Chapter Text
Carlos was sprawled on the couch, sinking into its soft cushions, lazily scrolling through his phone. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, spreading across the polished floorboards in warm golden pools, while the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, left to cool on the table, lingered in the living room. His thumb glided over the screen, catching fragments of news: football match scores, posts about New Year’s parties, a random video of Rafa, grinning broadly, carrying his son on his shoulders. Carlos lingered on it, the corners of his mouth tugging upward involuntarily, but his thoughts wandered far off. The previous day, filled with dust, sweat, and conversation, left a warm afterglow, like a mug of tea sipped on a crisp morning. Jannik hadn’t been joking when he said digging up the court was no small feat. By evening, Carlos, worn out to the point of trembling muscles, tossed the shovel aside, deciding the old concrete could wait. Instead, he unpacked a couple of boxes — dishes, sneakers, sweaters — and collapsed onto the couch with his laptop. Some action flick with endless car chases blared in the background, but Carlos passed out before a third of it was over, lulled by the rumble of explosions and the gravelly voice of the main character.
Today, he wore a black short-sleeved t-shirt and loose gray athletic shorts that didn’t restrict his movements. He tossed the phone onto a cushion and stretched, feeling his back crack, a reminder of yesterday’s exertion. A spark of anticipation stirred within him, catchy like a melody you hum without realizing. Jannik had promised to stop by, and the thought sent a thrill through him, like a light breeze brushing against his skin. Why did this guy get under his skin so much? Was it his calm confidence, the kind that seemed to slow time itself? His way of speaking, lightly teasing but never overbearing? Or the way he looked at Carlos — not as a star from magazine covers, but as a guy trying to breathe life into an old house? Carlos snorted, shaking his head. He wasn’t used to thinking this much about someone, especially a neighbor he’d known for just a couple of days. But he was looking forward to this visit, and the anticipation felt like the promise of a good day — exciting and full of possibilities.
A loud knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts. Carlos jolted, nearly dropping his phone, and quickly stood, smoothing out his t-shirt. He crossed the living room in a few strides, his heart picking up its pace just slightly, and flung open the heavy wooden door. There stood Jannik, head tilted slightly to one side. His auburn hair was tousled, as if he’d just walked through a windy garden, and in the morning light, it glowed with a soft coppery fire. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, layered with a carelessly draped navy sweater, its fine knit adding a touch of warmth. Dark jeans completed the look — simple but cozy, like he’d stepped out of an old photograph into this sunny day. His light eyes, somewhere between gray and green, met Carlos’s gaze, and the corners of his mouth lifted in that familiar smile, brimming with a hint of mischief.
— No sign of you in the yard. — Jannik said, slipping his hands into his jeans pockets. He nodded toward the garden, where the rusty gate creaked as if grumbling at the wind. — Figured I’d try the front door. You don’t mind, do you?
Carlos laughed, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in. The laugh came out a bit louder than necessary, but it eased the slight tension he only now noticed.
— Mind? Ha, I was starting to think you’d bailed on the attic. — he said, closing the door behind his guest. — Come on in, make yourself at home.
Jannik stepped inside, his gaze sweeping across the living room as if catching every detail — from the sunlight glinting on the floor to the haphazardly placed boxes. His movements were smooth, carrying an effortless confidence, as if he knew every corner of the house. He paused by the tall window where morning light poured in, tilting his head slightly to eye a stack of tennis magazines tossed carelessly onto the coffee table. Carlos caught himself watching him, trying to figure out how Jannik managed to be so open yet so elusive at the same time.
— So. — Jannik said, turning around with a slight squint. — You didn’t climb up to the attic without me, did you?
Carlos shook his head, planting his hands on his hips. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement, and he replied with mock seriousness:
— Waited for you, like I promised. Didn’t want to ruin your quest.
Jannik let out a quiet laugh, light as the rustle of leaves outside the window. He nodded, as if appreciating the quip, and gestured toward the staircase leading to the second floor.
— Let’s go then. — he said, heading for the steps. — Time to hunt for treasure.
Carlos grinned, feeling curiosity flare up inside him like a spark before a blaze. He grabbed a water bottle from the table — just in case — and followed Jannik. They climbed the narrow wooden staircase, which creaked underfoot but held firm, as if accustomed to such visits. Jannik led the way, his sweater swaying slightly with each step. On the second-floor landing, he turned, without looking back, toward another staircase — narrow and steep, leading to the attic. Carlos raised his eyebrows but said nothing: Jannik moved with such certainty, as if he knew the house by heart, stirring a mix of mild surprise and intrigue.
— You sure you’re just a neighbor? — Carlos teased, catching up to him on the stairs. — You’re walking like you’ve got a private office up here.
Jannik glanced back, pausing on a step and leaning against the railing. His light eyes glinted with mischief, and he shot back with a smirk:
— Maybe I’ve just got a nose for adventure. Or are you already regretting letting me in?
Carlos snorted, shaking his head.
— Regret? Come on, I’m just getting started. — he said, flashing a grin. — Lead on, treasure hunter.
Jannik laughed and continued the climb. The staircase ended at a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, and Jannik pushed it open with his shoulder. The door gave way with a groan, releasing a puff of dust, and they stepped into the attic, enveloped in soft half-light. The air was warm, thick with the scent of old paper, weathered wood, and something faintly comforting, like a memory of a long-forgotten summer. Tall windows with dusty panes let in sunlight that fell in slanted beams across the old floorboards, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny stars. In the corners, boxes draped in fine cobwebs were piled high, alongside battered suitcases with peeling leather and wooden chests with rusted locks, as if guarding decades-old secrets. At the center stood a massive wardrobe, darkened by time, and beside it, a pair of chairs with faded velvet upholstery, one of them leaning slightly, as if tired of standing upright. Under one of the windows stretched a wide sill, spacious as a bench, perfect for settling in with a book and some cushions. On the sill lay a yellowed notebook, its edges frayed, and a few dried leaves, blown in through a crack in the frame. The floorboards creaked underfoot, but the sound was more welcoming than eerie, like the whisper of an old house glad to have visitors. The attic breathed history — not the dreary kind of abandonment, but a warm, almost magical aura, as if waiting for someone to unravel its mysteries.
Jannik stepped forward, his movements so effortless that Carlos couldn’t help but linger on him with his gaze. He walked to the wardrobe in the corner, as if he knew exactly what he’d find, and opened the creaky door, releasing a whiff of dust and aged wood. Inside, on narrow shelves, dozens of vinyl records were neatly lined up, despite a thin layer of dust. Jannik ran his finger along the spines, choosing, and pulled out one with a cover in warm brown and golden tones. Carlos stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. The cover bore the title: «Harvest Moon» by Neil Young. Jannik blew the dust off the sleeve and grinned, turning to Carlos.
— This is worth a listen. — he said, holding the record as if offering a rare trophy. — Not your reggaeton, but it’s got soul.
Carlos raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest.
— Soul? — he teased, though curiosity seeped into his voice. — Alright, guru, got the gear to play it?
Jannik didn’t answer right away. He set the record on the wardrobe and headed to a corner of the attic, where something bulky sat under a faded sheet. With one swift motion, he yanked the fabric off, stirring up a cloud of dust, and Carlos coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. Beneath the sheet was a vintage record player — sturdy, with a wooden body, its corners slightly worn, and metal knobs lightly tarnished by time. Jannik crouched down, checking the wires, his fingers moving with a deftness that suggested he’d done this before.
— You’re kidding me. — Carlos laughed, stepping closer. His voice trembled with a mix of surprise and delight. — What, this was just sitting here? And it works?
Jannik looked up, his smile sly with a hint of mischief.
— Let’s find out. — he said, standing and brushing off his hands. — If we don’t start a fire, it’ll be fun.
Carlos snorted, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity. Jannik slid the record player toward an outlet — old, with a cracked frame, but, to their surprise, functional — and plugged it in. He took the record, blew off the dust, and placed it on the turntable. The needle settled with a soft crackle, and a moment later, the attic filled with warm guitar chords and Neil Young’s raspy voice. The music was unhurried, its gentle flows wrapping around the room, weaving into the creak of the floorboards and the rustle of leaves outside. Carlos nodded along instinctively, feeling the melody settle somewhere deep in his chest, like an old friend he hadn’t seen in years.
— Not bad. — he admitted, leaning against the wardrobe. — Didn’t think old vinyl could hit like that.
Jannik, arms crossed, shot him a mocking glance.
— What, you thought music was just bass thumping from your speaker? — Jannik said, tilting his head slightly. — There’s cooler stuff out there, champ.
Carlos rolled his eyes but grinned, feeling their playful banter breathe life into the attic. He turned to a pile of boxes by the wall, deciding it was time to dig deeper. Dust settled on his t-shirt, but he didn’t notice, untying the string on one of the cardboard cartons. Inside was an old globe, its surface covered with faded maps, continents blurring into pale patches. Carlos spun it, trying to find Spain, but the paint had worn off, leaving only vague outlines. He set the globe on the floor, and his gaze fell on a small jewelry box stuffed with trinkets. Among brooches and beads lay a pair of glasses in a thin metal frame, with round lenses. Unable to resist, he put them on, sliding them down to the tip of his nose, and turned to Jannik, who was flipping through a book, leaning against the wardrobe.
— So, how do I look? — Carlos asked, squinting theatrically. — Professor Alcaraz, right?
Jannik looked up and chuckled softly, setting the book aside. He stepped closer, eyeing Carlos with mock seriousness, and lightly tapped his fingers on the wardrobe.
— Professor? — he echoed, raising an eyebrow. — More like the student dozing at the back of the class.
Carlos burst out laughing, pulling off the glasses and tossing them back into the box. His laughter mingled with the music, and the attic, despite its dust and clutter, felt like the coziest place in the world. He crouched down, rummaging through the box, and pulled out a stack of old books. Their covers were worn, but the titles — «The Magus» by John Fowles, «On the Road» by Kerouac — commanded respect. He handed one to Jannik, who took it and began flipping through, settling onto the windowsill. Sunlight fell on his auburn hair, setting it aglow, and Carlos caught himself thinking that Jannik looked like he’d always belonged to this house — not as a guest, but as its soul.
— Ever read this stuff? — Carlos asked, nodding at the book.
Jannik nodded, his eyes still on the pages. His fingers glided over the paper, and he replied, tilting his head slightly:
— Yeah. It’s like a journey, just without the suitcase.
Carlos smiled, feeling their conversation flow as easily as a river on a hot day. He reached for another box, tied with twine, and undid the knot. Inside was a brass candlestick streaked with wax drippings, a couple of yellowed postcards featuring views of Barcelona, and a tiny copper key, its lock likely long gone. Carlos turned the key in his fingers, feeling its cool weight, and glanced at Jannik, who was now flipping through the book, one leg tucked up on the windowsill.
— Hey. — he called. — What’s this for? Secret chest or just some drawer?
Jannik hopped off the windowsill and came over, taking the key. He turned it over, smirking.
— Chest, no question. — he said. — Come on, admit it, you’re dying to find some treasure.
Carlos snorted, crossing his arms.
— Treasure? With my prize money, I’m my own treasure. — he said, but grinned. — Fine, if we find a chest, you’re opening it first.
Jannik laughed, handing the key back, his laughter so infectious that Carlos couldn’t help but laugh in return. Jannik went back to the wardrobe, but instead of another record, he pulled out an old radio receiver, coated in dust, with a bulky antenna slightly bent. He turned it over in his hands, testing the knobs, and said with a smirk:
— You’re not topping this. If it works, I’m the champ.
Carlos raised his eyebrows, stepping closer. The radio looked like it hadn’t been touched since the last century, and Carlos felt a slight thrill, like he was on the verge of uncovering something unexpected.
— A radio? — he asked, grinning. — If it plays your Neil Young, I’m done.
Jannik snorted, setting the receiver on the wardrobe. He twisted a knob, but instead of music, there was only a crackle, like distant thunder. Jannik shrugged and said:
— Alright, call it a draw for now. But I’ll find something else.
Carlos returned to the boxes, determined to uncover something that would outshine the radio. He pulled out a stack of sheet music notebooks, filled with neat handwriting. Titles like «Waltz for Dusk» and «Etude for Silence» sounded like they were composed in moments when the world held its breath. He flipped through the pages, feeling the roughness of the paper under his fingers, and imagined someone playing these melodies on a piano that no longer stood in the house. The attic’s scent — dust, wood, a faint sweetness of old paper — heightened the feeling, as if he’d glimpsed a life long gone. He handed one notebook to Jannik, who was now sitting on the windowsill, flipping through a book.
— What, someone here was a musician? — Carlos asked, nodding at the sheet music.
Jannik took the notebook and skimmed the lines.
— Looks like it. — he said, closing it. — Probably played for themselves when the garden outside grew dark.
Carlos nodded, feeling Jannik’s words breathe life into the house, turning it into a place brimming with stories. They kept rummaging, trading jabs and anecdotes. Carlos shared how he once nearly missed a press conference, mixing up hotels, and how his coach nearly exploded while Carlos raced across the city. Jannik, in turn, told of finding an old fountain in the garden, hidden behind rose thickets, its cracked basin still bearing traces of water, as if someone had once dreamed of bringing it back to life. His story was brief but vivid, and Carlos couldn’t help but picture the fountain, cloaked in ivy, like a piece of the past the house kept for itself.
Jannik, standing by the wardrobe, pulled out a record — «Rumours» by Fleetwood Mac — and showed it to Carlos, raising his eyebrows.
— This’ll hit the spot. — he said, smirking. — It’s got drive. Wanna take a chance?
Carlos, sitting on the floor, squinted.
— Take a chance? — he echoed, crossing his arms. — Go for it, but if it’s a snooze, you owe me pizza.
Jannik laughed and walked over to the record player. Moments later, the attic filled with rhythmic guitars and Stevie Nicks’ raw, vibrant voice, dancing through the air alongside the dust motes. Carlos couldn’t help but tap his fingers on a box, admitting to himself that Jannik had nailed it again. The music wove into the creak of the floorboards, the rustle of leaves outside, and the attic felt alive, as if it were savoring the moment. A gentle warmth bloomed in Carlos’s chest — not from the sunlight, but from how easy and free he felt, like the attic was a sanctuary where he didn’t have to be a star, just himself.
— Alright, this is fire. — he said, nodding. — But I’m still gonna find something cooler.
Jannik snorted, settling onto the windowsill and pulling one leg up.
— Cooler? — he echoed, squinting. — All you’re collecting so far is dust, champ.
Carlos burst out laughing, tossing a crumpled piece of paper he’d found in a box. It sailed past, grazing a stack of books, and Jannik dodged it nimbly, raising his hands in mock surrender. Their laughter blended with the music, and the attic seemed to come alive, soaking up their energy. Carlos turned back to the boxes, pulling out an old leather diary tied with a thin ribbon. He opened it, but the handwriting was tiny and faded, as if the letters were dissolving into the paper. A faint whiff of ink, still detectable, hit his nose, and Carlos inhaled deeply, as if trying to catch an echo of someone’s thoughts. He handed the diary to Jannik, who was flipping through a book on the windowsill.
— What’s this, some kind of code? — Carlos asked, nodding at the diary.
Jannik took it, opened it, and smiled. His fingers brushed the cover with a gentle caution, as if handling something fragile.
— Not a code. — he said. — Someone was jotting down their days — weather, the garden, thoughts.
Carlos nodded, placing the diary back in the box. He wanted to ask more, but Jannik had already stood and moved to a cluttered shelf piled with boxes. He pulled out one labeled «Miscellaneous» and opened it with the same ease he’d used to find records. Inside were wooden chess pieces, carved with intricate detail, and a sketchbook. Jannik showed Carlos a drawing — a charcoal sketch of a garden with an arch overgrown with roses. The lines were soft yet precise, and Carlos could picture someone sitting here, gazing out the window as the sun sank behind the trees.
— Check this out. — Jannik said, smirking. — Your garden, just without the ivy.
Carlos stepped closer, studying the sketch. He ran his finger over the paper, feeling its texture, and sensed the house drawing nearer, as if the drawing were a thread tying him to its past.
— Cool. — he said, nodding. — But if I find a sketch of a tennis court, you’re still buying me that pizza.
Jannik laughed, handing back the sketchbook.
— Pizza? — he echoed. — Fine, but I’m picking the toppings, and you’ll suffer through anchovies.
Carlos snorted, turning back to the boxes. Hours slipped by unnoticed. The sunlight grew richer, bathing the room in warm orange hues, and the dust motes in the air sparkled like flecks of gold. The music still pouring from the record player created a sense of being in another world, where time flowed more slowly. Carlos unearthed letters tied with twine and trinkets like a glass paperweight with a tiny landscape trapped inside. Jannik commented on each find, his humor making every little thing — be it an old coin or a yellowed postcard — feel intriguing. Carlos caught himself savoring this ease, this lack of pressure, so rare in his life. Here, in the attic, he could laugh, tease, and just be, without thinking about the next match or headlines.
As the light from the windows dimmed and the room slipped into soft twilight, Jannik straightened, closing the sketchbook. He looked at Carlos, his light eyes seeming deeper in the half-dark.
— Time’s up. — he said, placing the sketchbook on the windowsill. He brushed off his hands, his sweater swaying slightly.
Carlos, sitting on the floor amid the boxes, looked up. His t-shirt was dusted with grime, his hair sticking out, but he felt happy. It was a new kind of feeling — not victory, not adrenaline, but a quiet joy from this day, from the conversations, from the music still echoing in his mind. He stood, brushing himself off, and glanced at Jannik with a hint of surprise.
— Already? — he asked, a note of disappointment creeping into his voice. — I thought we’d keep digging.
Jannik smiled — softly, with a trace of something unspoken. He moved toward the staircase, his steps as smooth as ever.
— Time flies. — he said, descending. — But there’s still tons up here. Not everything in one go.
Carlos followed him down to the living room. The sun had set, and the house was wrapped in dusk. Jannik paused at the door, turning to Carlos. His silhouette, lit by the last rays, seemed almost weightless, yet his presence was warm, like the entire day had been.
— You coming back? — Carlos asked, opening the door. His voice was light, but it carried a thread of hope, tinged with a slight awkwardness — he wasn’t used to wanting another meeting so openly.
Jannik looked at him, his lips curving into a mischievous smile. He slipped his hands into his pockets and tilted his head.
— Maybe. — he said, stepping over the threshold. — Don’t get bored, champ.
He raised a hand in a farewell gesture and vanished beyond the gate, leaving only the creak of rusty hinges. Carlos stood on the doorstep, gazing at the path where the shadows of trees melted into the twilight. A spark of curiosity, mixed with a quiet thrill, glowed in his chest — he wanted that «maybe» to become a «definitely», and the feeling was new, almost startling in its simplicity. He closed the door, sensing the house breathing around him, and thought that tomorrow might bring another day like this — full of dust, music, and conversations he didn’t want to end.