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His cheeks still flushed from alcohol and his temples throbbing, Jannik staggers down the long carpeted hallway of the hotel, his unsteady footsteps echoing in the silence of the deserted floor at this late hour. The Italian's fingers tremble slightly, clumsy, as if numb, as he frantically searches the pockets of his smooth, dark suit, lent to him for the evening, looking for his room key card. Jannik doesn't usually like alcohol. He can barely tolerate it, rarely drinks it, almost never. He doesn't like what it does to his body or his head. Jannik prefers to stay in control, but tonight he broke with his habits. Just once. Just for tonight.
After all, he won Wimbledon.
Wimbledon champion... Jannik Sinner. A simple kid from a small, remote village in Italy, on top of the world. Even now, he still can't believe it. Images of the match play over and over in his foggy mind: the grass, the balls, the crowd on its feet, his final cry, his fist raised, the almost warm embrace with his opponent, and finally the cup in his hands. A moment suspended in time, almost unreal, etched in his mind forever. So tonight, Jannik let himself be carried away. He accepted a first drink. Then another. Then another, until he stopped counting after the sixth. Each congratulation was accompanied by a toast. Each smile, by a glass. Jannik, carried away by a euphoria he could no longer control, accepted everything. At one point during the evening, Darren approached him, his gaze both tender and concerned. He had quietly whispered that he might regret it tomorrow. Jannik, his eyes shining and his cheeks already flushed, shrugged with a stifled laugh, raised his champagne glass in a slightly theatrical gesture, and drank it in one gulp, under the half-exasperated, half-resigned gaze of his coach. He knew Darren wouldn't insist. He also knew that tomorrow he would be able to sleep. That he wouldn't be training. That he had the right, perhaps for the first time in a long time, to do nothing. To just be a 23-year-old man who had just won the most prestigious tournament of his career.
Jannik grumbled under his breath as he dropped his pass, which slipped out of his hand with the grace of a bar of soap before rolling a few feet away. He growled in annoyance and chuckled a little despite himself as he lost his balance trying to pick it up, catching himself at the last second by grabbing the door handle. “Shit...” he whispers, still bent over. Darren was right, of course. He had told him once, maybe twice, to take a break, to put down the glass he was holding. But for once, Jannik had done as he pleased. Deep down, he knew Darren was right, but he would never admit it. Especially not to Darren.
It takes him several more long minutes of clumsy effort to slide the badge into the slot. His movements are slow and imprecise, dictated by a fatigue he didn't see coming. When he finally heard the click, he gently pushed the door open and entered the suite, taking care not to make any noise, as if he were entering someone else's home. He didn't even know if he was there. Maybe he had come. Maybe not. If he did, he must already be fast asleep. Or pretending to be. With him, you never know.
Jannik feels his way into the hallway, his eyes half closed, and kicks off his shoes with a clumsy movement. The loafers slide down the hallway, bumping against the opposite wall, but he doesn't care. He sighs deeply, almost relieved, pushing his Guggi shoes against the wall with his toes, as if punishing them. Then he sits down abruptly on the bench in the hallway and grabs one of his sore feet, massaging it immediately with his still-cold hands. A grimace distorts his face as he slowly moves his toes, one by one, all numb from being compressed for hours in those damn shoes that the brand forces him to wear.
An exasperated groan escapes him. Why can't he just come in sneakers? No one would dare criticize him for it. Not tonight, not after the day he's just had. He thinks briefly of Iga and the vertiginous heels she wore to the gala. Her ankles seemed on the verge of giving way with every step, and yet she smiled. He feels almost guilty complaining when she seems to be suffering far more than he is. A hint of amusement crossed his tired features. Perhaps she too dreamed of throwing her heels in the trash.
Jannik slowly shakes his head, then lets his foot fall back to the floor. Instinctively, Jannik glances distractedly at the entrance, his gaze sweeping over the pairs of shoes lined up along the wall. His heart skips a beat when he spots, almost hidden under the bench, a pair of Air Jordan 1s he knows by heart. The laces undone, the soles still slightly dusty, they contrast with the meticulous order of his own shoes, impeccably arranged like everything else around him.
A discreet smile appears on his lips. Carlos is here. Jannik wasn't sure. A selfish part of him had been desperately hoping since he left the gala that Carlos would be there, but he had prepared himself for silence, for an empty bed, for the loneliness he knows all too well. He would have understood if Carlos had preferred to stay with his family, to isolate himself with his thoughts, as Jannik himself had done so many times after a defeat.
Because Jannik knows. He now knows what it feels like to lose a Grand Slam final. He knows that dull pain, that emptiness that sets in once the spotlights are turned off, when silence descends and you are nothing more than the player who wasn't good enough. And for Carlos, it was his first time. His first lost Grand Slam final. And it was Jannik who deprived him of it. It was Jannik who ended the young Spaniard's impressive winning streak on the London grass. And ironically, it was Carlos who had ended Jannik's Grand Slam final winning streak, inflicting his first defeat in a final.
“At least we're even now,” Carlos whispered in his ear moments after the trophy presentation. His voice was soft, his tone almost mocking, but Jannik had picked up on the nuance, that slight tremor he would never have admitted to. Then, in a whisper, he added, “And you can count on me to steal your trophy at the US Open.”
Jannik had chuckled, unable to do otherwise, and pressed his lips against Carlos's in the empty showers of the locker room, still damp with sweat and champagne. He felt his heart beating faster, as it always did when Carlos was near him. Jannik was madly in love with Carlos, a deep, burning, passionate love; his first love. The first person who made Jannik realize that his life was not just about tennis. And there is probably only Carlos to whom Jannik would consider giving up his New York trophy, without regret. Provided, of course, that the Spaniard did not have to play for hours and fight for every point; even with a broken leg, Jannik would try to defend his title.
The young Italian moves cautiously around the room, as if walking on an invisible tightrope between intoxication and balance. He wants to make as little noise as possible, but the alcohol slows his movements, making them wider and more uncertain. He bumps violently into the corner of the desk, knocking over a few poorly stacked objects with a thud. A curse escapes him, but he doesn't even bother to bend down. He'll pick them up tomorrow when the room isn't spinning so fast.
He continues his laborious progress, stumbling over one of his sports bags left on the floor and only saving himself by grabbing hold of the armchair. A sigh escapes his lips, both funny and annoyed. If Carlos had fallen asleep, he had probably just woken him up. Well done, Jannik.
He finally reaches the bed, swaying slightly. There he discovers the familiar and reassuring silhouette of Carlos, wrapped in white sheets. The bedside lamp gently illuminates his face, casting soothing shadows on his cheekbones. He was lying on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other absentmindedly holding his phone. He was scrolling through Instagram posts, looking distracted. He wasn't asleep.
Jannik's heart sank. A strange mixture of relief and concern washed over him.
“Hey...” he whispered, his voice hesitant, almost a murmur.
Carlos looks up for only a few seconds, his dark eyes shining with an indecipherable gleam.
“You have a knack for explosive entrances, Sinner.”
The tone is cold, distant, and hits Jannik like a slap in the face. He frowns, taken aback. He doesn't understand. He thought everything was fine between them. In the locker room after the final, Carlos had hugged him so tightly that he had trouble breathing. He had whispered that he was proud of him, that he loved him, that he deserved the title. They had laughed, kissed each other long and hard, and touched each other with their fingertips like two lovers unable toleave each other. Carlos had even joked that he would steal the trophy from him at the US Open. And then... then Carlos added that he knew something even better than a trophy. Jannik didn't have time to understand or ask any questions. The Spaniard had already pushed him against the wall and knelt in front of him. Before Jannik could say anything, Carlos had pulled down his shorts and his delicate, burning mouth had found his cock. And Jannik had abandoned himself, spilling into his lover's mouth.
So why this coldness now? Why this distance?
He stands motionless for a moment, planted stupidly in the middle of the beast, his gaze locked on Carlos's. The Spaniard does not look away. He stares at him without blinking, his face unreadable, and this lack of reaction unsettles Jannik even more than if he had stood up and shouted. Before the Italian can even open his mouth, Carlos turns away with controlled slowness, rolls over in the sheets, and ostentatiously turns his back on him.
He sighs resignedly and begins to undress without haste, his movements clumsy from the alcohol that still numbs his limbs. He carelessly drops his shirt and pants where they land, not bothering to pick them up. That can wait until tomorrow. He then rummages vaguely through one of his sports bags lying upside down at the foot of the bed and finally slips on a pair of comfortable shorts, too big, too soft, a little worn. He can no longer stand anything stiff against his skin. The room is probably a mess; if a stranger walked in, they might think there had been a burglary, but Jannik is far too drunk to care.
The young Italian lets himself fall onto the bed with a sigh that almost sounds like a moan. The mattress immediately swallows him up, the cool sheets wrap around his bare legs, and the reassuring scent of Carlos hits him in the face. That scent of sun-warmed skin, that indefinable mixture of cut grass, sweet sweat, and neutral laundry detergent that he would recognize anywhere. The Spaniard doesn't move, and Jannik approaches slowly, almost tentatively, before cautiously wrapping an arm around his waist. Despite the alcohol still coursing through his veins, he remains lucid enough not to tighten his grip immediately, giving Carlos the space and the right to push him away if he didn't want the contact. But nothing happens. No movement, no rejection. So Jannik gently pulls him closer, guided by the simple, primitive need to feel his body against his own.
Carlos's warmth immediately radiates between them, soft and reassuring, and a slightly silly smile stretches across Jannik's lips as he plants a light kiss on his bare shoulder, on that warm, golden skin he knows by heart. He lets his mouth wander, placing slow, wet kisses on his shoulders, along his neck, until he buries his face against his neck, where he breathes harder, where he always feels safe.
“You smell alcohol, Jan,” Carlos growls, moving his head, instinctively raising his shoulder as if to push Jannik’s face away.
“Um, I know... I think I drank a little too much,” admits the Italian in that drawling, slightly too light tone that only emerges after a few drinks and which, he knows, has a knack for deeply annoying Carlos.
“And you didn't just drink,” the Spaniard retorted sharply. “The dancing was nice, I guess.”
Jannik's frown was immediate. He raised his head slightly, trying to catch Carlos's eye, but Carlos continued to stare at the wall opposite, looking too calm to be honestly serene. A second passes, then two... And then Jannik understands. He guesses, or rather, he guesses wrong, because it seems absurd to him. Carlos can't be throwing a jealous fit over a measly dance.
With Iga, no less.
He bites his lower lip to stifle a laugh. The urge to giggle is too strong, but he tries to control himself. In vain.
“And you're laughing about it too!”
“What? No, I...”
“Your mouth is still on my shoulder, I can feel you smiling, you idiot!” grumbles Carlos, still with his back to him.
The little nudge he gives him in the ribs is neither violent nor serious, but enough to make Jannik burst out laughing, despite his best efforts to hold it in. He laughs openly, unable to pretend any longer, his nose rubbing against Carlos's warm neck at the base of his hair. The familiar scent of his skin calms him a little, but he can't believe it.
Carlos. Jealous. Of a dance with Iga.
He expected anything tonight, except that.
“Don't tell me you're sulking over a two-minute dance I shared with Iga,” he murmured, laughing openly, his voice still tinged with surprise and affection.
With his arms still wrapped around Carlos, he slides his nose against his lover's warm neck, gently caressing his skin with his lips. Carlos barely moves, but his tone remains dry, almost childish in his annoyance.
"What? I don't like seeing you with someone else! And besides, you hate dancing... especially in public. You could have said no. You had a choice. ..."
“But...” he begins.
“No, don't try to contradict me, I know you can say no if you don't want to do it! You wanted to dance with her!”
A discreet laugh escapes Jannik. He slowly sucks on a corner of Carlos's tanned neck, leaving an invisible mark, a little possessive, a little mocking too.
"So if I understand correctly, you're seriously sulking because I, Jannik Sinner, gay since forever, who has never had the slightest adventure with a girl, danced for two minutes with Iga Swiatek?
The least straight girl on the circuit?"
Carlos growls with displeasure and Jannik's smile widens as he realizes he has just beaten Carlos at his own game. The image of Carlos, jealous of his dance with Iga, is both endearing and ridiculous, and so typical. Jannik feels his heart warm despite himself. Moments like this, however trivial, touch him deeply. He wouldn't trade Carlos for anything in the world.
“Are you really sulking because of a dance?” he whispers against his skin. “A silly choreography to a corny song, with a friend who's known me for years and who's much more likely to hit on your sister, if you had one, or even your mother, than me?”
Carlos remains silent for a moment, then mumbles, almost reluctantly
“Still, I don't like sharing you, I didn't want someone else dancing with you.”
Jannik smiles tenderly. He tightens his embrace around his waist a little, his fingers lazily curling around Carlos' warm stomach.
“Next year, ask to enter the women's tournament. That way, we can dance together at the gala, you in a dress and me in a tuxedo. It'll be a sensation!”
A sigh escapes Carlos' lips, but this time it's no longer one of annoyance. Jannik feels the tension slowly leave his lover's shoulders, his breathing calming. He even perceives a slight smile in the curve of his lips, almost imperceptible.
Jannik continues to sprinkle Carlos' golden skin with wet kisses, his lips slowly brushing every inch of his neck like a silent promise. He feels his lover's calm breath rise and fall against the mattress, and a barely concealed smile spreads across his lips. The idea crosses his mind without warning, soft and bright, like a bubble of air in the darkness of the room.
“Dance with me,” he whispers against Carlos's warm skin, his voice barely audible, melting into the intimacy of the night.
Carlos turns his head slightly, intrigued. His black hair sticks to his temple in places, and his brown eyes search for Jannik's in the darkness. An almost imperceptible frown creases his forehead.
“Excuse me?” he whispers.
Jannik raises his head, a spark of mischief shining in his eyes. His smile widens, almost childlike.
“Dance with me, Carlos.”
He doesn't give him time to protest. With a still slightly hesitant gesture, he sits up on the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. He staggers slightly, the alcohol still in his veins making him clumsy, then steadies himself with a small stifled laugh.
Carlos watches him, half amused, half skeptical, without moving, only glancing sideways and his arms still folded against his chest.
Jannik searches blindly through the messy room, rummages on a shelf, knocks over a packet of tissues in the process, and finally finds Carlos' speaker, plugged into the nightstand. He grabs his phone, taps away quickly with a guilty grin, and a few seconds later, the sunny first notes of Me Porto Bonito gently drift from the speaker. One of Carlos's favorite songs.
Carlos blinks, taken aback, then sits up on his elbows, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. His gaze, still heavy with fatigue, locks with Jannik's, and he detects that spark of mischief he knows all too well.
“Jan, you're going to wake up the whole hotel,” he grumbles, half-serious, half-annoyed, as he sees Jannik turn up the volume.
“So what?” Jannik replies with a light laugh, his cheeks still flushed from the alcohol. “People will understand. Come on! Dance with me!”
Without giving him time to protest further, he starts to move, awkwardly at first, his hips barely following the sensual rhythm of the song.
But as the seconds pass, his movements become more confident. His arms wave through the air, his feet glide lightly across the carpet, and his smile never leaves his face.
Carlos watches him,divided between amusement and resignation. It's not every day he gets to see such a spectacle: Jannik, completely uninhibited, dancing in his boxers in the middle of the hotel room, his red hair tousled, his eyes shining with intoxication and tenderness.
Sober, he would never have dared. Shyness would have taken over, nailing him to the floor, arms crossed and eyes averted. But now he is carried away by the euphoria of the evening and surely by the alcohol.
“Come on, Carlitos, come on!”
“You're impossible...” sighs the Spaniard, unable to hide the corner of his mouth that turns up despite himself.
Carlos doesn't resist for long. He finally gets up and joins Jannik in the center of the room, his eyelids still heavy with fatigue, but his lips already ready to smile. He doesn't even try to hide the hungry look he gives his lover's body, illuminated by the dim light of the room and the golden reflections cast by the bedside lamp.
When he reaches Jannik, he places a firm hand on his hip and slides behind him, instinctively following the curve of his back. Jannik's pelvis hits his, and a silent sigh escapes his throat. Carlos presses his chest against his back, his skin burning, alive, electrifying. Jannik's breath catches for a second, surprised by the sudden closeness, but he lets himself go, guided by the familiar warmth of Carlos against him. His hips slow down, matching the rhythm of the Spaniard behind him, and a shiver runs through him when he feels Carlos's warm chest against his bare back.
Carlos slides his hands along his waist, his fingers brushing the thin skin just above his waistband. He pulls him a little closer, until there is no space left between their two bodies. His hot breath brushes Jannik's ear as he whispers something incomprehensible in Spanish, the words melting into the music and the tension between them.
Carlos's hand slowly moves up Jannik's chest, discovering every inch of skin as if it were familiar territory he was rediscovering in the dim light. His other hand remains firmly on his hip, guiding their movements with deliberate, sensual slowness. Their hips move in perfect harmony, matching the spellbinding rhythm of the song. Heat spreads everywhere, from their skin to the slightest ripples in the air around them, and Jannik feels his heart racing and his body burning.
Jannik tilts his head back, resting it against Carlos's shoulder. Carlos immediately takes advantage of this to plant a wet kiss on the nape of his neck, then another, and another. His lips brush against his skin like a burning thread, tracing a path along his collarbone, his shoulder, before moving up to his jaw.
Carlos feels Jannik melt against him, docile and burning, and his smile widens as he moves his lips up along his jaw to his ear. He whispers, in a low, almost dirty tone:
“Ella sabe que está buenota y no la presumen”
Jannik moans softly, unable to finish the sentence for him, but his body responds unequivocally. His back arches slightly, pressing his buttocks against Carlos's harhips. The heat between them becomes suffocating.
Carlos slowly slides his hands over his lover's stomach, palms flat, tracing every taut line of his muscles.
“Déjame hacerte lo que amerite y te levite” he murmurs, his deep, warm voice vibrating against his skin.
“Carlos...” Jannik whispers, half exasperated, half pleading.
He lets a low laugh slip against his neck before adding, even more slowly, his mouth brushing Jannik's ear with each syllable:
“Si tú me lo pide', yo me porto bonito”
His teeth gently closed on the sensitive skin just below the lobe, and Jannik tensed, stifling a moan. He tried to turn around, to capture Carlos's mouth, but the Spaniard held him firmly against him with one hand.
“So, am I a better dance partner than Iga?” Carlos whispered, a predatory smile in his voice.
He continued, his lips lowered to his neck, his hips swaying slowly against him in a rhythm as obscene as it was precise:
“Le gustan lo′ trío' cuando está en la nota, Si el novio no sirve, de una lo bota”
Jannik closes his eyes, his breathing rapid and irregular. He can no longer think. He can no longer control himself. His entire body is focused on Carlos, on his hands, his voice, his movements.
“Quiere chingar, pero no quiere na fijo, ey”
Jannik moaned softly. His hips were pressed against Carlos's body, and he could feel how hard Carlos was. The last notes of the music echoed through the room, but Carlos didn't let go. He remained glued to him, his hands firmly anchored to his hips, his lips brushing the back of his ear.
“Me gusta verte así”
Carlos lets his tongue brush against his earlobe, and the shiver that runs through him makes Jannik's knees buckle slightly. Carlos holds him with a strong arm, pulling him closer, and whispers another string of raw words:
“Te voy a hacer gritar mi nombre, mi amor,” Carlos murmurs. “Y esta vez, no habrá música que cubra tu voz...”
Spanish... Jannik loves hearing Carlos speak in his native language. He loves the natural confidence that shines through in his voice when he speaks Spanish, the way he rolls his “r”s, caresses the syllables, transforming every sentence into something intimate and disturbing.
Jannik can't resist any longer. He turns sharply, cups Carlos' face in his hands, and kisses him with almost animalistic force. Their noses collide in a hurried, disorderly kiss that betrays Jannik's impatience. He feels Carlos' fingers clench on his hips, his nails digging slightly into his pale skin, eliciting a moan from him.
“Mi amor...” Carlos whispers between kisses, his voice hoarse, already damaged by tension.
Jannik pulls them both back, their feet tangling in an awkward dance, until Carlos's knees hit the mattress. Without giving him time to recover, Jannik gently pushes him back, sending him tumbling onto the bed with a gasp of surprise and excitement.
Carlos laughs softly, a deep, muffled sound, as he pulls Jannik toward him. Their bodies crash into each other, burning, and Carlos slides a hand behind the younger man's neck, forcing him to lean closer to his ear. His lips touched the soft skin just below his jawline, and in a hot breath, he whispered the Italian's name.
Jannik shivered, his eyes closed, his breath short. He moaned softly, his skin burning as he felt the excitement rising in his stomach, a fire he could no longer control.
“Carlos, please...”
Jannik's voice is low, already caught up in an almost painful tension. He trembles a little, from the tips of his lips to the pit of his stomach. Carlos says nothing. He waits. He wants to hear him. And Jannik knows it.
“Dime lo que quieres, Jannik.”
A new shiver runs through him. The Spaniard's hand slowly slides down his spine, lingering at the small of his back, brushing the top of his buttocks. Jannik arches his back involuntarily, a
gasping sigh escaping his half-open mouth.
His hips, now uncontrollable, rub against Carlos's in a movement as desperate as it is silent, his skin stretched toward him, drawn to the body he desires so much.
“I... I beg you, Carlos, I...” he stammers, his cheeks flushed with desire and embarrassment.
But Carlos smiles mischievously. The Spaniard is in a teasing mood, and if he wants to hear Jannik beg, he'll get what he wants.
“Hum, no, en español, mi amor.”
The whisper is an order, sweet and cruel. Carlos' fingers slowly move up his waist, brushing against every nerve on the surface of his skin. Jannik closes his eyes as his chest rises and falls too quickly.
“Carlos...”
But the Spaniard insists, gently, relentlessly:
“Dime lo que quieres, Jannik.”
Jannik moans and a victorious smile forms on Carlos's face as he realizes that Jannik is about to give in, his hips rubbing tirelessly against Carlos's cock.
“Por favor... fóllame... por favor...”
Jannik blushes as he utters the words, but no sooner has he spoken than Carlos leans toward him, his hot breath against his neck, and whispers, “Eso es, mi vida...” before slowly tipping him onto the bed.
Their bodies sought each other out, collided, and entwined in a rhythm that nothing could control, and their moans, gasps, and muffled sighs broke the silence of the room. The bed creaked softly under their disorderly movements, but they didn't care. All that existed now was their skin, their breath, and the electric tension between them. Jannik's body suddenly tenses as Carlos brings him to orgasm. He moans, his voice hoarse and strangled, and it is Carlos's name that springs from his lips in an almost plaintive whisper. A final jolt runs through him, and he releases himself against Carlos's stomach.
He collapses onto the mattress, his muscles still trembling, his eyelids half closed. His hair is tousled, stuck to his damp forehead, his chest rising and falling with his ragged breathing. Carlos remains above him for a moment, his gaze fixed on his face as if afraid of missing the slightest expression, the slightest shiver. Then he leans down and kisses him tenderly on the tip of his nose, then on his forehead, before gently and carefully withdrawing and letting himself fall onto the crumpled sheets with a long sigh of relief.
Jannick instinctively slips close to him, as if by reflex, as if out of necessity. His head finds refuge in the crook of Carlos's shoulder, his hand resting on his still-warm stomach.
“Okay?” Carlos whispers, his fingers sliding through Jannik's hair with an almost shy tenderness.
Jannik nods against him, his lips brushing his skin.
“It was perfect,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
They remain there, looking at each other, saying nothing for a few seconds, their gazes locked like two threads stretched between them. Jannik smiles, tired, fulfilled, and places a slow, chaste kiss on Carlos's mouth.
And then, in a whisper almost drowned out by the still irregular beating of their hearts, their cheeks still pink from the effort, Carlos murmurs against Jannik's temple, his lips stretched into a mischievous smile:
“And to think that the whole world sees you as a cold, calm, disciplined champion... When in reality, the Wimbledon winner is a little slut ready to begings his boyfriend in Spanish to fuck him...”
Jannik blushes immediately, but doesn't look away. He slowly raises an eyebrow and mimics offense, an amused gleam in his eyes, before gently tapping Carlos's stomach with the flat of his hand.
“You idiot,” he whispers, giggling, his voice still hoarse with pleasure.
Their eyes meet and they burst out laughing in unison, their bodies still pressed against each other, still trembling from the moment they had just shared.
“And then, on second thought...” Carlos continues, his eyes sparkling with feigned innocence, “I think it was a very good thing that I didn't dance with you tonight.”
Jannik looks up, curious. “Why not?”
Carlos straightens up slightly, wraps an arm possessively around Jannik's waist and pulls him close, until their noses touch.
“But did you see how sexy you looked in that suit? I would never have been able to resist jumping on you in front of everyone.”
Jannik looks scandalized, his lips parted in an indignant pout, feigning shock.
“Oh! So I'm the slut, but you would jump on me in public, in front of hundreds of people? Who's the pervert here?”
Carlos laughs softly, his warm breath against Jannik's still burning skin, and his forehead presses tenderly against his. Their noses touch, their breath mingles.
“Um, no, actually, forget it,” he whispers, a smile on his lips. "I don't want anyone but me to see you naked. You're mine."
Jannik closed his eyes for a second. He didn't answer right away, too busy trying to control the stupid smile that was rising to his lips, despite himself. He just breathed slowly, feeling the warmth of Carlos's body against his own, his palm resting possessively on his lower back. Then he shivers imperceptibly as Carlos' lips begin to nibble at his skin, gently at first, almost innocently, then with calculated slowness, until they close around the fragile base of his throat, where his skin is palest and most sensitive.
“Carlos, what are you doing?” he whispered, his voice hesitant, a little too high-pitched to be completely indifferent.
Damn it, this man was making him lose all control.
“Um... nothing,” Carlos replied with feigned innocence, his mouth still busy sprinkling his neck with small, barely restrained bites.
But Jannik isn't fooled. He knows exactly what Carlos is doing, he can already feel the imprint of his lips beginning to mark his skin.
“Carlos...” he moans, half pleading, half reproachful. “I've got a bunch of photo shoots coming up... Don't you dare leave a mark!”
Carlos doesn't answer right away. He moves down slightly, kissing him just below the jaw, where the blood rushes quickly. Then he moves back up to Jannik's ear and whispers:
“And I'm not allowed to let people know that you're mine?”
“Not like that!” exclaims Jannik, blushing to his ears.
Carlos rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, then gently pulls Jannik closer to him, his nose sliding against his temple.
“You’re exaggerating, it would only be a tiny mark. No one looks at your neck as closely as I do, anyway.”
“That’s no reason!” retorts Jannik, but his voice lacks conviction as Carlos’s warm breath against his skin distracts him.
A gentle silence descends between them, their skin pressed together, their breath mingling. Then Carlos slides his lips close to his ear and, in a tender whisper, says:
“I love you, Jannik Sinner.”
Jannik freezes for a second, surprised by the declaration, his heart skipping a beat. He'll never get used to it.
“En... español por favor,” he murmurs timidly, his gaze shifting away, unable to sustain the intensity of Carlos's gaze.
Carlos smiles tenderly, and without looking away, he brings his lips close to Jannik's cheek, whispering against his skin:
“Te amo, Jannik Sinner.”
And Jannik's heart races, violently, almost painfully, as if it were about to explode in his chest. He doesn't know how to contain it, so he snuggles a little closer to Carlos, his arms around his waist, and in a barely audible whisper:
“Te amo, Carlitos... tanto.”
Carlos responds with a tighter embrace, as if he wants to envelop him entirely, his arms surrounding him with that firm gentleness that was uniquely his. He buries his face in Jannik's still-damp hair, slowly inhaling the mingled scent of sweat, heat, and shower gel. His chest barely rises as he breathes softly, his lips brushing the Italian's hairline.
“Come on, you need to sleep, champ... Enjoy your victory, because in September, I'm going to steal the US Open from you.”
Jannik lets out a tired little laugh, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and the alcohol slowly evaporating from his body.
“For that, you'll have to carry me off the court on a stretcher. I won't give up.”
Carlos grunts with amusement.
“Um... deal. In that case, I can be your sexy nurse. With the little white coat and all that that entails...”
Jannik looks up at him with a half-smile, a little mocking, a little tender. The image of Carlos in a nurse's outfit flashes through his mind and he shakes his head nervously, better not to think about it. Unable to come up with a retort, he simply snuggles closer, his cheek finding refuge against Carlos's warm chest. Silence descends, soothing. They can still faintly hear the noise of the
city filtering through the thick windows, but it seems so distant, as if belonging to another world.
Jannik closes his eyes, his breathing slowing gently, and he seeks a more comfortable position, wedging his leg between Carlos's, his fingers gently clutching the sheet.
Carlos doesn't move. He watches him for a long time, his gaze fixed on his face, relaxed with fatigue, his eyelashes still damp, his cheekbones flushed with exertion and the remnants of pleasure. He mechanically traces slow, regular circles on his bare hip, following the contours of his skin as if redrawing from memory the boundaries of this body he loves so much, that he knows by heart, but that he never tires of exploring.
“Sleep well, campeón,” he murmurs against his forehead, his lips barely touching his skin, in a tender whisper.
Jannik doesn't answer, already slipping into sleep, but a slight tremor against him betrays that he has heard. Carlos tightens his embrace a little more and closes his eyes in turn, his heart light.