#fritzfoe

Taylor sees Frances after the final. It was inevitable, even if this occasion had the wrong tone to it, when it was what neither of them wanted. It’s almost deathly silent in the room, all sterile and white noise, even when there’s celebration somewhere else in the stadium that must be a universe away now. 

Frances stands there, eyes averted from the door, sort of trying to pretend he wasn’t waiting for him when it’s clear he was. His face is mostly blank. His eyes soften at the edges when Taylor does meet them and Taylor cracks. Just a little. What else are you supposed to when you see someone you’ve known for twelve years, when you’ve both been fighting for your chance to make it out? When you tried your hardest… and neither of you did. 

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, and with it his mouth finds a strange halfway point between a frown and a resigned smile. 

“Why the hell are you sorry?” Frances grins fully, and it makes him feel a bit lighter, if only by a fraction. “You did something none of us could’ve done out there, man.” Frances clasps a firm hand at his shoulder, and Taylor’s chin drops again. He wishes he could be better at this. If not for himself, for Frances. 

Taylor wants to say something. Because he always wants to say something, because his mind is always teeming with thoughts, even if he plays the same game Frances does, the kind that involves ribbing and joking with shades of sincerity mingled in between. 

I wish you had beaten me. 

And it’s a selfish thought, too. He’s good at that. He didn’t wish that at the start of their semifinal, and only did the thought flicker when they met at the net, when they both sighed and guilt found its place in him again. Because the moment after it was gone again. But Taylor is the loser now. Now is the time he can find all that guilt, wondering what could have been if their roles were reversed. 

But he thinks Frances might be hurt if he does. 

Frances can read Taylor’s face completely. He’s doing a terrible job at hiding himself now, his shoulders dropping again, heat blooming in his cheeks, exhaustion written all over him. 

For a moment—as he watches his friend fight back tears—Taylor looks fourteen again. He looks small, with his face screwing in that way he does when he’s trying to conceal himself, closing himself off from expressing anger or trying not to cry. So he does what he can to coax him out, knowing that he cannot tell him in so many words that it is okay to let go. But he wants him to know that it’s okay. 

“You’re still the best of us, man. Don’t be sorry for me, Taylor.” 

Something in his chest twists at hearing Frances call him by his first name.

It’s a rarity, and he doesn’t know why. He’s never asked him about it, but it’s not a choice Frances makes with Tommy, or Reilly, or even Ben. He doesn’t ask why he changes his mind today, but he can imagine why he might.

They embrace, and neither say anything for a moment. It’s needed, as essential as their exchange at the net was a few days prior. It’s the thing that snaps them back into the world. So they’re just breathing, their hands on the other’s back, maybe praying that with enough time spent here that tennis will loosen its grip on them. That it will stop meaning absolutely everything to them. That they’re just two people outside of this mess. 

Frances’ hand remains on his forearm even after they separate. For a moment, Taylor isn’t sure if it’s the thing that’s keeping him from breaking, or if it’s the thing that will. 

Frances’ eyes lock on his own. “It’s gonna be you. You know that, I know that. It is gonna be you. We just gotta wait a little longer.” 

And then Frances shrugs, offering him the light in his eyes, a piece of his smile, like this is certain. Like their careers aren’t timed, like they have forever, like they aren’t chasing the heels of twenty-two year olds. But it works. Because it’s Frances telling him so, and he has a funny way of making Taylor believe things that he has trouble with otherwise. Frances is so full of assurances, with an answer for everything, so secure in how he approaches the world. 

Okay, Taylor thinks. Okay. I’ll believe you.

Taylor wants to say something again. Wants to say something maybe he would’ve said when he was a kid, when he was unequivocally the worst player among their group, but they both dreamed about the same things anyway. Anything was fair game then. 

I wish it could be us both. 

But they both know that can’t be true. That’s not the way things are, not with the nature of the fucking curse or the fact that someone always has to fall in this sport. Not unless something radically shifts, not unless it all relies on luck. Not unless a piece of the sky hits the ground. So he doesn’t say it.