sees the charges on their credit card and feels terrible about it.
Goffredo fucks him fast. He wants to hurt. No lube, just spit and a few praises to make Thomas believe that’s how everyone does it. Goffredo knows him deeply, knows him enough to understand he would crumble if he was taken with any kindness. He can take it.
Thomas' hands are shaking, an unwelcome sensation that puts him out of his trance. He stares at them, feeling overtaking every nerve of his body. It transports him to a time of weakness, to the hazy days of painkillers and antidepressants. He could’ve had a smoother recovery but he threw that away once the chemicals started making him lose control of his body. Of himself.
“Hey, are you ok?” Goffredo asks, slowing down. Thomas shoves his head further into the pillows, avoiding his gaze.
“Yeah.”
Goffredo's strong hands grab his waist, turning him around. Thomas winces, feeling like a bag of bones. He is useless. A pity fuck. He whines, biting his lip to avoid crying. He wants this.
“Never took you for a crier,” Goffredo mocks, licking his chest. “Do you always cry when you lose? Does Aldo kiss it better?”
Every masochistic bone in Thomas’ body responds to that. He throws his head back, moaning loudly. Still avoiding Goffredo’s eyes, he keeps his eyes closed. He is so high on pleasure that he could float.
“That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think? I’ve met you first. If I knew you liked it, you’d be mine long ago.”
Goffredo grabs his face, forcing Thomas to look at him. He stares deep into his eyes before spitting in his mouth. Thomas moans in the same way he does when he is serving. He rarely fights back, he likes it that way. He saves his energy for what matters, until then, he will gladly bow to someone else’s orders.
Thomas wraps his legs around Goffredo’s waist, clenching around his dick. It’s not as physical as it is an emotional nirvana. His skin is in flames, bringing him back to the days when the slightest bumps of Goffredo’s hands against his made him shiver. They have come so far.
“Thomas.”
“Goffredo.”
“Thomas.”
He laughs, staring at Goffredo’s smile. There is no need to say it. He knows.
-
queens, new york
Goffredo holds a burger. Fingers bruising the bun, grease dripping down his hands. He bites it fast, staring deeply into Thomas’ eyes. He searches for a soul that isn’t there, for a vanishing passion. Goffredo still has hope, something Thomas gave up many seasons ago. He looks at Thomas hoping to be greeted by another version of him, by the passionate teenager with dreams larger than his vocabulary.
“Jesus,” Goffredo mutters. “You are so stuck up now. Kind of like a robot I get to reprogram.”
He leans in, tongue close to Thomas' ear. They are public. This can make the news. For the first time in ages, Thomas shivers. He is alive.
“I can take you apart. You’d let me.”
“I…” Thomas trails off, rethinking the importance of his words.
“Come on. Bite. It’s not going to kill you.”
Goffredo waits for him to do so, wide smile replacing his usual smirks. Thomas taps his feet to the rhythm of an old song playing in the restaurant. Tap, tap, tap. Fast feet that could be sprinting across a tennis court, yet here he is, sitting in a fast food spot with his old friend. Only friend.
“Open up,” Goffredo tries. “Can’t believe I get to hand-feed it to you.”
“Like I’m a sick person,” Thomas replies, finally taking a bite off the burger. He closes his eyes, relishing the taste. It feels like a first time, something he hadn’t had in so long. He feels young again, able to experience novelties.
“Do you like it?”
Thomas licks his hand in response, taking another bite.
“I can’t believe I never got to keep you around. You’d be my favourite toy.”
“That’s why you never got to keep me around, Goffredo. I’m a real fucking person.”
He likes how easily words come to him when he is around Goffredo. How he swears often despite never having a profane mouth. Goffredo lights a fire under him, making him feel alive. Nothing feels real but Thomas is hyperaware of everything at the same time. He floats on uncertainty but that carries a curiosity of the future he isn’t familiar with. For the first time, he trails an unblazed path.
“Do you want to be, though? Out of everything in the world, is this the image you want to maintain?”
“I’m great at what I do.”
“But not the best. You will never be Aldo.”
“I don’t want to.”
Suddenly, Thomas has no desire to taste what Goffredo offers. They are back in the court.
“You won’t ever be me,” Goffredo states. If it isn’t a mockery, why does it hurt him so much?
“I know.”
Goffredo smiles and kisses his cheek. The burger lays on a tray. His hand is gripping Thomas' knee, keeping him in place. Thomas leans his head on his shoulder, hiding his hands between his thighs.
“I’m going to drive you back to the hotel. Show you who you are.”
“Yeah,” Thomas replies. “Okay. Whatever you want.”
-
His first loss in the US Open marked the beginning of their love story. When Thomas lost the Juniors, he told himself it wasn’t the end of the world. Surely, he felt like it was. He lost the title to Goffredo- his best friend- and his best friend to a guy and the guy to the boy who took away his title.
He is tired of the web of deception that binds him. The US Open is the ghost of his first failure, one that haunts him whenever he steps away from the light. Jealousy strikes him again and makes him wonder how it feels to be outside of his body. Aldo and Goffredo are members of a club he can’t be part of. He wishes he could’ve taken a safer path, one that ended in happiness instead of loneliness.
He envies their position as spectators. Thomas feels like one as well. He spent his life sitting on the bleachers, watching his personal life from a distance and only feeling in control when he stepped on a court.
Hand to his chest, Thomas tries to feel his heartbeats. It’s there somewhere, even if it feels like it stopped years ago.
-
He wanders into the living room past midnight. Aldo is asleep on their bed, Goffredo is down the hallway. Thomas, however, can't seem to find enough relaxation in himself to sleep, so he ventures with the care of someone who doesn't feel welcome in his own hotel room. It's no one's fault but his.
It's the night before the US Open finals.
Thomas sits on the couch as if he is sitting in a bed of nails, feeling sharp discomfort as he tries to relax. Tomorrow is the day his life changes, his final attempt at overcoming the skeleton in his closet. The television tells the story of a former player who got injured and quit. Thomas doesn't have to stare at the screen to see it's Aldo.
He is tennis’ favourite sob story: the talented young artist who lost it all and settled for coaching his less talented husband. What Aldo brought to the court was not simply tennis, it was art. He was a chameleon, adapting to whatever court or terrain they played on. His almost mathematical approach to it, his overthought and cynical analysis of the court, vanished as soon as the match started. Something else took control of Aldo and he played beautifully.
Thomas remembers the beginning of his short-lived pro career, when Aldo was the sweet sensation in everyone's lips. A man behind the organizations of a tennis event asked Aldo to sign a shirt for his terminally ill nephew who dreamt of being like him. The man thanked him profusely when he did it, saying he was God’s gift to tennis. It was hard to compute that the same God who granted Aldo his almost artistic abilities also gave a terminal illness to a child.
“You should be in bed,” Aldo states. He stands behind Thomas, a hand on his shoulder.
“I'm sorry.”
“Did you know they offered me a million dollars to be part of it?” He says, pointing towards the television.
“That's a lot of money.”
“Yeah,” Aldo laughs. “It could buy everything except for a new knee, which is why I passed on. It's kind of humiliating, don't you think? To only focus on the bad moments.”
They stay in silence. Thomas' lips are reduced to a thin line.
“If you lose tomorrow, I won't think less of you.”
“I will.”
“It's only a title, Tom.”
“A title you got when you were a junior, for heaven's sake! Even Goffredo has one,” he says, an afterthought. “I am sorry, I didn't mean to.”
“It's okay. I understand what you mean.”
“I just-,” he sighs. “It's a mental block, that's all. You are both very competent players.”
He swallows the unpleasantness. There is no use to admit he blamed himself for Aldo sleeping with Tedesco, thinking he got something Thomas didn't. That something was an Italian accent and a junior US Open win, a sign of prosperity Thomas could only dream of achieving.
Goffredo, with all his triumphant posture and a lust that bleeds through his game. Every match is vital for him, he's a performer. Even if he doesn't win, which didn't happen very often before he came to work for Thomas, he puts on a show.
“There's no need to be diplomatic. You should use this energy tomorrow. Give us a fucking good game. Even if you lose, just do something interesting.”
“That's not what my coach should be saying.”
“I'm your husband as well. I am allowed to transit between those roles.” He presses a kiss to the side of Thomas' face, right above his cheekbone. Aldo's fingers linger in his shirt, tugging it lightly. “Come to bed. Tomorrow will come anyway.”
-
“How do you feel?” The reporter asks.
“Tired,” he jokes, hoping they focus on his voice not on his dark circles. “But wonderful.”
The media liked to paint him as a mysterious man. He was not fond of opening himself in interviews, often choosing the most predictable answer. Thomas wants his game to speak for itself.
“Your husband won the Juniors against you in your youth. How does it feel to bring home a trophy?”
“Althought we haven't played doubles in years, Aldo and I are a team. I am grateful to be able to take something home for us.”
“How would you describe your process before a game?” Another reporter asks.
“It's a rehearsal. Lately, I have been seeing tennis as more of an art than anything else. I've got to be aware of the placements, the lines and the intent of my work before I step on the court. It's similar to a stage in many ways.”
“Does that mean you will become an actor after your retirement?”
“I am unsure,” he laughs. “Only time will tell.”
-
rome, italy.
He smashes the racket against the floor, one, two, three times before it fully breaks. It's something Thomas never allowed himself to do, it's not only a loss of composure but a penalty. He is sure Aldo will be pissed.
Thomas grabs a new racket, hits the ball and smiles, or almost does. His facial muscles are straining alongside his entire body, his veins are on fire and he is well aware of how the story ends.
He loses. Fucking embarrassing performance on his home turf. The evidence of the red clay clings to his skin, the same rust that will cover him in a few weeks. The ghost of Roland Garros lingers. It's not as much as a haunting as it is a premonition as it hasn't happened yet. Thomas doesn't love playing on clay but seems to perform better, collecting more trophies on that surface than any other.
Parents tell their children winning isn't all there is to life. In Thomas' case, it's a lie. Winning is as fundamental as breathing in his field. His enjoyment isn't as important as his results. Learning how to lose is a way of accepting failure and welcoming it into his life. Victory isn't addictive, it's a life drive.
When he comes out of court, Thomas covers his face with his hand and goes straight to the shower. The water is so hot it almost burns him. It runs down his back, birthing blisters for the future, as he holds back a sob.
He doesn't know how he will face Aldo, who is probably half-drunk on cocktails in the bleachers. The memories of his first big loss resonates in his mind, Thomas can almost taste the deception again. He bites his lip, thinking about how different they were. Aldo had pushed him against the wall, head hitting it fast. They were at the age where all punishment turned to sex. It wasn't until Thomas was crying and panting with each blow Aldo left in his arse that they stopped, finding themselves on the floor.
Thomas was sure he wouldn't be granted the sexual treatment today. With the addition of Tedesco, Aldo turned to him whenever he was mad at Thomas. Their own little love triangle. On occasion, they don't feel like different people but fragments of the same soul.
-
paris, france
Sitting in a park, Thomas reads the news. They aren't as positive as he would've liked. His body aches, every muscle and every bone in a symphony of pain. He feels his mind aching as well, the muscles of his brain feel inflamed. He has a few days before the start of Roland Garros, his final Grand Slam.
Part of him wants to throw his career at the Seine and take real painkillers. His body aches for codeine, something real grown-ups take for their mature pain. Part of being an athlete is the waiver of an adult’s life. He's stuck in the perpetual role of a child, always being baby-sat and never making any decisions for himself.
“Do you want to leave?” Aldo asks, staring at him.
“Give me a moment.”
“Ok,” he replies, scrolling on his phone. “Goffredo is waiting for us at the hotel.”
“You can go, if you want to. I'm just enjoying the breeze.”
“The breeze?”
“The weather is nice. It makes me want to wander around.”
“We can still do it. After it's over.”
He shivers. The promise of retirement is so close, the climax to his coming of age. There are still more events to come after the Slam but it feels like the perfect ending to his journey. He hopes to go out with a bang, a happy ending to his not so perfect fairytale.
Thomas is unsure if he deserves it but he wants it so badly it's almost tangible. The worst part is knowing it all depends on him. It's not a God given gift.
“The Louvre will still be here.”
“Like it was before,” Thomas replies. “I think of all the times we've been here and didn't enjoy what the city has to offer.”
“It’s part of the job.”
“You must regret standing by me all these years. I do.”
“You are pleasant company, Tom. I will stand by you even after it's over. It might shock you but I don't love you for your game.”
Thomas bites his tongue. Of course he doesn't, he is not that good of a player to be loved for it. He's incomplete, not good enough of a player or good enough of a person to be loved by who he is.
“Thank you,” he says. “For finding something in me worthy of love.”
Aldo leans in and kisses his cheek. It's rare for them to share a public display of affection. Thomas melts under the simplicity of the touch.
“I'm going to the hotel. Meet me there later, ok?” It’s a reassurance, a promise Thomas won't do anything stupid.
“Yeah. I will.”
-
He loses the training match to Goffredo. It ignites something in him, so much so he has to fight to keep his hands to himself on the car ride back to the hotel. Thomas takes a long shower, jerking himself off like a manic teenager until his come splashes all over his stomach. He does it with fingers stuffed on his mouth, tasting the fancy soap Aldo insists on buying, to muffle any sounds. It's his private time.
“We are going out,” Aldo says as soon as he steps out of the shower. “Go get dressed up.”
He bites his lips, confused. Bad training days are not rewarded with outings. “To where.”
“I got us tickets to the opera. Goffredo is going to.”
“Oh. Is it for some brand or…?”
“It's a date. Go put on a suit before I regret it.” Aldo trails his fingers on Thomas' exposed chest. He stops at his nipple, pinching it. “I'm serious.”
“Yes, sir.”
He blows his hair dry while the hotel irons his suit. All he has to worry about is choosing the correct tie. Red is too bright and navy is awfully serious. He ends up going with a plum one, one he never wore before. Thomas is normally used to the black and white of tennis clothes, never experimenting with colour.
When he is dressed, he looks almost like a person again. Not a player but the man behind it, as if he exists outside the court. He smiles, seeing himself in the mirror. Thomas' eyes sparkle. For once, he sees the future.
-
“I love you,” Thomas confesses during breakfast. It's the morning before he plays his last slam. The road to the finale was stressful. He barely remembers being himself, much less interacting with others.
“I love you too,” Aldo replies, biting into a strawberry.
“Don't speak like that,” Goffredo interrupts. “Like you are going to die after you leave the court.”
It's not the final game of the season but the last Grand Slam Thomas will play. If he wins it, he makes the exclusive club of golden winners, the ones that won all the slams throughout the season. It's cheat season as he doesn't have to worry about making England proud when playing Wimbledon.
“It feels like it,” he replies, trying to have breakfast. A marvelous spread sits in front of him yet he doesn't possess the appetite to touch it.
“Well, you've had a long life,” Goffredo says. “If we are running with the metaphor, some of us didn't even get to be born.”
This is where part of his life ends, the public life. While Aldo will keep his public work on the foundation, Thomas will crawl into his shell and avoid the spotlight. An occasional match, once or twice, for charity and a few public endorsements when the loneliness gets too loud.
He doesn't believe he will open up one day. The public enjoys the sterilised, clean version of him. There is a line between Tom Lawrence, tennis superstar, and Thomas. It's not palatable to expose his triangular relationship, his melancholies and the unnamed disorders he keeps at bay.
“You've been playing well.”
“I've been losing, Aldo, to the same man over and over.”
Tedesco winks.
“But you've been interesting. It's not ideal given the situation we are win, of course I want you to win the fucking title, but, for once, you are fun to watch.”
Thomas sinks into the chair, feeling a foot running up his leg. It's a gentle touch, a reassuring anchor. “I don't want to be interesting. I have retirement for that. I want to win.”
The victory is so close he can taste it. He thinks of all the victories he collected, from his first juniors tournament to his first challenger to his first slam and first Olympic medal. None of them feel as important as this match.
It isn't over until it's over. It won't be the last time he plays but it will be his farewell, the last match he plays while the entire world watches. The entire year has been a mourning process. Thomas will leave the exclusive club of the top 100 once he retires, the prestige slipping from his fingers as soon as the season ends.
“Then play. Go to court and do your best.”
“I will,” he replies, feeling an ounce of confidence. It's a rare feeling.
-
His heart aches. It beats so loudly Thomas thinks he is going deaf. Is this what death feels like? Living living to its fullest for a single second before everything stops?
Most tennis players either base their game around their serve or defense. As he steps into the court, feeling the wind in his face, Thomas realises he can't be qualified into those boxes. His game is about the ball. He honours it by making it the star of the show, the focal point of every spectator.
Two serve-focused players make for a selfish game while two defense based players might create an aggressive scene. In the end, the casual watcher seeks a great fucking game, and that's what Thomas is about to give them.
Television doesn't do it justice. The energy and the tension of the court can't be replicated in a living room. The cameras direct the spectators eyes towards what it deems important, not allowing them to make the choice themselves. Television tennis is impersonal, solely commercial.
Most won't ever know what it is like to be the best at something. Thomas does. He understands the beauty of the game, tennis as an art and as a form of communication. In his recent matches with Goffredo, he understands it's not about winning but communicating with the opponent.
But there is no time for silent small talk. He has a game to win. All he hears is his heart.