Archive of Our Own

“Almost all the time, you tell yourself you're loving somebody when you're just using them. 

This only looks like love.” 

It's not a bad night - Novak could say that he's having a great, great time, actually. 

They’re in a hotel room in Belgrade - Carlos arrived just yesterday. Once again he asked to come and Novak simply said “Yes. Come”. Now, he watches Carlos downing one tequila after another, pretending to be used to that kind of thing - strong liquors, last-minute flights - but his winning unscrupulousness is just a facade. It may well belong to the tennis player Carlos, defending a final on the court, not to the boy Carlos, feeling naked and dressing up in small talk to mask his own nervousness.  

Novak is sitting across from him, a gin and tonic in one hand and his legs crossed, one swinging on top of the other. He lets the boy chirp on and on about whatever goes through his mind, without interrupting even once. He’s listening to him with only half of his mind - with the other half, he’s already imagining the moans he will draw from that mouth that now moves non-stop when, before long, they move into the darkness of the bedroom down the hallway. 

It’s just a matter of time - and a few more tequilas. Then, Carlos will stand up and walk to Novak without him asking  - no need to, never was, - the look on his face speaking more than a thousand words. 

The thought makes Novak tense but calm, controlled but ready - just like the hungry cat, flicking its tail, waiting to get his cream. The boy has never played hard to get, after all. 

All things considered, there is no reason for the night to go differently than expected. 

And, for the first part of it, Novak is proven right. 

Two hours later. 

Carlos finally collapses on Novak’s body, letting out a long, contented sigh. Novak gently pushes him back, rolling him on the mattress by his side. He slips an arm under Carlos’ shoulders and the boy willingly rests the nape of his neck, slightly damp with sweat, in the crook of Novak’s elbow. 

They don't speak - in the dark, Novak listens to Carlos’ soft panting slowly calming down. When Carlos tilts his head to the side to look at him, Novak feels the arteries in the boy’s neck throbbing against his skin. He gets the impression that Carlos’ heart beats at a different rhythm from his own. Close but distinct - like two parallel tracks that never cross. 

Novak is feeling drained but fulfilled. Once again, sex between Carlos and him came as simple and natural as ever. An intense muscular exercise, somehow precise and aimed - not dissimilar to a tennis match, after all. 

Every time it takes very little for Novak to turn Carlos on - then, he just has to let the boy do his thing, let Carlos take from him what is right, what he wants. Novak’s fine with that - more than fine. He has nothing to fear from Carlos, he doesn't take any risks with him - in fact, Carlos could never take away more from Novak than Novak himself is willing to give. 

His heart is safe with the boy. 

"Tired, champ? Thought you were more resilient than that.” 

Novak pinches Carlos’ cheek playfully before reaching out to his side of the bed and turn on the bedside lamp. An orange glow, filtering through the lampshade screen, spreads throughout the room. Novak turns back to Carlos: the boy is holding a forearm over his eyes, to protect himself from the sudden light. His breathing is almost back to normal now - his bare chest rises and falls way less quickly than before.

"What do you mean ‘more resilient’?” Carlos says, sniggering under his arm. “Aren’t you satisfied?” 

“Yes, I am,” Novak says. “I am very much.”

“See? I didn't do badly, after all.” Carlos drops his arm, a smug smile spreading all over his face. “Give me an hour at most and I’ll be ready to start all over again, be warned.”

Novak bursts out laughing. He lets his head fall backward on the pillow, exposing his throat that vibrates with amusement towards the ceiling. 

"Good God,” he cries, running one hand overs his eyes. “I was just kidding. I knew I shouldn't provoke you or you would take me seriously. But I really think I'm too old to start over, chico.”

"You're not too old. Actually, you don't look old at all, Nole,” Carlos protests, shifting a little against Novak’s side. 

"Just because I don't look old it doesn't mean that I’m not,” Novak says, and winks at him. "You, on the other hand, are a true force of nature, Carlitos. Aren't you tired from the flight?" 

Carlos shrugs. “No, I was just nervous because it took a damn hour to get on that damn plane," he growls. “Even though it was only an hour late, I couldn't wait to see you, you know."

Novak doesn’t say anything. He lazily lets his eyes flutter close. He’s not only very tired - he also feels the sudden urge to escape the fixed, innocent gaze of Carlos’ big puppy eyes that look at him from below, full of expectations that Novak doesn't quite know how to meet. 

The boy does look just like a puppy, right now -  waiting for recognition from his owner for behaving well; for doing exactly what he was told to do. And he did - magnificently well, too. Yes, Novak must admit: Carlitos is damn good, off court as well. Otherwise, Novak himself would not be feeling like even the last drop of energy had been sucked out of his body, right now.  

The boy is a natural, but sometimes… - sometimes it’s just too much for Novak to bear. 

It’s not the sex, of course. That’s the simplest thing to deal with. It’s… everything else. 

That look, in the first place. The naked look on Carlitos' face that makes Novak's insides twist with desire when they are in bed and Carlos begs Novak to take him, is the same one that, outside of the bed, shocks Novak deeply, because it pokes out the soft part that Novak still has somewhere inside himself - hidden under layers of disappointments and regrets accumulated over the years, but there nonetheless.  

The part that he ignores daily, that at times he detests - the part that reminds him how similar his younger self was to Carlitos. Sometimes Novak seems to see that part - his own part - reflected in the trusting and defenseless look on the boy’s face after love, when both of them are enveloped in the sweet, placid limbo between pleasure and recovery from fatigue. That’s generally the moment when the soul is mostly inclined to open up and pour itself out, but, no matter how insistently Carlos may prod at it, that part of Novak is destined to remain inaccessible to him, by Novak's precise intention and will.

Because you're not him.

It’s not the boy’s fault, of course. 

Novak feels guilty, every now and then. Just a little, though - it’s not a feeling he’s accustomed to, after all. 

Novak opens his eyes, feeling that Carlos is still watching him. 

He is. The boy’s eyelashes are long and thick - almost unbearable to look at. Novak doesn’t remember Rafa having those so beautiful, at Carlos’ age, but he did have the same adoring look. It just… It just was not meant for Novak, back then - like everything else. 

“Tell me something about your week,” Novak says suddenly. His own thoughts are taking a dangerous turn, and he’s not sure if it’s to distract Carlos or himself. “I hope you had a good one, at least.”

"Hmm," Carlos mumbles, and shrugs. “Sort of. Juanki made me jog for miles every morning, spend hours in the gym after that, and eventually he had me hit with him and David alternately. I suspect that every time I’m planning to come and see you, even if I don't tell him openly, he finds out somehow and tries to wear me out more than he usually does. He’s gifted with telepathy, perhaps.”

“Or you do nothing to hide your joy, perhaps,” Novak says. “Juanki is very sensitive when it comes to your mood and emotions, you know. You can’t hide anything from him.”

Carlos falls into a strange silence at those words. He turns on his side and curls up almost in a fetal position against Novak, rubbing his temple against his shoulder. 

Something seems to have changed imperceptibly but profoundly in him, all at once. His eyebrows are now a little furrowed, almost drawing a continuous line above his eyes, and a bitter grimace stiffens his lips - very unusual for a mouth that’s always so ready to break into the most thunderous laughter as well as into an incessant river of words in his musical mother tongue (and just as ready for kisses, and moans - as Novak as the privilege of knowing very well).

But now, without his usual smile and with those clouds darkening his gaze, he looks different. He looks like an adult and disenchanted Carlos, looks like (Novak shudders) someone who desperately reminds Novak of the current version of himself. Once again, it just feels like looking at himself in a mirror - wonderful and terrible, two sides of the same thing, the nightmare and the dream. 

Novak frowns, chasing away the strange feeling. 

Seeing myself in you? Could that be the first sign of madness, as they say? 

He sinks his gaze into Carlos’, searching for an answer - he lets himself be sucked in as he tries to read the boy’s mind. But, for once, Carlitos remains impervious to him.

"What's the matter, chico?” 

Carlos still doesn’t say a thing. His gaze slowly wanders along the edge of Novak's face, haloed by the glow of the lampshade, sliding downwards until it goes out of focus - until he’s staring off into space.

"Nada," he whispers — just the briefest tap of the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth. 

“Mmh, you don’t fool me, boy.” Novak gently touches Carlos’ shoulder with his own, encouragingly. “Come on. I have never seen that look on your face. What’s wrong? What you thinking about? You can tell me.” 

Carlos swallows loudly - Novak sees the boy’s throat twitch and automatically reaches up to scratch the back of Carlos’ neck, the hair slightly flattened by the pillow, in reassurance. 

“Well, I was thinking..." Carlos starts, hesitantly, then stops again. 

Novak's touch seems to distract him, but it does not cheer him up: his eyes become even darker and - when Novak lifts his chin up with two fingers to meet his gaze - almost watery. 

Suddenly Novak realizes, horrified, that the boy is struggling to hold back his tears and an astonished gasp escapes his lips. 

“Carlos?!”

Carlos blinks quickly and looks away from him, freeing himself from Novak’s grasp. He suddenly pretends to be interested in the invisible threads on the sheets that cover their bodies from the waist down and carefully avoids his gaze. 

Novak lets his hand fall on his own stomach, his fingers helplessly clutching the sheets. 

"Tell me what you're thinking, Carlos, please. Maybe I can make you feel better.” 

Novak’s tone is no more teasing now. Instead, he sounds deeply concerned. 

He is, concerned - as he looks at Carlos’ trembling mouth, waiting spasmodically for him to speak. Meanwhile, all the hairs on Novak’s body are standing up with anticipation, all the alarm bells already ringing wildly inside him.  

Something is going on there - and it’s definitely nothing good. But all Novak can do is wait. He waits - he’s good at that, he knows that waiting is an essential part of the game of tennis as well as that of life. It is while waiting that he can prepare his best defense - the deadly return to serve, the unexpected winning backhand down the line. 

“It's probably all bullshit, I feel silly even bringing this up…” Carlos murmurs, his glassy gaze still wandering into the distance.

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Just spit it out.”

Carlos takes a deep, shaky breath and finally gives in.

“It’s about something I heard about you.” The kid still sounds reluctantly speaking. 

Novak snorts, torn between exasperation and cynical amusement. "Oh, well. People fucking say all kind of things about me all the time. Nothing new.” 

“But this time it’s about me too, someway.”

“Oh, yeah?” Novak instinctively tenses, frowns. “What do you mean? What did you hear?” 

Carlos moves his head a little to lock eyes with Novak. 

Then he drops the bomb. 

“That you’re just killing time with me. That you are actually in love with Rafa, that it will always and only be Rafa for you. That you hang out with me because you can’t be with him. Nole… is that true?”

Crack.

...

Novak can't believe that a night that started so well could come to such a frightening end.

Oh. 

Oh, well. 

Fuck my life.

Crack.

Novak hears something breaking in the distance - far away, inside himself. The sounds seems to come from across the Milky Way, and yet he can hear it right there, in his ear - booming softly like a chime echoing in his head and then slowly fading, like a wisp of smoke dissipating in the air. It leaves him with a sudden agitation, the urgent need to get up and get away from where he is, from the boy.

So he does. 

Novak sits up, throwing his legs off the bed. He gropes under it for his underwear. He can't find it - he finds his pajama pants instead, and puts them on before jumping up, agile as a feline. He starts walking in circles aimlessly around the bed, the thud of his footsteps almost completely muffled by the soft carpet. He doesn't look towards the bed, he doesn't look at Carlos, but he knows that Carlos is still looking at him, baffled and confused, probably waiting for an answer, an answer that Novak is not ready to give him.

Crack. 

He knows that Carlos could not hear it, the sound of his mask abruptly and unpredictably shattering - or maybe that was his heart, breaking down again? - but the boy certainly couldn’t fail to notice his inexplicable jitteriness. 

This time Novak was unable to control himself. Yes, he smelled something fishy in the air before Carlos spoke, but he certainly wasn’t expecting a thorough annihilation like that on the way. Not Rafa's name - Rafa’s name on Carlos' lips. That feels like a goddamn nightmare. 

The only thing worse than that is hearing Roger's name on Rafa's lips, and that’s saying something. 

"Novak, are… are you okay?”

Yes. No. I’m not. I’m not okay. 

Novak stops in his tracks. He slowly turns his head towards Carlos, feeling a little numb - as if he had temporarily forgotten that Carlos is there. When his gaze meets Carlos’, he notices that the boy looks very worried, sincerely worried about him, and Novak can only imagine how frightening it must be, for Carlitos, to see him like this, barely recognizable and so different from the usual swaggering, tough-skinned Novak that everybody knows  - except the ones who really know him.

"Sorry," says Novak - the word on his lips sounding weird every time he pronounce it; he is not the type of guy who usually apologizes. “It's nothing. I'm fine.”

“You sure? You don't seem fine,” Carlos insists. “Actually, you don’t seem yourself.”

He sits up in the middle of the bed - the bedsheets slide down his torso, gathering in his lap between his bent knees - and stares at Novak in dismay. Novak takes a few moments to look back at him, eyeing him up while the pounding of his own heart in his ears chases the galloping flow of the disconnected thoughts inside his head. 

He couldn’t tell if Carlos is handsome, honestly - maybe a woman would consider him so, but he personally has never really thought about it. What draws him to Carlos, what attracts even a man like him, goes beyond the boy’s off-the-cuff physical perfection. It is more about his irrepressible vital energy - Novak seems to feel life itself boiling under Carlos’ skin when he's close to him, challenging fatigue, stillness, illness, death. 

He can't think of Carlos with his eyes closed, motionless, or cold. He can’t imagine him getting old, or sick. He can't even picture him as an adult, honestly (and how guilty Novak used to feel about that, for wanting Carlos precisely because he’s so young, because youth is the greatest gift he can give, the only thing that Novak does not have himself and that he can generously take from Carlos, along with everything else the boy’s willing to lavish… That used to make Novak feel like there was something wrong with himself - but, if there ever is, he has now come to terms with it).   

"I didn't mean to upset you,” Carlos says, shaking Novak out of his reveries. He’s still looking at Novak with a silent question hovering in his wide-open pupils. “It's just… something I've heard. I know it sounds crazy and I-"

"Who? Who told you that?", Novak cuts him off - a little too briskly, perhaps. He strides towards the bed and stands there, staring down at the boy, the boy naked under the sheets, the boy looking at him more and more bewildered with each passing minute. 

"I don't understand,” Carlos says, frowning. “What does it matter who told me? What difference does it make to you?"

“Just answer, Carlos.”

Novak’s words come out a bit too curtly, again - Carlos looks hurt. He closes his mouth, lowers his gaze. His bottom lip begins to tremble slightly. 

If the boy breaks down and cries right now, Novak swears he will start screaming and smashing things around the room. And fuck self-control and fuck the fact that he should set an example - it's all nice words until you are up to your neck in it. It seems he just can’t stand seeing Carlos in tears. 

He quickly moves around the bed and sits on the edge, next to the boy. He gently grabs his chin and pulls his head up to lock eyes with him. He stares into Carlos' pupils, slowly shifting his gaze from one to the other, while he reflects feverishly about what to do now.

Damn him, - Novak thinks for the umpteenth time, and it won't be the last either, for sure - he really doesn't have time to waste with a kid and his paranoia, his delusions and his attachment, and especially with the responsibility to make him happy.  

He can only blame himself for getting entangled in this mess, by the way. Now, how can he tell the boy that he’s fucking right?

Novak feels a weight pressing down on his chest - the awareness that a choice is to be made. Lying, leaving everything as it is, or telling the truth - causing Carlos probably the most intense grief of his young life so far (and putting all of them in trouble, whispers a little selfish voice to his ear).  

Considering what's on the scales, how can this really be a choice? 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” Novak apologizes, for the second time tonight - a true record. “You’re right, it doesn’t really matter who told you. I’m just surprised that you… well, the you bought that so easily.”

Carlos’ expression changes almost instantly, his eyebrows moving upwards, his lips softly parting in surprise and cautious hope. 

“So you’re saying that it’s a lie, right? You’re not hanging out with me just because… I don’t know, I remind you of Rafa or something, are you?”

Novak knew that this moment would come, sooner or later - he was just hoping it would not come so soon. He does not consider himself a coward. On the other hand, you don't win so many Grand Slams without the ability to think quickly and avoid unforced errors - and, most of all, dissemble. Tennis is like life. 

It's now or never. Now or forever. Answer. Choose. 

But he feels he does not really have a choice.

Novak suddenly recalls the last time he met Juan Carlos. What he told Juanki then was true (although he doubts that Juan Carlos believed him): Novak doesn't want to hurt Carlos more than is strictly necessary. And even though he knows that it will be inevitable in the end, this is not the end yet, right? He still has some time to think about the least brutal way to sink the blow. Perhaps, the boy will get tired of him sooner - part of Novak hopes so; it would take a huge responsibility off his shoulders.

He could go for a lie not because he’s a coward, but because he’s not selfish enough to cause pain - but that would be too self-indulgent. There is more to that. 

Past experience teaches Novak that telling the truth leads to nothing good. 

He remembers when his true feeling for Rafa came out - everything changed between them from that moment on. Wouldn’t it have been better to keep quiet and enjoy at least a potentially untroubled friendship, instead of blurting it all out and losing him little by little every day? Wouldn’t it have been better to settle for something rather than being left with nothing?

Similarly, he has a feeling that he would get nothing by telling Carlos the truth, except to lose what little he has - and Carlos, who is far more than he deserves.

And that’s assuming this is Novak’s secret alone - which is not. Other people besides himself are involved. And if he doesn't give a fuck about doing something against Roger - because if Novak tells the truth, he must tell the whole truth, about Roger too - he would never intentionally do anything to harm Rafa. So, end of story. 

That’s why - for a bunch of reasons - telling the truth is not an option to Novak. 

Not even when Carlos is looking at him with his huge eyes and asking him to say it to his face. 

“It’s all a lie, isn’t it?” Carlos repeats, staring at Novak’s impenetrable face. “Please, Nole, say something.”

Well, he’s not really claiming the truth, anyway - Novak is sure of that now. Carlos doesn't really want to know the truth. In fact, when he says “it’s all a lie, isn’t it?”, he does not mean: is it true? He basically means: so I'm wrong, right? Tell me I’m wrong, please.

It is not a request for truth - it sounds more like a request for reassurance.

Novak is just taking his time. 

He knows that he shouldn't rely too much on the words themselves, especially when they're in a language in which neither he nor Carlos thinks or feels. How can they be sure that they really understand each other? Along the microscopic synaptic concatenations that lead from the brain to the tongue, emotional nuances are lost, intentions are imperceptibly modified, even if the meaning seems to remain the same. But it never does. Nuances are dangerous - they say everything, while words themselves say nothing.

And then, how can Novak trust such an ambiguous language in which you can say "I love you" to anyone, from a friend to a lover to a relative - without those stupid three little words changing at all in form when, of course, everything changes in substance and meaning? 

You know, kid, I could tell you that I used to love Rafa - maybe I still do - and that it's been a long-time dead end road for me. And I could tell you that I love you too. Why so? I’m not sure. Maybe because even if you’re pretty unique you’re still the closest thing to him that I have. However, it is not only that. I like you, but maybe not enough. Not like I love him. But, if I put it that way and just say the words, you could never know the difference. After all, the words are the same, aren’t they? I love him - and I love you. And they are both true, in their own way. 

That's right, the words are the same.

Then Novak hears his own voice say:

"Of course it's a lie. You don't remind me of Rafa, Carlitos. If you ask me, you're not even that similar. You wouldn't be at all, in fact, if it weren't for the language the two of you share."

The flash of joy that lights up Carlos' gaze at those words is so irresistible and sincere that it makes Novak feel suddenly very warm and soft inside, as if his very soul is melting. Just as suddenly, however, a desire to cry that he has not felt for a long time grabs him. At the exact moment he utters the last sentence, in fact, something deflates inside him like a pricked balloon and soon is gone, leaving a void which is immediately filled with something cold and motionless - an empty, quiet despair. 

"So," Carlos tries again, still hesitantly but with a hopeful smile trembling on his lips, "so you do really like me? I mean… seriously?”

“I do like you, Carlitos.” 

Well, it’s not like he’s lying, Novak tells himself.

It’s not like I’m lying. It’s not- Oh God. Oh shit. What is he…?

His thoughts fall flat when Carlos literally throws himself into his arms, his face flaring up with pure joy. Carlos puts his arms around him and holds him tight - and Novak automatically hugs him back, and when Carlos hugs him even tighter Novak feels he can’t breathe but he doesn’t pull back. When Carlos starts babbling something in Spanish to his ear, even though Novak knows the language, he doesn’t understand, because the noise of his own thoughts is so loud that it drowns out everything else. 

Novak coldly wonders what it would be like to leave the past behind, to embrace, through one last lie - I really want to get serious with you, Carlitos, trust me, let’s start from here, you and I - the possibility of a healthy, normal, not necessarily miserable future. But the simple thought - that Carlos, oh Lord, could really make him happy - makes Novak’s skin crawl. To think that he has to go through it all over again - take the risk, suffer, fall to pieces while trying to be happy again - breaks his spirit. 

Novak does not consider himself a coward but he does not like to make the same mistake twice - or more. 

He knows where his deepest roots lie - in that rotten ground which is called the past. There, the person he is now was born. He does what he does not because he likes to suffer, but because it’s more comforting to dwell in a kind of pain he already knows than to throw himself into an unknown which betrayed him once. Hoping for happiness and not being able to achieve it again could be enough to destroy him, this time. 

So he stays quiet in Carlos’ embrace and does not protest as Carlos is almost crushing him out of delight with his strong arms. 

“I knew that couldn’t be true”, Carlos whispers to Novak’s ear. He buries his face in the crook of his neck and slightly rubs his nose against Novak’s skin - which is enough to wring a long shiver up Novak's spine. “If there had been something between you and Rafa you would have told me, I would have known, everyone would have known, right?… That’s what I told Juanki when…”

Carlos stops suddenly. Novak feels the boy holding his breath against him, but it’s too late to eat his words. 

Here we go. Why am I not surprised, not one bit?

“So Juanki told you?” 

Carlos squirms with a sudden nervousness. Novak runs both his hands along the width of Carlos’ back and strokes him until he soothes away all the tension in his body and the boy settles back into his arms. 

“It’s okay, kid,” Novak whispers. “It’s okay. No worries.”

“I just don’t want you to get mad at him. Please.” 

The boy must love his coach, Novak realizes, even if he makes him curse and yell and worry every single day.    

But as for Juan Carlos, Novak would like to have him right here, right now, just to wrap his own fingers around his throat and squeeze. Tight. 

Fucking bastard. How dare you talk about things that don't concern you and that you know nothing about? 

“I’m not mad at him,” Novak says. “I know Juanki. He tends to get… carried away while talking, that’s it.”

“Yes, yes, exactly,” Carlos nods repeatedly against Novak’s neck - the relief in his voice almost palpable. “It’s not like he really said it, you know? He rather let it slip. He was very angry with me that day. We had a fight because... well, he says I always do things my way and he often feels unheard and frustrated. So I’m pretty sure he wasn’t very lucid at that moment when he said what he said…”

Novak’s brain, in the meantime, has resumed its frantic pondering. Novak needs to know what Juan Carlos knows exactly about the whole story - about him and Rafa and Roger. He needs to be prepared, to put up the fences before something like that comes out. 

“I don’t like people who talk bullshit, anyway,” he says. “What else did Juanki tell you? That I was going to marry Rafa and have kids with him?”

Novak himself is surprised by the cynicism in his own voice. It comes automatically now - Novak slips into his cynicism as he slips into his jogging short in the morning before breakfast. 

Carlos slowly straightens up and pulls away, sliding his hands down Novak’s arms, so that he can look him in the eye. Novak realizes it was a big mistake - it was much easier for him to lie while he didn’t have to stand the boy’s gaze. 

“I don’t know”, Carlos says, with a neutral tone. “You tell me.”

It takes Novak a few seconds - and a good look at the amused twinkle in Carlos’ eye - to realize that it's just a joke. The boy can’t know - oh no, he can’t - that he’s venturing into dangerous ground, that he’s come very close to the core of truth and now he’s just skimming around it. 

“Ah ah,” Novak snickers. “You’re just a little brat, you know? And you’re not funny.”

Carlos giggles. “Yes I am. You’re smiling.”

He looks down for a moment, biting his lip while thinking about something, then looks up at Novak again, more resolutely. 

“Why do you think Juanki said such a thing?”, he asks, a little frown on his face. “He never lied to me before.”

Didn’t he?  Did he ever tell you about his feelings for you in the first place? 

“He said that you and Rafa were close - very close - when you were both my age. That he remembers those times very well.”

Yeah. I remember those times very well too - and you, Juanki, you being already there, hanging around in the professional circuit and looking down on the younger ones… When Rafa showed up, the only thing that was left for you to do was to watch helplessly as your brief dominion over clay came to an end. As for me, you didn’t even want to acknowledge my existence at first, showing me disinterest mixed with suspicion - me, a stranger who came from a country that you would not even have been able to identify on a map... Ah, how can we forget those times? You never liked me. But even so, I liked you. 

"He also mumbled something about the fact that maybe you're living a... Wait, what did he call it?” Carlos pauses, racking his brain. “Oh, yes. A second youth. He said you’re living a second youth with me now, the one you couldn't fully enjoy with Rafa back then because, at some point, the two of you started to drift apart. I didn't quite understand what he meant, by the way.”

This time Novak has to make a huge effort not to freak out in front of Carlos. 

“A second youth? Seriously?” He bursts into an angry laugh that sounds like a growl. "I might resent that. Moreover, said by someone who is seven years older than me..."

“Yeah, I told you, I really can’t understand why he said those things.” Carlos shrugs. “Besides, Juanki knows very well what you and I… well, what we do. While you and Rafa… I mean, you two never did… you never…”

He stops, blushing furiously. 

“What.”

Novak looks cool and collected - but that single word, devoid of any inflection, hits the air like a whip. 

Carlos is confused again. 

“Well,” he starts slowly, punctuating every word to make sure he isn’t misunderstood. “You and Rafa never had this, did you? The kind of relationship that you and I have, I mean. You and him…never did… this…?”

Carlos spreads his arms in a wide gesture that encompasses the room around them, the bed with the wrinkled sheets on it, and themselves - with even less on. 

Mmh, the boy’s brave enough to ask, at least, Novak has to admit. And no, it's not the best time for him to notice and admire courage in Carlos, not while he's trying with all his heart to convince the boy - and convince himself - that no, of course he doesn't remind him of Rafa. How could he? 

"Of course we didn’t. Rafa and I. Ever.”

Is it worth saying that the fact that there never was anything physical between Rafa and him doesn't mean that he didn't want it to be – quite desperately too? 

At least you don't have to lie about that. It never happened what you wanted to. 

Now, Novak thinks, truth can be treacherous and ambiguous, sometimes. The truth is not just one, as one thinks, but it has so many faces that he could very well choose the one that suits him best and tell the story from that point of view - as Roger accused him of doing several times, by the way. 

Roger... Damn him. And damn you too, Rafa. Damn you both. You fucking ruined my life.  

Every time he uncovers that wound, the blood spills out again. He begins to fear that it will never stop bleeding. 

"I'm really glad to hear you say that,” Carlos says softly, bringing him back to reality. "I knew it was impossible, of course, and yet a small part of me..." A tremulous smile brushes the corners of his lips, but too light and hesitant to stay on them for long. "I was afraid you didn’t tell me everything. But now I’m sure you did.”

Sometimes - sometimes it’s just too much for Novak to bear. 

So he bends down, lightning fast, and presses his mouth to Carlos’ - to silence him, most of all - and pulls back before the boy can ask for more, leaving him dazed but temporarily distracted, which was what Novak was hoping for. 

“You’re a little freezing,” he says then, rubbing Carlos’ arms up and down to warm him up. “You’d better get back under the sheets, chico.”

“Only if you stay with me. Please?"

Jesus Christ, if he were not so naïve and helpless and tender, it would be easier for Novak to keep him at a distance, to treat him badly… and not to feel guilty about that or for telling or not telling the truth. 

Instead, Novak found that it’s very difficult for him to be the usual asshole with Carlos. He is, anyway, of course - he is an asshole to the extent that he lies to him and deceives him, lying to himself and deceiving himself in the first place - yet, when the boy makes a heartfelt request like that, Novak hardly ever manages to say no. 

That’s why Novak slides back to his side, while Carlos holds the sheets up so that Novak can slip his legs underneath them, and lets Carlos hold him, clinging to his body like a second skin. Carlos' thick hair ends up in Novak's face, mouth, eyes, and the heat of his body is so intense that he begins to sweat under his pajama pants. When Carlos starts drawing careless circles on Novak’s stomach with the tip of his fingers, the sweat turns into a long and slow shiver. Novak grabs Carlos’ hand in his own and holds it still against himself, to prevent Carlos from taking him where his self-control could dangerously fail. And he does need to be in control, for now. 

Carlos pouts, slightly disappointed. Novak notices it and smirks.

“Yeah, I know. But you said you would recover your energy in an hour, remember? And it’s only been thirty-five minutes now, sorry. Besides, I need to catch my breath too.” 

To distract Carlos, Novak interlaces his fingers with his. Carlos' palm is warm and dry against his skin, it goes up and down following the steady rhythm of his breathing. 

“Okay, okay,” Carlos sighs, shifting a little against him. "I'll wait."

Carlos is generally a very stubborn kid, but he acts much more reasonably with Novak than with anyone else, starting with Juan Carlos. 

Thinking to Juan Carlos, however, is not a good idea - it makes Novak mad again. Novak knows that Juanki's animosity towards him is sort of well-founded - after all, he’s the one who snatched the puppy from just under his nose. However, he really needs to have another good chat with him, face him hard-nosed, tell him: what the fuck were you thinking, telling the kid about me and Rafa, what the fuck did you have in mind? Besides, what the fuck do you know about me and Rafa in the first place? What the fuck does any of you know about us? Nothing, nothing at all. So you’d better shut up. 

“Your heart rate is speeding up,” Carlos murmurs, his voice a little muffled because his cheek is pressed against Novak’s chest. “I can hear it. What are you thinking about?”

“Juanki,” Novak admits, reluctantly. “And what he said.”  

“Can I ask you something, if you don't mind?", Carlos suddenly says. His breath on Novak’s skin makes him ticklish, but it doesn’t feel unpleasant at all.

“Mmh, you did nothing but ask me things all night,” Novak grins. “Spill the beans.” 

“How was your relationship with Rafa when you were both my age? Were you two so close as Juanki said, even though not in that sense? I'm really curious.”

Novak has to make a conscious effort to keep the rhythm of his breathing regular, so that Carlos does not notice the new wave of distress pouring over him at that question. He bends one knee under the sheets and clears his throat.

"Do we have to talk about Rafa right now?"

It's not really a topic he wants to broach, now or any other time. With Carlos or anybody else.

"Why not?"

"Because it's an old story, now. I don't know how many years have passed since then but probably you weren't even born yet.”

"Of course I was," Carlos retorts, shooting him a defiant glance from under an eyebrow. "When you were twenty-one I was already… uhm, five."

"Oh, man!" Novak lets out a groan, covering his face with one hand. “It’s really cruel of you to remind me that, you know?”

Carlos sneers. He’s gloating. He’s usually naive by nature, but he does love to tease, especially to tease Novak. Novak finds his barbs, his spontaneous malice, quite exciting, especially when they are in bed. 

“So?” Carlos’ voice brings Novak back to the moment. “Nole?”

Novak gives him a sidelong glance. “Mmh?”

Carlos rolls his eyes. “Come on. I'm asking you if you and Rafa were friends. It’s not a tough question.” 

Novak holds back a sigh. “You’re just not going to give up, are you?” 

Carlos smiles. 

Yeah, the boy is bloody headstrong. He’s been trained to never lose sight of his goal, no matter how many distractions or obstacles he may meet on his way. 

Well, what can I say? Good job, Juanki, all thanks to you. 

In fact, if in bed the boys belongs to Novak and Novak applies his own rules, out of bed it’s Juan Carlos who calls the shots - he’s always trying to shape Carlos in his own image and likeness. Juan Carlos usually doesn’t like to be teased - and doesn’t like Novak. So the boy is practically torn between them two - but he ends up doing whatever he wants all the same. 

"Hmm, so you want to know if Rafa and I were friends.” Novak takes a deep breath and bends an arm - the one that’s not wrapped around Carlos - behind his head, resting his nape on it. He looks up at the ceiling, while pondering on what he is allowed to reveal without any risk. “Well, not really. I mean… When we first met we knew very little about each other apart from our respective names and nationalities but we were both fine with that, because we were so busy working our way around the professional circuit that we didn’t have time to waste on pleasantries.” 

Novak pauses. Carlos is listening in religious silence - his breathing the only sound in the room. 

“Then one day Toni happened to be around while I was hitting some balls in practice. It was in Cincinnati, as I recall. I can’t tell exactly what caught his eye, back then, but he stayed until I was done, his face growing darker and darker with each passing minute. From then on I would often spot him at my training sessions, standing there in a corner with his arms folded, all broody and frowning under his sunglasses, and every time I raised my hand to say hello he replied with a grunt and a nod of his head, then turned around and walked away. At first I had no idea who he was and what he wanted with me." 

As he goes on, Novak founds that talking is surprisingly easier than he had believed. He can’t let his guard down, though. 

"One day I saw Toni walking with Rafa by the court where I was warming up, and I connected the dots. I should have guessed that they were related by how much they resembled each other, by the way. That day Rafa stopped to say hello and we exchanged our first few words outside a tennis court. At the time his English was terrible, and I only knew two words in Spanish, hola and cómo estás. I tried my best to pronounce them correctly, but I must have messed up terribly because I remember that Rafa cracked up, while Toni looked at me as if I were Satan himself."

Novak pauses again. Carlos is giggling uncontrollably. 

Novak does not tell him that then there was the first crack, in front of Rafa’s smile. He can’t tell Carlos all the truth, of course - some things need to be left out. Like the fact that, since then, he has fallen apart and never been able to put his pieces back together. 

Yes, the story he will tell Carlos does not require him to confess certain details. So he will keep things neutral and objective as much as possible, even though it’s tough for him.  

"Some time later we played our first match. Quarterfinals, Roland Garros 2006. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Obviously, I lost." Novak grins at the memory - strangely, it doesn't hurt. "For the first few years Rafa was really the bête noire of my career, I admit. Overtaking him was simply impossible. He annihilated my every shot as if it were a paper ball blown by the wind."

"And you weren't happy with that, I guess..."

"Not one bit. But our rivalry was a huge stimulus for me. Hadn't Rafa been there, I wouldn't have become the tennis player that you and everybody else know. He and also Roger, of course. Roger gave me a hard time too, on the court. You know, this isn’t just stuff to feed the media, I'm not just saying that, it's the truth.”

“Yeah, I know,” Carlos whispers. “I know the feeling, kind of... So you went from being distrustful strangers to rivals, rather than friends?"

“Well, no. Let’s say that I always liked to hang out with my opponents off the court, to understand what type of person was hiding behind the tennis player. Many say that I did it only to get to know people’s weak points and exploit them to my advantage, but it is not so. I was - I am - genuinely interested in people. Not to all people, of course, but to the majority of them… yes, I am."

“I know that too.” Carlos grimaces. “Who the hell says such a thing about you?"

Novak shots him a glance - and a sarcastic smile. “Your Juanki, to name one."

Carlos rolls his eyes. "Oh, Juanki..."

"This is to say," Novak resumes, staring back at the ceiling, "that I took the first step. Yeah, it was me. I tried to get to know Rafa better. We started hanging out together, we went to the pub sometimes, we had something to drink, you know? Sometimes we were with his team and my team, other times it was just the two of us. Rafa didn't have to be asked twice, he wasn’t one to brag, and that was something I appreciated about him from the start. Unlike..."

Novak stops and bites his lips. Carlos looks at him curiously.

“… unlike some others, I mean." He still remembers Roger's face every time he happened to cross paths with him - Holy God, that man still visits him in his nightmares. But he won’t tell Carlos that. Just as he won’t tell the boy about that night he asked Rafa to stay over and blew it for ever. "Little by little, we got to know each other and eventually appreciate each other's company. However, I don't think that was enough to call us friends. I don't know if you can really be friends with your rival, anyway…"

"But Roger and Rafa..." Carlos objects, frowning. “They are friends, aren't they?"

This is the moment when Novak must stop and take a big breath. A long and deep breath to calm his nerves and remind himself not to fuck things up again out of rage. Carlos doesn't know how much he's playing with fire - there's no one there to warn him, to tell him that the worst thing one can do is talk about Roger and Rafa in front of Novak. It's like waving a red cloth under an angry bull’s snub - everyone knows it, or should know. 

Novak forgives Carlos only because the kid knows nothing about their past, he’s completely in good conscience. 

"Roger and Rafa are an exception," Novak says curtly. The words cost him a lot, and he would probably not repeat them even under torture. "It's hard to be like them. To be able to keep tennis and life separate, I mean.”

“Hard but not impossible," Carlos objects, a stubborn sparkle in his eye, and Novak immediately guesses why.

"Are you thinking of you and Jannik?" 

Novak watches the boy blushing faintly and a smirk curls his lips. He can see right through him, most of the time. The one thing he never asked Carlos is how he feels about Jannik. He never did not because he’s annoyed or jealous - on the contrary, he’s sincerely intrigued by the relationship between the two kids - but because he doubts that Carlos himself has a clear idea about it. And now, he has the perfect excuse to distract him from their conversation.  

“So? Would you and Jannik call each other friends? Uh?” 

Novak is in no hurry to get an answer - he’s actually basking in Carlos’ embarrassment, enjoying this reversal of roles. He urges him to speak only to see him falter and stutter. But the boy takes him by surprise this time. 

"Yes," he says firmly - still blushing, but firmly. "At least on my part. I consider him my friend.”

“And what about him?”

“I have no idea. You should ask him.”

Novak peeks at Carlos: the boy’s gaze is clouded again by a distant thought which must torment him. Novak has his own idea about what is going on between the two kids, but he’d rather keep it to himself. He’s already seen this kind of thing happen once - right under his nose - but he does not dare making predictions. That’s why he doesn’t share his thoughts with Carlos - moreover, the boy's not ready to listen to them yet. And Novak doesn’t want to risk influencing him in any way.

"Well, it takes two to be friends," Novak says softly. "If one side does not feel the same, the relationship dies on the vine."

Tell me about it. 

“I can’t quite figure Jan out,” Carlos sighs. “He just doesn’t talk to me. If I ask him questions, he answers. If I make some jokes, he smiles. But that’s it. Maybe I should be more go-getting and make the first move, like you did with Rafa. It worked for you, after all, didn’t it? ”

Oh well, not exactly. 

Since Novak doesn’t reply, Carlos lifts his head and looks at him. Novak's hand’s still brushing his hair, moving slowly from his forehead to the nape of his neck; his fingers sink into the strands, disappearing at intervals between them. 

“You haven’t finished your story yet,” Carlos says, with a tentative smile. “Go on, please. What happened after you and Rafa started hanging out?"

Novak is starting to feel exhausted. “Well, nothing happened. Time passed and our priorities changed. Rafa and I were never as close again as we were in those early years. Our rivalry ate it all up. We faced each other more times than anyone else on the circuit. I swear, it had become almost a nightmare to see his name in the main draw, especially at the French Open. And yet, our matches were always the greatest, for me, regardless of the result. I didn't mind too much losing to him, you know? While I can't say the same about all my other opponents, honestly.”

Carlos looks greatly surprised at the raw, unexpected sincerity of Novak's words. "Seriously? Well, everyone knows how little you like to lose, Nole. You don't do anything to hide it. Why was Rafa different?"

"He was my biggest rival," Novak says simply. And that’s not the truest answer to the question, but the boy will have to make do with it, just like anyone else. "There are things that leave a mark on you, that create a bond, somehow, whether you like it or not. Rivalry in sports is one of them.”

"That's true," Carlos murmurs, and rests his head on Novak’s chest again. “Rivalry creates a bond."

From the brooding look on his face, Novak knows that he is thinking about Jannik again - and a part of himself would like to console the boy, tell him not to lose hope. Carlos isn't ready to admit his feelings for the ginger head  - just as Jannik isn't ready for him yet - but who knows what the future holds? 

Love takes time. After all, Novak has already seen it happen. 

The absurdity of the whole situation almost makes him laugh - blackly. How can his destiny be that he’s always the third wheel? Now as then. Wanting Rafa who wanted Roger. Being wanted by Carlos who’s actually made for Jannik - he just doesn't know it yet. Isn't life funny - tragically cruel - sometimes?

“But… wouldn’t you have wished for a closer bond with Rafa?” Carlos asks. “Or were you okay with being rivals and nothing else? In the end, did you resign yourself or did you fight for more?" 

Novak knows exactly why the boy is asking. He saw with his own eyes Jannik being polite but unquestionably distant while holding Carlos off - and Carlos being visibly frustrated by that. The first time Novak spotted them together it felt like a déjà vu. Carlos and Jannik - Novak and Rafa. The one who loves and the one who’s loved. They never happen to be the same person. 

"No, I was fine with that. I didn't want it to be different,” Novak says. “Rafa and I always tried to keep a good relationship off court and I can say that we succeeded in the end. That, that was enough for me."

Of course I would have wished for more. I would have given Rafa my whole life without thinking twice - and he could have had me wrapped around his little finger and made me do anything just to please him. Because he had me from the start, from that first “hello” he pronounced “ellò” and with that he tore my heart apart. He could have had me in the blink of an eye and kept me for life. If only he had wanted to. But the hero - your hero - didn’t want to. Didn’t want me. 

Novak hopes Carlos is still too distracted to pick up all the signs of agitation that Novak’s body is showing – the quickening heartbeat, the irregular breathing, the tightening of the muscles. Carlos doesn’t seem to notice, this time - or, if he does, he doesn’t mention it. 

"I've always sensed something strange when the two of you were around each other," Carlos says, staring into space. "Like something left unfinished. Besides, every time I tried to ask - Juanki, or Ferru, or even Rafa himself - they all changed the subject and talked about any other thing. As if there were some secret to protect. Do you understand now why Juanki's words scared me to death, at first?"

"There's no secret," Novak says flatly. “And you definitely made that all up in your head this time. You know what, you got quite an imagination, kid.” 

Carlos laughs, openly relieved. "You're right. Thinking about it, it didn't make any sense. I can’t imagine Rafa keeping a secret. He would let it slip at the first opportunity, don't you think?"

Lucky for him, Carlos is not looking Novak in the face, so Novak just needs to bite his tongue and avoid answering. 

"Rafa never told me this story, however," Carlos continues. "Yet I spent more time with him than with you, before his retirement. He never talked about you from a personal point of view - just about your game.”

The muscles contract in Novak’s jaw when he clenches his teeth. "Yes, I know he doesn't like to talk about me. I guess it’s because you just don’t like to talk too much about those who have beaten you more than once, who have seen you at your best but also at your worst, those who know the real you and not the one you would like them to know. That’s why he doesn’t like to talk about me. ” 

He rarely gets angry at Rafa, but this time he does. It’s never for long, anyway. 

In fact, under Carlos’ puzzled gaze Novak realizes that he got slightly carried away in the heat of the moment and immediately gets a grip on himself. 

"I hope I've finally satisfied your curiosity and now you'll stop asking me about your hero. I might get a little jealous, you know?", he jokes, but his smile is tense. 

"Well, it's interesting to know how a story begins, isn't it?" says Carlos, and shrugs. “It’s almost more interesting than knowing how it ends.” 

Novak's hand stops caressing him. He rests it on the back of Carlos’ neck and there it lies, while he once again gets deep in thought. 

Yes, the beginning is thrilling. But… the ending is also important. 

Sometimes the ending is everything, Novak thinks. The ending can be the worthy realization of a dream, or the anguished fall into the abyss of a nightmare. The ending defines whether all the efforts made up to that point have been worth it or not. It’s not about participating, it’s about winning. The ending matters. The closure. 

Novak thinks that he's still waiting for his closure. That if his sporting rivalry with Rafa on a tennis court ended in Paris in 2024, everything else is still hanging there, as if frozen and suspended in a timeless dimension, just like Carlos said. Having the boy there in his arms may not be enough. In fact, despite having him and the temptation of a second youth (as someone call it) at his fingertips, he may be still waiting to get something back from Rafa. Maybe what Rafa took away from him - maybe a shred of compassion? No, Novak's too proud for that. 

Or maybe he's just too fond of his own regrets to get rid of them, like the small hand of a child who won’t let go of the balloon’s string he’s holding.

"What are you thinking about?” Carlos asks. “You’re suddenly so quiet.”

What am I thinking about? Well, I’m thinking that we are often so blind to our idols that we don't see that they are nothing but human, as human as any of us, with all their flaws. But you, after all, you couldn't have chosen a better idol for yourself. Although Rafa has made mistakes too, he can still stand with his head held high, without shame and without fear. Rafa's the best example, for a guy like you. I would have chosen him as my idol as well, if I hadn't had to love him. 

"What are you thinking about?", Carlos repeats. He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at Novak, thoughtfully. 

"That I’m so sleepy," Novak says. It’s the first thing that comes to his mind but, as he says that, he finds that it is true - he does feel tired, his muscles heavy like tons of bricks on the mattress. "Talking so much has tired me out."

"Too bad," Carlos says - and there it is, again, the mischievous flash of his smile. “But if you’re done talking, I'm done waiting.”

So saying, he firmly glides his hand down Novak’s stomach, and Novak is caught on the hop - he gasps - when he feels it move downwards, slipping under the edge of the sheet, and reach the waistband of his pajamas pants. 

“I know you’re tired,” Carlos whispers. “Let me take care of you.”

Novak feels conflicted, but only for a few seconds. The easiest thing - and the most pleasant too - is to let go. Perhaps, that’s what he needs to ease the tension of the last hour.  

"Are you sure?" he asks anyway, turning his head on the pillow to look at Carlos.

Carlos shrugs. "Well, I'm twenty years younger than you. I can handle it.”

"Hey!" Novak protests, but he's actually snickering. “It’s not even fifteen, you naughty kid!"

Carlos smirks. He leans down and grazes Novak’s lips with his, ever so softly - and that’s not what Novak was expecting. He parts his own lips instinctively and arches his head on the pillow to kiss Carlos back properly. But the boy pulls back cackling and Novak lets out a cry half out of protest, half out of surprise. 

“You little-” 

Novak breaks off, jolting - while he was distracted, Carlos slid his hand under Novak’s waistband, and there it is… 

"Oh, whoa!” Novak cries out, and Carlos’ hand temporarily stops. “So… just like that, uh?”

“Yeah, just like that,” Carlos murmurs. “Do you mind?”

He waits for Novak’s eyes to lock with his own before resuming his care. And this time he doesn’t look away from Novak’s face as he slowly flexes his fingers into his pants.

“Absolutely not," Novak hisses. “Be my guest.”

He slumps on the pillow, a sluggish smile spreading on his face. He feels his head heavy and pounding with blood - the same between his legs. He leans back on his hands and looks at Carlos from under his eyelashes, through half-lowered eyelids. 

He’ll give the boy what the boy wants - he decides on the spot. By the way, that’s what he wants too. He just needs not to think about anyone whose name starts with R for at least the next hour. 

Much later. 

It’s nearly dawn now. Carlos is sleeping in Novak’s arms. He and Novak have reached an agreement on this - or, rather, the boy managed to squeeze out a promise from him after the first time they spent the night together after making love. That is, no more than once every three weeks and as long as they don’t make it a habit. 

Okay, rest easy, man - you won’t grow fond of me if we sleep together too often… 

That time the boy said it as a joke. Little did he know that was exactly what Novak was afraid of. 

Sometimes it’s just too much for Novak to bear.

Even now, his own thoughts are keeping him awake. Despite feeling drained and satisfied, in fact, he can’t sleep, his brain mulling over things in the dark.   

He is thinking that being wanted is the most beautiful feeling in the world. The best balm for a wounded pride. 

As he checks the boy sleeping on his stomach next to him, Novak wonders if lying to Carlos qualifies himself as a vile and despicable man. Or if the fact that he did it to spare Carlos more pain is enough to absolve himself. He also lied for himself, of course, not only for the boy’s sake. He’s using him, letting himself be used. Life can be quite complicated. 

Novak assumes that Carlos, clever as he is, has realized by now that what binds Novak to him is subtly but significantly different from what binds him to Novak. Nevertheless, at his age, sex is still confused with love, and it is believed that both are immutable and eternal - and that we have every right to claim them for ourselves. 

Novak is sure that the truth would be devastating for Carlos. In fact, not only would he feel deceived by Novak, the man he thinks he’s in love with - or infatuated with or even, according to some (Juan Carlos), subjugated by. He would also feel disappointed in the man who has been his role model and that he has worshipped since ever, the man he blindly believes in - Rafa. Even if there never was a relationship - in the true sense of the word - between Novak and Rafa, Carlos would probably feel betrayed by both of them.

Novak rolls on his side, without stopping looking at Carlos. The boy sleeps with his lips open, and he’s so close that Novak feels his gentle breathing grazing his own skin. Novak has all the time to observe him in the first gray light coming through the window. Since he has known Carlos, Novak has often wondered what it would have been like if Rafa had been in Carlos’ place, if he had lived with Rafa, in their time, what he is living with Carlos now. 

Novak can’t tell, obviously - he can only speculate. He supposes that the young and naïve Novak of yesteryear could have just burst with joy. While the cynical and disenchanted man of today would only slap himself again and again until he wakes up from the dream - because it could never been anything other than that. A dream. 

Carlos moves in his sleep, grumbling something without waking up. Novak tugs at the blanket and drapes it around Carlos’ shoulders to make sure he’s keeping warm. 

Now he is thinking that being wanted is nice, but wanting is even more so, because it actively involves everything you got, down to the last fiber of your being. 

The same goes for love. 

For once, Novak would like love and lust not to be so far apart. He would like to know how to love in more than just one way - so that he could love both Carlos and Rafa. Above all, he would like to love without having to give up being loved. 

Instead, this is all he’s got: secrets and half-truths - and a huge, unbelievably twisted mess in between. 

What the hell. 

But well, that’s okay because it’s true, after all - and he just can't help it: 

“The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person.” 

End