Marat's heart sank slightly as he waited for his bag to trundle along the conveyor belt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of reporters that he knew, scanning the group of new arrivals from New York. He avoided catching their eye, and he pulled the hood up on his jacket, turning away in the vain hope that they would miss him. They didn't. Marat was never going to 'blend into the crowd."

A small microphone and an impertinent tone drew a characteristically nonchalant response from Marat, replying to questions about his third round exit at the USO, after a patchy hard-court season. They were full of questions about his 'new' coach. Marat gave them his most icy stare as he mumbled the usual trivia - then they moved on to Davis Cup. Marat lifted his head and answered down his nose, his hand absent- mindedly rubbing his furrowed brow. He was too tired for this. Too tired, and too anxious to get in a cab and home - home, where, he had confirmed moments before, as soon as the plane landed, in fact,  a certain someone was waiting for him. Every moment of delay heightened Marat's anticipation. Thank god, finally his bags appeared - he grabbed them as they passed, tossing racquet bags and sports bags onto a trolley, and headed to the exit - trailing the persistent newshounds behind him. At last he was in a cab, and beginning to relax, just a little. He sat back on the back seat, watching the grey Moscow evening run past the windows, a few spots of rain falling into the autumnal evening, clouds gathering over the city.

He was lost in his thoughts, which had inevitably turned, as they had consistently done in the last forty-eight hours, to his impending reunion, after, god ! nine weeks...nine weeks of torture!  His stomach turned over on itself, his fingertips tingling, and he was feeling decidedly uncomfortable in the trouser department. He shifted a little, trying to ease a bit of the pressure developing in his groin, but to no avail - he was hard and there was nothing else for it...he bit a little on his lower lip. Only one thing was going to satisfy him now...only one person. Marat glanced at his watch as his phone beeped - the phone only Sasha had the number to, Sasha, and no-one else. He fumbled in his pocket, his watch catching in the lining in his haste to read the message:

"Where R U??!!!!"

So! Sasha was anxious too - he only ever used exclamation marks when he was especially animated. Marat smiled, and his deft and experienced texting thumbs quickly replied.

"Almost home...get ready." Then, after he had sent the message, he added "!!!!!!!!". Seconds later, Sasha's reply:

"I have food, wine, beer, vodka...I'm only missing you!"

Marat chuckled. God, he felt so aroused. He felt like he was going to explode with repressed desire. A tremor ran through him, an icy finger down his spine. God...Sasha...soon, soon...Hurry up - no more red lights, Marat prayed.

He paid the driver and gave him a pretty big tip as he unloaded Marat's bags onto the sidewalk on Strastnoy, the rain coming down more persistently now. Marat barged the door open and crashed up the stairs, expecting his front door to open magically as he got to the top, but it remained mysteriously shut. What! Had Sasha not been watching from the window in the lounge-room for his arrival? He banged on the door with his toe, not too loudly, he didn't want to disturb the neighbours, particularly.

Where the HELL was Sasha? Marat pressed his ear to the door - inside he could hear music playing softly. Okay, maybe he was in the bathroom, Marat shrugged . "He'd better be running a bath," he thought, as he rummaged in his backpack and located his keys in the front pocket.

"Sasha," he called a little breathlessly, his eyes seemingly taking in the familiar landscape of his lounge all at once but failing to locate the only thing he wanted to see. "Where are you?" He moved forward, dropping his bags in a heap and tossing his keys into the bowl on the small hall table. He put his head into the kitchen - something smelled good. A loaf of bread was sitting on the counter-top - a bottle of wine opened on the table. "Sash?"  He stood completely still, and listened to the stereo playing softly in the lounge. This was weird. He must have gone out for something or other, maybe. Marat took in a deep breath and felt something of a sense of anticlimax. He wandered across the kitchen and opened the oven - it was still hot and a large casserole dish was sitting in there - the source of the delicious aromas that perfumed the room. "I love you, Louda," Marat intoned, whispering under his breath.

He dropped his jacket onto the kitchen chair, and sat to untie his shoes and drop them onto  the kitchen floor. A shower, he thought...a nice way to welcome Sasha back - when he finally decided to return! walking across the lounge and into the bathroom, Marat stripped his travel-worn clothes into the laundry basket.  He was about to take off his watch and turn on the shower when he noticed there were no towels on the rack - and so went to grab one from the cupboard in the corner of the bedroom. Mama Rausa always tidied his linen cupboard  and did heaps of laundry for him when he was gone - and Sasha had only sporadically spent a few nights in his place this time.

The bedroom was in darkness as he pushed open the door, the light from the small hallway providing enough illumination to find what he was looking for. He reached across to open the cupboard, bending to pull a towel from the lower shelf, when suddenly, out of the blue, he was grabbed by the shoulders, spun round and forced backwards, falling onto the bed on his back. A strong hand gripped his neck, thumb pressed firmly into the hollow of his throat. Marat emitted a strangled gasp as the hand moved, flat across his chest, weight holding him down over his heart. A second later, a chin, rough with bristle, scraped along his jawline and a voice, hot and wet in his ear, low, growling. Something primeval moved in Marat's psyche at the sound.

"Almost naked. Almost perfect," and then a silhouette rising above him, hands sweeping down his body, ripping at his underwear, Marat hitching up his hips to facilitate the removal, then relaxing back and shivering as those warm, firm, strong hands traversed back up his torso, both flat, making slow, light brushing motions. Marat finally let his breath go in a long exhalation. "Sashaaaaaa." His lips parted and then, at long last, the kiss. Sasha felt Marat's nipples harden against his palms, and he kissed deeply, hard, drinking in the taste, the aroma he had missed so terribly, breaking for a moment to whisper, "I want to eat you, now." Then kissing again, hungrily, as if starving, shaking, trembling with the emotion of at last feeling again, of touching. Marat felt hypnotised, besotted, unable to move - his arms were flung outwards, his fingers picking at the edges of the sheets, his body arching and writhing under Sasha's weight. Marat began to kiss back, biting, frantic, his arms encircling, forcing upwards, turning - his hips moving urgently...but without the usual stiffening that rubbing up against Sasha's groin, or thigh, or stomach - or really, any part of Sasha, always caused.

After some moments, Sasha gently pressed Marat's face up from his, hoisting himself up into a sitting position, as Marat fell back onto the pillows.

"I...I can't believe this..." Marat's voice sounded incredulous, causing Sasha to smile. "I've been hard for about two days - I had to keep the blanket over me most of the flight in case the stewards got any ideas...and now...fuck! What's happened? I've thought of nothing else for days...and now, this!" Sasha had to giggle, because Marat's face, as he looked down at his limp equipment, was priceless - a picture of utter dismay and disbelief. He raised his eyes to Sasha's at the sound of his choked laughter, an expression of pain creasing his brow.

"Baby, baby - I think this is what you could call a 'technical malfunction'? A failure of hydraulics..." Sasha dissolved at that, holding his hand across his mouth as tears clouded his eyes. Marat narrowed his, and grabbed a pillow, striking a hefty blow and making Sasha laugh harder, retaliating until they both fell exhausted and laughing onto their backs, the bed springs creaking and bouncing. As they gulped big breaths, Sasha rolled over and placed his hand on Marat's cheek. "It's okay, Marat. The beauty is, we have days and days to practise getting it right. Let's eat, I'm starving."

During dinner, they exchanged family news, Moscow news, and eventually, briefly, tennis news, and after a long shower together, they finally returned to bed, folding into each other's arms like a letter into an envelope, sighing, content.

As the sky transformed from black to pale pink ,and the early dawn broke dove grey and misty over Moscow's rooftops, the morning light creeping through the blinds witnessed long, soft, warm kisses, caresses, building, cresting, breathing, bouncing bed springs, and prolonged moans and gasps, and then the hard, rhythmic knocking of the bed frame against the wall as Sasha claimed Marat back for the first, but not the last, time of the day.

Over breakfast, much, much later, and after Marat had demonstrated, more than once, that the 'technical malfunction' had most definitely been temporary, Sasha commented, "I think we need to relocate the bed, a little further from the wall. What do you think?" Marat crunched down on breakfast cereal and nodded.

"Yeah - that paint-job cost me a fortune - and if you intend to keep going like that, I'm going to make you pay."

For quite a while later, no-one in the Davis Cup team could quite work out why Marat chortled and made incessant references and jokes about 'paint-jobs', and Sasha always blushed and turned away. What IS it with those two?