the undone and the divine
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It’s not like him to doubt himself, always so sure of everything, everything so carefully measured – but Carlos is, as always, his exception. He thinks about a hot night in Paris just a month ago, after his team had all wandered off to their own rooms for the night and he was alone for the first time. If he would have wanted Carlos there, if he came – if he would want to offer himself raw and frayed and tender to someone who had stripped him threadbare.
Jannik can see his eyes so clearly, framed by long eyelashes. It’s beautiful. His hand twitches as he resists the urge to run a thumb on his cheekbone, under Carlos’ eye. He can smell his bodywash, fresh and citrussy; Carlos can probably smell the champagne on his breath. "I always want you here," he says.
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- Part 1 of the undone and the divine
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Novak Djokovic sits on one of the benches, watching one of the matches playing on the screen. Jannik glances at it to catch Grigor Dimitrov hit a stunning slice, and then his eyes flick back to Novak. He sits cross legged with his back ramrod straight, looking much like a statue – if Jannik didn’t see the rise and fall of his chest with his breaths, he’d assume he was a statue.
It is how it feels, though, to be in the presence of such a monolith, someone so far above that he feels unreachable, no matter how many times Jannik has met him and occasionally shared a training court with him. And now he is within arm’s distance, tangible and real in front of his eyes, and he still looks like if Jannik would reach out and touch him, he’d feel cool and smooth and perfect.
Series
- Part 2 of the undone and the divine