Work Text:
enrosadira
A reddish glow seen near sunset or sunrise on the summits of mountains.
⛰︎
The plan, in hindsight, had Jannik’s signature all over it: meticulous, pragmatic, and designed to account for every possible variable. Carlos had agreed to it instantly, the same way he’d agree to everything Jannik proposed, a testament to his trust.
It was hatched over a series of pixelated, late-night video calls in the final, grueling months of the season. They were both running on fumes, the physical toll of the tour visible in Carlos’s slumped shoulders and the faint shadows beneath Jannik’s eyes. Carlos was in a sterile hotel room in Tokyo, the city lights a distant blur beyond his window, while Jannik was a time zone away, his own room in Beijing shrouded in darkness save for the cool, blue glow of his phone.
“It’s just impossible,” Carlos had whined, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. “The moment I land in Milan or Munich, someone will see. A fan, a journalist… it will be everywhere in an hour.”
“So you don’t land in Milan or Munich,” Jannik’s voice had replied, calm and steady through the tiny speaker. Even with the grainy connection, Carlos could see the focused set of his eyebrows, a familiar sight that always brought a quiet sense of reassurance. “You fly to Innsbruck. It’s a smaller airport, and no one will be looking for you there.”
And so the plan unfolded. Carlos was to take the 6 PM flight from Madrid to Innsbruck a couple of days after the season ended, not a private jet but a commercial one, booked in economy to draw even less attention.
From Innsbruck, he would rent the specific car Jannik had bookmarked for him, a dark grey Audi A4, painfully sensible and utterly forgettable. Carlos even had a fleeting thought about how utterly un-Carlos-like it was. Then, he would drive two and a half hours south, across the Brenner Pass, and deep into the heart of the Dolomites.
“Text me when you cross the border,” Jannik had instructed, his focus softening for just a moment. “And be careful. The roads are narrow.”
Now, gripping the leather steering wheel, Carlos understood what he meant. The car’s headlights cut a sharp tunnel through an otherwise profound darkness. The road snaked upwards in a series of tight hairpin turns, a black ribbon of asphalt clinging to the side of mountains so vast they felt less like a landscape and more like the edge of the world, a place where he could finally disappear.
In the faint moonlight, he could just make out their iconic, jagged peaks, pale stone giants against a star-littered sky. He was exhausted, his body humming with the dregs of adrenaline from the Finals.
But with every kilometer that brought him closer to Sexten, a quiet thrum of anticipation was stirring in his chest, chasing away the fatigue.
He passed through quiet, sleeping villages, clusters of traditional South Tyrolean houses with their dark wooden balconies and steeply pitched roofs, all shut tight against the cold. The crunch of the tires on the occasional patch of gravel was the only sound.
The air, when he cracked the window, was crisp and thin, smelling sharply of pine and snow, a refreshing contrast to the stale air of planes and hotel rooms.
When he finally followed the GPS onto Jannik’s street, he killed the headlights, rolling the last few meters in near silence. He parked where instructed, across from a house built of warm-toned pine and grey stone, its silhouette blending seamlessly into the mountain behind it, as if it had always been there.
For a moment, he just sat there, the engine ticking as it cooled. The silence was absolute, a heavy blanket broken only by the faint whisper of wind through the larch trees. It was a world away from the roar of the crowd, the squeak of shoes on hard court, the constant, pressing noise of their life.
He pulled his phone out to text, his fingers clumsy in the cold, but he never got the chance. A sudden surge of warmth spread through him as the front door of the house opened, spilling a warm, golden rectangle of light onto the gravel driveway. And there he was.
Jannik stood framed in the doorway, wearing a soft, worn-out grey sweater and simple black sweatpants. His face, illuminated by the warm light from inside, was soft in a way that just a few people had the privilege to experience.
He didn’t smile, not at first. He just looked, his gaze taking Carlos in, as if confirming he was real, solid, and finally here.
Carlos’s breath hitched, a sudden catch in his throat. He got out of the car, the cold air hitting his face like a splash of water, and every ache in his body seemed to dissolve. He didn’t run, but his steps were quick, closing the distance between them.
Jannik met him at the edge of the driveway. The air filled with the unspoken weight of months apart, everything they hadn't been able to say over the phone. Carlos reached up, his hand cupping the side of Jannik’s neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin just below his ear. Jannik’s eyes fluttered shut at the contact, a faint tremor running through him.
Then, Jannik’s hands were on his waist, pulling him forward, kicking the door shut behind them and plunging them into the warm, golden light of the entryway. It smelled of woodsmoke and coffee.
The kiss was everything. It was the exhaustion of the last months, the frustration of stolen moments, the deep longing of being thousands of miles apart. It was firm and searching, a collision of lips and shared, relieved breaths.
Carlos’s fingers tangled in Jannik’s messy red hair, pulling him closer, while Jannik’s arms closed around him like steel, lifting him slightly as he backed him against the closed door. It tasted of the minty toothpaste Jannik had used. It felt like home.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, foreheads resting against each other.
“Hello,” Jannik whispered, his voice quiet and warm.
“Hi,” Carlos breathed back, his own voice shaky.
He leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time, softer.
Carlos drifted up from the deepest, most restorative sleep he’d had in months, surfacing slowly, layer by layer, as if rising through clear water.
The first thing he registered was the silence. It wasn’t the sterile, dead quiet of a hotel room, but a profound, living stillness that seemed to hum with the cold.
The air on his face was crisp and thin, smelling faintly of white musk and frost, but the rest of his body was cocooned in an incredible warmth, anchored by the heavy weight of a duvet and the solid, living heat of another person pressed along the entire length of his back.
He shifted, a contented murmur escaping his lips, and his legs tangled with another pair, longer, leaner, warmer. An arm was draped loosely, over his waist, a hand resting gently on his hip, tracing small circles under the soft cotton of his sleep shirt, sending shivers up his spine.
He could feel the slow, steady rhythm of Jannik’s breath against his shoulder blades. He let his eyes drift open.
The light was soft, indirect, a pearly grey filtering into the room. It wasn’t the harsh, intrusive light of a city, but a gentle, alpine glow that seemed to soften every edge.
The room itself was simple, spartan almost, with walls of pale, unvarnished wood that made it feel like being inside a warm, protective shell. A large, frameless window took up most of one wall, and through it, a breathtaking panorama was slowly revealing itself.
The jagged, pale peaks of the Dolomites, their stone faces brushed with the softest hints of pink and rose in the dawn light. The Alpenglühen, or Enrosadira, as Jannik had once called it.
Carlos turned his head on the pillow, the cotton cool against his cheek, and his breath caught.
Jannik was already awake, propped up on one elbow, simply watching him. His hair was a sleep-tousled mess of copper, catching the pale light like spun gold, and his face was stripped of all the tension and focus it held on court. He looked younger, and peaceful, and so incredibly soft it made Carlos’s chest ache.
A small, lazy smile touched Jannik’s lips as their eyes met, a smile that was just for him. “Buongiorno,” he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through the pillow.
A slow, warm smile spread across Carlos’s own face, feeling lazy and real. “Hola.” He shifted, turning fully to face him, the duvet pooling around their waists. He felt beautifully, completely bare with him. “You were watching me?”
Jannik’s thumb came up to gently stroke his cheek, his touch feather-light and impossibly tender. “A little.” His gaze was open, his brown-green eyes calm as a forest after a storm. “You slept well?”
“So good,” Carlos breathed, leaning into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Más que bien.” He closed the small space between them and pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to Jannik’s lips.
It was nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses from the night before. This was slow, and tender, a simple affirmation. You’re here. We’re here. It tasted of sleep and warmth and safety.
Jannik hummed in contentment, kissing him back before resting his forehead against Carlos’s. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Please.”
The floor was shockingly cold when they finally slipped out of the warm cocoon of the bed.
Jannik, seemingly immune, padded out of the room in just his sweatpants, while Carlos shivered dramatically until Jannik reappeared a moment later, holding out a thick, dark green plaid jumper. Carlos pulled it on gratefully. It smelled faintly and unmistakably of Jannik: clean laundry, a subtle, spicy cologne, and something uniquely him, warm and grounding.
He followed Jannik into the kitchen, which was clearly the heart of the house. It was warm and functional, with a large wooden table and well-used counters. Sunlight was now streaming through the windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Jannik moved with a quiet familiarity around the room, filling a silver moka pot with water from the tap and spooning dark coffee grounds into the filter.
“Is this… is this the house you grew up in?” Carlos asked softly, his voice still thick with sleep.
He paused, his back to him. “No. My parents live a few minutes away. This was my grandparents’ place. My grandpa built most of it.” He ran a hand over the worn wooden countertop. “I keep it… for this. For quiet.”
Carlos came up behind him then, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his cheek against Jannik's warm, solid back. He felt the muscles there shift as Jannik worked.
“It’s good to see you like this,” he murmured into the fabric of Jannik's shirt.
Jannik’s hands stilled for a second, and he leaned back into the embrace, a soft sigh escaping him. “Like what?”
“Just… here,” Carlos said, tightening his hold. “Not in a hotel. Not on a court. Just… home, relaxed.”
Jannik’s expression softened. He didn’t answer right away, but as he placed the pot on the stove, he turned in Carlos’s arms, his hands coming up to cup Carlos’s face.
He searched his eyes for a moment before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his temple. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his meaning clear. Home with me.
A few minutes later, the moka pot began to hiss and gurgle, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of strong coffee. Jannik poured the dark liquid into two simple ceramic mugs, adding a teaspoon of sugar to one and handing it to Carlos. Their fingers brushed, and the warmth of the mug seeped into his cold hands.
“Here,” Jannik said, his voice still soft. He opened a bread box on the counter and pulled out a few slices of rye bread and a jar of what looked like homemade jam. “My dad’s apricot jam. It’s the best.”
They took their mugs and plates to the large wooden table that sat in front of another huge window. The morning sun was climbing higher now, setting the pale, jagged peaks of the Sexten Sundial ablaze with golden light. The view was so immense, so overwhelmingly beautiful, it almost didn’t look real.
Carlos took a sip of his coffee and then a bite of the bread. It was dense and flavorful, with a chewy crust, and the jam was sweet and tangy. He hummed in appreciation.
“This is amazing,” he said around the mouthful. “Your father is a genius.”
Jannik just smiled, a real, unguarded smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “He is.” He watched Carlos eat for a moment longer before taking a bite of his own.
They ate in a comfortable, easy silence, their ankles tangled underneath the table, the only sounds the scrape of knives on the bread spreading the jam and the soft clinking of their mugs on the wooden table.
It was the most peaceful breakfast Carlos had eaten all year probably. There was no schedule, no discussion of practice times or media obligations. There was just the two of them, the mountains, and the slow, quiet start to a day that belonged entirely to them.
“Tell me something you used to do here,” Carlos said quietly, breaking the silence. “When you were a kid.”
Jannik looked out the window, a distant look in his eyes. “See that trail?” He pointed with his chin towards a faint line winding up one of the smaller mountains opposite them. “My brother and I, we used to race to the top. Every summer. The loser had to do the winner’s chores for a week.”
“Who won?” Carlos asked, leaning forward, captivated.
A ghost of a smirk touched Jannik’s lips. “He did, the first few years. Then I started skiing.” He looked back at Carlos, his eyes full of a soft, warm light. “I got faster.”
Carlos reached across the table, his hand covering Jannik’s. He laced their fingers together, feeling the familiar calluses on Jannik’s palm. “I like this,” he said simply. “Hearing about your life here.”
Jannik squeezed his hand, his thumb stroking over Carlos’s knuckles. “Me too,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I like sharing it with you.”
They stayed like that for a few more minutes, soaking in the quiet and the warmth of the sun through the glass. It felt precious, a moment suspended in time. Eventually, Jannik let out a soft sigh and squeezed his hand one last time before letting go.
“Come on,” he said, standing up and starting to gather their empty mugs. “Let’s clean up.”
Carlos followed him to the sink. It was a deep, old-fashioned basin. Jannik turned on the tap, and steam billowed up, warming the air. He began to wash, his movements efficient and practiced, while Carlos grabbed a clean, soft towel to dry.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, working in an easy, unspoken rhythm. The clink of ceramic, the rush of hot water, the soft swipe of the towel. It was the most mundane of tasks, yet Carlos felt a sense of peace settle in his chest.
It felt real, more real than any five-star hotel or fancy restaurant. It felt like a secret, shared life they were building in these small, quiet moments.
“We make a good team,” Carlos murmured, placing a clean, warm mug on the dish rack.
Jannik glanced at him, a sudsy hand pausing in the water. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. “We do.”
When the last plate was dried and put away, Jannik turned off the water and dried his hands on the towel hanging by the sink. “Want to go for a walk?” he asked, his voice calm, but with an undercurrent of eagerness that made Carlos’s heart quicken. “See the trail I told you about up close?”
Carlos’s face lit up, a wide, genuine grin that felt as bright as the sun outside. “Yes. Absolutely.”
They found their gear in a small, cool room by the back door that smelled of damp earth an old leather. It was a room of pure function, lined with hooks holding jackets of varying weights and a low bench over a row of well-worn hiking boots, scuffed and caked with mud.
Jannik looked at Carlos’s white Nike’s with an amused, affectionate shake of his head.
“These will not work,” he stated simply, no judgment in his voice, only fact. He rummaged in a large wooden crate and pulled out a pair of thick, grey wool socks. “Here. Put these on.”
Carlos sat on the bench and did as he was told, the wool soft and immediately warm against his skin. Jannik then handed him a heavy, dark blue, fleece-lined jacket and a beanie. As Carlos shrugged them on, it felt like being let into a private part of Jannik’s life.
He pulled on a pair of sturdy boots that were a half-size too big but insulated and wonderfully warm, lacing them up tightly.
He was fumbling with the stiff zipper on the jacket when Jannik’s hands came up to help. Carlos froze, his own hands falling away. Jannik’s movements were gentle, his brow furrowed in concentration and his tongue peeking out as he worked the metal tab.
His fingers, cool from the air in the room, brushed against the sensitive skin of Carlos’s neck, sending a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
He could see the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of Jannik’s nose, the startling, warm color of his eyes. He smelled the lingering scent of coffee and the clean, crisp smell of Jannik himself. The world narrowed to this tiny, intimate space between them.
With a final, soft zip, Jannik pulled the zipper all the way up to Carlos’s chin, his knuckles gently grazing his jaw. He didn’t pull away immediately, his hands resting for a moment on the collar of the jacket, effectively caging Carlos in the most tender way imaginable.
“Ready?” Jannik asked, his face so close Carlos could see his own reflection in the deep green of Jannik’s irises. His breath was a small, white puff in the cool air of the room.
Carlos couldn’t find his voice. He just nodded, his heart doing a slow, powerful roll in his chest, a feeling of being utterly cherished washing over him.
The moment they stepped outside, the world changed. The air was a physical presence, so sharp and cold and pure it made his eyes water. It scoured his lungs with every breath, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep and leaving him feeling vibrantly, shockingly awake.
The world was impossibly bright. The morning sun, now clear of the peaks, struck the valley with a brilliant, white-gold light, reflecting off the millions of tiny ice crystals on the grass and making the pale rock of the mountains gleam.
The silence was the other thing. It was immense, a ringing stillness that pressed in on them from all sides, broken only by the distant, lonely caw of a raven and the sharp crunch of their boots on the frosted gravel path.
Jannik instinctively reached for his hand. The motion was so natural, so unconscious, that it sent another wave of warmth through Carlos. Their gloved fingers laced together, a clumsy but welcome connection. Jannik’s grip was firm, steady, as he led them away from the house and towards the trailhead he’d pointed out earlier.
As they started up the gentle incline, Carlos, used to the explosive energy of a tennis court, found himself already breathing a little harder in the thin air. Jannik, however, moved with an easy, mountain-born grace, his steps even and unhurried.
“You are part mountain goat, I think,” Carlos puffed out, half-joking.
Jannik glanced back at him, a playful smirk on his lips. “You get used to the air.”
“I am used to air,” Carlos retorted with a grin. “This is… less air.”
He squeezed Jannik’s hand. “So, is this what you do? When you have a day off here? You just… walk up mountains?”
The smirk softened into a gentle smile. “Sometimes. Or I help my dad at the restaurant. Or I just sit on the porch and do nothing.” He paused, his expression turning more thoughtful. “It’s good to do nothing, sometimes.”
“I don’t know how,” Carlos admitted, shrugging. “Even when I rest, my mind is… loud. Thinking about the next practice, the next match. What I need to do better.”
Jannik stopped walking then, turning to face him fully on the narrow path. He tugged their joined hands, pulling Carlos a little closer. “My mind is also loud,” he said, his gaze serious and direct. “But here the mountains are louder. The silence is louder. It helps.”
Carlos looked at him, at the earnestness in his clear eyes, the way the bright sun caught the red tufts of hair peaking out the green beanie, the vast, silent peaks framing him.
He felt a surge of affection so powerful it was a physical ache in his chest. This was the Jannik few people got to see, not the relentless, focused competitor, but the quiet, thoughtful man who liked the quiet and the company of the mountains. And he was one of the few people allowed to see him like this.
“You help,” Carlos whispered, and before he could overthink it, he took a step forward, pressinghis lips to Jannik’s.
The kiss was soft and chaste, their lips cold but the feeling behind it intensely warm. Jannik’s other hand came up to cup his jaw, his thumb stroking his cheek, and he kissed him back, a slow, deep press that said more than words ever could. Their warm breaths mingled in a single white cloud in the cold air.
When they parted, they just looked at each other for a long moment, smiling. A small, private moment of their own, witnessed only by the mountains.
“Come on,” Jannik said softly, his voice a little rough. He gave Carlos’s hand a gentle tug and turned to continue up the path.
They walked on, the path getting a little steeper. The easy banter faded back into a comfortable silence, but it felt different now, charged with the memory of the kiss.
Carlos found himself noticing more, the way Jannik would instinctively guide him around a patch of loose rocks, the sturdy presence of a pine tree covered in lichen, the impossible, unbroken blue of the sky.
After another ten minutes of climbing, Jannik stopped at a sharp bend in the trail, his grip tightening on Carlos’s hand to pull him to a halt beside him. He turned Carlos gently by the shoulders.
“Look,” he said softly. “That’s our house.”
Carlos followed his gaze. Far below, nestled in a sea of dark green trees, was the cabin. It was a small, dark shape, looking almost like a child’s toy from this distance. A thin, grey ribbon of smoke curled lazily from its chimney, a fragile sign of life and warmth against the immense, indifferent backdrop of the mountains. It looked so small, so safe, so unbelievably precious. A home.
He felt a wave of emotion so strong and sudden it almost buckled his knees, a deep, aching tenderness for the quiet, steady man standing beside him, who had opened up his world, his home, his heart.
“It’s beautiful, Jan,” he said, his voice thick and husky.
Jannik didn’t look at the house. He had turned his head and was looking only at Carlos, his expression open and incredibly soft, his eyes reflecting the vast, bright sky.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze holding Carlos’s. “It is.”
They stood there for a long time, the silence stretching comfortably between them, their hands still linked. The world felt vast and still, and Carlos had the distinct feeling that he could stay in that exact spot forever, anchored by Jannik’s presence.
But the cold was beginning to seep through his borrowed jacket, a sharp, persistent chill, and eventually, Jannik gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
“We should head back,” he said, his voice a soft rumble. “Before you turn into an ice sculpture.”
Carlos laughed, the sound clear and surprisingly loud in the stillness. “I am from the south of Spain. We do not have… this.” He gestured vaguely at the frosted trees and the sharp, clean air.
“I know,” Jannik said, his eyes crinkling in a smile. He started leading them back down the path, his steps more confident on the descent.
The walk back was easier. Carlos asked Jannik to name the peaks of the Sundial, and Jannik did, pointing them out one by one, his voice filled with a quiet pride. Carlos, in turn, tried to teach Jannik particularly colorful Spanish phrases his grandfather used to shout at the television during football matches, making Jannik laugh, a real, unguarded sound that echoed slightly in the valley.
When the cabin came back into view, Carlos felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name. It was a feeling of returning to a place that was already, impossibly, starting to feel like his own.
The mudroom was a flurry of clumsy movements as they shed their layers. Carlos sat on the bench, struggling with the stiff laces of the hiking boots, his fingers numb and cold. Jannik, having already kicked off his own boots, knelt in front of him without a word.
Carlos’s breath hitched as Jannik’s hands, surprisingly warm, began to expertly unwork the knots. He worked with a focused quiet, his head bent, the coppery strands of his hair falling forward. Carlos watched the deft movement of his fingers, the way his brow was slightly furrowed in concentration. It was such a simple, domestic act, an act of service so tender and unexpected it made Carlos’s heart ache.
When the laces were undone, Jannik’s hands slid to his ankles, gently pulling the heavy boots off. His gaze lifted, meeting Carlos’s. The air in the small room was suddenly thick with unspoken things.
“Thank you,” Carlos whispered, his voice barely audible.
Jannik just gave a small smile, his eyes soft. He stood up, placing the boots neatly under the bench. “Are you hungry?” he asked, the spell breaking as he moved towards the kitchen.
“Starving,” Carlos admitted, following him, padding in the thick wool socks.
The kitchen was even warmer now, filled with sunlight that streamed through the windows, making the wooden countertops glow. Jannik went to the fridge, pulling out a block of pale, hard cheese and a large, paper-wrapped parcel that he opened to reveal thin, dark red slices of speck.
“I was thinking something simple,” Jannik said, placing them on the counter next to a wooden board. He then reached into the bread box and pulled out a large, thin, circular flatbread. “Have you ever had Schüttelbrot?”
Carlos shook his head, leaning against the counter to watch him. “Shaky bread?” he asked, hazarding a guess at the translation with the few words he learned from Jannik.
A small smile touched Jannik’s lips. “Close enough. You’re supposed to shake the dough before you bake it.” He broke off a piece with a sharp crack and handed it to Carlos. It was crisp and fragrant with fennel and caraway seeds.
“Wow,” Carlos said around the mouthful. “This is good.”
“My Oma’s recipe,” Jannik said proudly.
They fell into an easy rhythm, preparing their lunch side-by-side. Jannik sliced the cheese and arranged the speck on the board, while Carlos broke the bread into manageable pieces. It was a simple, shared task, their shoulders brushing occasionally in the narrow space.
They ate at the table, the sun warm on their faces, the platter of bread, cheese, and speck between them. They talked about nothing and everything, about Jannik’s father’s terrible singing, about Carlos’s uncle’s new puppy, about the best and worst locker rooms on the tour. It was easy, effortless. There were no cameras, no expectations, no pressure to be anything other than exactly who they were in that moment.
When they were finished, they cleared the table together, moving in the now-familiar dance of washing and drying. Carlos found himself smiling, a wide, goofy grin he couldn’t seem to suppress.
“What?” Jannik asked, glancing at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Nothing,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “It’s just… I’m happy.”
Jannik turned off the tap and dried his hands, then turned to face Carlos, leaning back against the counter. He reached out, his hand coming to rest on Carlos’s hip, his thumb drawing a slow, lazy circle.
“Me too,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “Now, I think it is time for a nap. A real one. By the fire.”
Carlos’s smile widened. “You have to build the fire first, mountain man.”
Jannik’s answering grin was slow and confident, sending a fresh wave of warmth flooding through Carlos’s chest. “That,” he said, pushing off the counter and tugging Carlos gently by the hand towards the living room, “is the easy part.”
The living room was an extension of the kitchen’s warm, functional simplicity. The centerpiece was a large, stone fireplace, its hearth clean and ready. A deep, comfortable-looking couch, upholstered in a durable dark grey fabric, was positioned to face it, a thick, cream-colored wool blanket folded neatly over one arm.
The same pale, unvarnished wood walls and large windows continued into this space, and the afternoon sun, lower in the sky now, slanted across the floorboards in long, golden shafts.
Jannik led Carlos towards the fireplace, his hand still loosely holding his. “The best place for a nap is right here,” he said, his voice a low, confident murmur.
Carlos smiled, sinking onto the plush rug in front of the couch and tucking his socked feet under him. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? If I tried to build a fire, I would probably set the whole house on fire. Or just make a lot of smoke.”
Jannik shot him a look of mock offense over his shoulder as he knelt by the hearth. “I think I can manage. I’ve had a little practice.”
There was a captivating grace in the way Jannik worked. He selected a handful of dry kindling, the small sticks making a brittle, rustling sound, and a few firelighters. Carlos watched the deliberate, almost meditative way Jannik built a small, precise structure of kindling before carefully placing two logs of birch on top.
When he was satisfied, he struck a long match against the stone of the hearth. The sharp scrape and sudden flare were loud in the quiet room. He touched the flame to the base of his construction.
The kindling caught immediately, tiny flames licking at the dry wood with a soft whoosh. Within moments, a steady, hungry fire was growing, crackling softly as it began to consume the logs. Its amber light danced across Jannik’s focused face, catching the copper threads in his hair and casting long, flickering shadows on the walls behind them.
The room began to fill with the clean, sharp scent of burning wood and a gentle, radiating warmth that felt like a living presence.
Jannik sat back on his heels, watching the flames for a moment to ensure they had taken hold. Satisfied, he turned to Carlos, a small, proud smile on his lips. “See? No smoke. Just fire.”
“You are a professional,” Carlos said, his voice giddy. “A fire-making professional.”
Jannik’s smile widened. He stood up, his joints making a soft sound, and reached for the folded blanket on the couch. He shook it out, it was huge and heavy, woven from thick, rustic wool, and then settled himself onto the couch, leaning back into the corner and stretching his long legs out. He patted the space in between them, an open invitation. “Come here.”
Carlos didn’t need to be asked twice. He scrambled onto the couch, the cushions sighing as he settled into the warm space Jannik had made for him. Jannik immediately draped the heavy blanket over both of them, its weight a comforting pressure. He tucked it around Carlos’s shoulders before letting his arm come to rest around him, pulling him close against him until there was no space left between them.
Carlos let out a long, contented sigh, the sound seeming to carry all the tension from his body with it. He let his head rest on Jannik’s chest, the fabric of his sweater soft against his cheek. He could feel the solid strength of him, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.
The warmth from the fire chased away the last of the mountain chill, seeping deep into his bones, while the blanket cocooned them in their own private, fire-lit world. The only sounds were the crackle and pop of the logs in the hearth and the quiet whisper of their breathing.
“This is so much better than any hotel,” Carlos murmured, his voice already thick with oncoming sleep.
“I would hope so” Jannik chuckled softly, his fingers beginning to idly trace patterns on Carlos’s arm through the thick jumper.
Carlos closed his eyes, letting the profound peace of the moment wash over him. His mind, usually a relentless churn of strategy and schedules, was finally quiet.
This was what he had been craving, he realized. Not just rest, but this. This deep, uncomplicated stillness. The freedom to be completely unguarded, to be cared for in small, quiet ways that mattered more than anything else.
He felt Jannik shift slightly, his lips pressing a soft, warm kiss into his hair, lingering for a moment.
Tucked securely against Jannik’s side, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the steady rhythm of his breathing, Carlos felt the last of his tension release in a final, shuddering sigh.
He drifted into a deep, peaceful doze, the world outside fading to nothing.
Jannik didn’t move for a long time. He sat, a willing anchor, and just watched the fire, feeling the comfortable, solid weight of Carlos sleeping against him. He looked down at Carlos’s face, softened and unguarded in sleep, his long lashes dark against his cheek. A surge of protectiveaffection washed over him. This was right. Having him here, in this place that was the very root of him, felt more right than anything had in a long time.
But eventually, the fire began to burn low, and the chill from the windows started to seep back into the room. He knew they couldn’t stay on the couch all night, as tempting as it was.
“Carlos,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble. He gently stroked his hair. “Hey. Time to go to bed.”
Carlos stirred, a soft, complaining murmur escaping his lips. He burrowed his face deeper into Jannik’s sweater, trying to chase the sleep he was being pulled from. “No,” he mumbled, his voice thick and blurry. “‘Tis good here.”
A soft, fond smile touched Jannik’s lips. “I know,” he said, his voice gentle. “But a real bed will be better. Come on.”
He shifted, carefully extricating himself. Carlos made a small sound of protest at the loss of warmth and immediately curled in on himself, pulling the wool blanket tighter. Jannik stood for a moment, looking down at him, before bending down and, with a soft grunt of effort, scooping him up into his arms.
Carlos was heavier than he looked, a solid weight of athlete’s muscle, but Jannik’s arms were strong. Carlos’s eyes fluttered open in surprise, his own arms coming up instinctively to loop around Jannik’s neck. “What are you doing?” he slurred, his head finding a natural resting place in the crook of Jannik’s shoulder.
“Taking you to bed,” Jannik said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Buy me dinner first,” Carlos mumbled into his shoulder, the words barely coherent.
A low, soft chuckle rumbled in Jannik’s chest. “I think we already covered that,” he murmured back, his voice full of amusement. He carried him out of the fire-lit living room and down the short, cool hallway to the bedroom.
The room was dark and cold, the only light a faint, silvery moonlight filtering through the large window. Jannik didn’t turn on a lamp. He gently lowered Carlos onto the bed, the old springs groaning softly in protest. He pulled back the heavy duvet and guided Carlos under the covers before disappearing for a moment.
Carlos watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, a deep, warm feeling spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the blankets. He watched as Jannik moved quietly around the room, shedding his sweater and sweatpants in the near-darkness.
When Jannik finally slipped into bed beside him, the mattress dipped, and the space was filled with his solid, welcome warmth. He immediately turned on his side, his arm coming around Carlos’s waist, pulling him back against his chest. It was the same position they had woken up in that morning, a perfect mirror image.
“Better?” Jannik whispered, his breath warm against the back of Carlos’s neck.
Carlos didn’t answer with words. He just let out a long, contented sigh and relaxed completely into the embrace, his body boneless with sleep. He felt as if he was exactly where he was always meant to be.
The next morning Carlos woke slowly, tucked under the heavy duvet, but Jannik was no longer beside him. A low murmur of voices from the kitchen drew him from the last vestiges of sleep.
He sat up, stretching his arms over his head with a satisfying groan, and padded toward the sound. Jannik was leaning against the counter, speaking softly on the phone in German, his voice a low, melodic rumble. He glanced up as Carlos entered, a warm smile instantly softening his features. He said a few more words and then ended the call.
“Sorry,” he said, sliding his phone into his pocket. “That was my dad. He wanted to make sure you hadn’t starved to death yet.”
“Tell him his jam saved my life yesterday,” Carlos said, his voice still thick with sleep.
Jannik’s smile widened. “He will be happy to hear that. He also sent an invitation. My parents are having a few friends over tonight for cards. Very casual. He wanted to know if we would come.” He watched Carlos carefully, his expression open. “No pressure. We can just stay here if you want.”
Carlos thought about it for a moment. The idea of another social event after he just got there should have sparked his anxiety, but it didn’t. He wanted to see more of Jannik’s world. He wanted to properly meet Jannik’s parents.
“I’d like that,” he said, and the genuine relief that washed over Jannik’s face made him feel warm all over.
“Good,” Jannik said. “But first, we need supplies. I promised my mother I would bring dessert. Come on, the bakery in the village should have just opened.”
The village, a short drive down the mountain, was like something out of a fairy tale. Snow dusted the steeply pitched roofs of the traditional chalets, and golden light spilled from the windows of a small church and a handful of shops lining the main street.
The bakery was a tiny, warm place that smelled overwhelmingly of cinnamon, raisins, and baking bread. An elderly woman with a kind, wrinkled face and flour dusting her apron greeted Jannik with a torrent of affectionate German, patting his cheek as if he were still twelve.
Jannik, his cheeks tinged pink, replied in kind, his voice taking on a deferential, local cadence that Carlos found utterly endearing. He introduced Carlos simply as “my friend,” and the woman gave him a warm, assessing look, her bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners as she nodded in approval.
They left with a large, fragrant apple strudel tucked into a cardboard box and two paper cups of thick, rich hot chocolate. They didn’t get back in the car. Instead, they stood on the quiet, empty street under the soft breeze of the morning, the snow beginning to fall in fat, lazy flakes.
“She liked you,” Jannik said, taking a sip of his hot chocolate.
“I have no idea what she said, but she seemed nice,” Carlos replied, the warmth of the cup seeping into his gloved hands.
“She said you have a nice smile,” Jannik said simply, looking at him over the rim of his cup, his own gaze steady and sincere.
Carlos laughed, a puff of white in the cold air, and his chest warmed.
Jannik reached out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge of chocolate from the corner of Carlos’s mouth. His touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight through Carlos. The world seemed to narrow to the small, intimate space between them, the quiet street, the falling snow.
“Come on,” Jannik said softly, his hand dropping away, breaking the spell. “Let’s go home.”
That evening, the Sinner home was filled with a low hum of cheerful conversation and the clinking of glasses. The two couples Jannik’s parents had invited were old family friends, colleagues from the restaurant where both Hanspeter and Siglinde worked.
They greeted Carlos with a genuine, un-starstruck curiosity, asking him more about the weather in Spain than about his forehand. It was nice.
The main event was a card game Carlos had never heard of called Watten, a complicated Tyrolean game of tricks and trumps that seemed to involve a great deal of strategic table-pounding and good-natured yelling in a dialect he couldn’t begin to decipher.
He and Jannik were put on a team against Hanspeter and one of his friends, Johann. Carlos was, predictably, terrible. He played the wrong cards, missed cues, and consistently misunderstood the rules, much to the uproarious amusement of the entire table.
Jannik, however, was an unsurprisingly fierce and focused competitor even at cards. He played with a silent, deadly precision, his brow furrowed in concentration.
But he was endlessly patient with Carlos. He would lean over, his head close to Carlos’s, the scent of his shampoo filling Carlos’s senses, and whisper instructions, his hand briefly covering Carlos’s on the table to stop him from playing the wrong card.
At one point, after a particularly disastrous round that Carlos had single-handedly lost, he leaned his head on Jannik’s shoulder in a gesture of mock despair. “I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I am a terrible partner.”
Jannik just glanced at him, a rare, brilliant grin breaking across his face. He reached up and squeezed the back of Carlos’s neck. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice low and for Carlos’s ears only. “You’re the only partner I want.”
It was incredibly sappy, but the words, spoken so casually in the warm, chaotic room, hit Carlos with the force of a physical blow.
His breath caught, and he looked up at Jannik, at the unguarded affection in his eyes, the easy set of his smile. In that moment, surrounded by the laughter and incomprehensible shouting of Jannik’s family and friends, Carlos had never felt more seen, or more completely, hopelessly, in love.
They lost the game, spectacularly, but as they walked back to the cabin later that night, their hands linked under the vast, star-dusted sky, Carlos felt like he had won everything.
The next day the sky was a sharp, cloudless blue, and the fresh layer of snow from the day before glittered under the morning sun, so brilliant it almost hurt to look at.
A restless energy seemed to hum in the air, a feeling Carlos recognized deep in his bones. It was the itch of an athlete’s body, rested and fed and now craving movement. He saw it in Jannik, too, in the way he paced the small cabin, his long limbs seeming to take up more space than usual.
“I have an idea,” Jannik said finally, stopping in front of Carlos, who was sipping his morning coffee by the window. “Get your training gear on, I know you brought it here. The warmer stuff.”
“Are we climbing another mountain?” Carlos asked, a playful groan in his voice.
A slow, mysterious smile spread across Jannik’s face. “Something like that,” was all he said.
They drove for twenty minutes, deeper into the valley, until Jannik pulled the car over next to a large, municipal-looking building with a steeply pitched roof, half-buried in snow. A sign in German and Italian identified it as a local sports center. It looked completely deserted.
“What is this place?” Carlos asked as he followed Jannik around the back of the building, their shoes crunching in the deep, pristine snow.
Jannik didn’t answer. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked a heavy side door, pulling it open with a low groan. He gestured for Carlos to enter.
Carlos stepped inside, and his breath caught. He was standing in a cavernous, chilly indoor space. And in the center of it, under the soft hum of the overhead lights, was a single, immaculate tennis hardcourt.
“No way,” Carlos breathed, his voice echoing slightly in the empty hall. He turned to look at Jannik, his face a mixture of shock and delight.
“My first coach had a key,” Jannik said with a shrug, a flicker of nostalgia in his eyes. “He let me come here in the winter, when the outdoor courts were frozen. I think I spent half my childhood in this building.” He looked at Carlos, his expression hopeful. “I keep a few racquets in the locker room. I thought… maybe you’d want to hit a few balls?”
The offer hung in the air, simple and profound. It was an invitation to share another, crucial part of his world. The part that Carlos knew best, yet had never seen in this context.
“Jan,” Carlos said, a slow, wide grin spreading across his face. “There is nothing I would rather do.”
The locker room was small and smelled of cold rubber and old wood. The racquets were old models, the grips worn smooth, but they felt good in their hands. They changed into their trainers, the familiar squeak of the soles on the concrete floor a sound from a different universe.
There were no crowds, no umpires, no cameras. Just the two of them, and the soft, rhythmic thud of the ball traveling back and forth over the net.
They didn’t rally for points. They weren’t competing. They were simply hitting, finding a rhythm, a silent conversation conducted through felt and string. Carlos watched Jannik move, his grace on the acrylic surface effortless.
This was their language. This was where they made the most sense.
Carlos felt the familiar joy of the game flood his system, the pure, uncomplicated pleasure of a perfectly struck ball. He hit a looping, topspin forehand, and watched Jannik return it with a flat, powerful backhand that skimmed the net.
He saw the Jannik the world saw then, the focus, the precision, the power. But here, in the quiet, empty hall, stripped of all pressure, it wasn’t intimidating. It was beautiful.
After half an hour, they were both breathing hard, the cold air burning in their lungs, their bodies humming with a familiar, pleasant ache. They met at the net, both of them smiling, their faces flushed.
“You are still too good on this surface,” Carlos puffed out, leaning on the net cord.
“You are one to talk,” Jannik retorted, his eyes alight with a playful, competitive spark that was never far from the surface.
He reached out, his hand covering Carlos’s on the net. His palm was damp and warm, the calluses familiar. “Thank you for this,” Carlos said, his voice quiet and sincere. “For sharing this with me.”
Jannik’s smile softened. He squeezed Carlos’s hand. “There’s no one else I would rather share it with,” he said simply.
They stood like that for a long moment, the silence of the empty hall pressing in around them. It was a perfect, suspended moment in time, a fusion of their two worlds.
They returned to the cabin in a state of happy exhaustion, their bodies humming with the pleasant ache of a good hitting session. The sharp, cold air had flushed their faces, and they were both smiling, a shared, secret joy lingering between them.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in a lazy, comfortable haze, eating a late lunch of store bought spinatspätzle (a sacrilege if you asked Jannik), and then collapsing onto the couch in front of the fire, a tangle of limbs under the blanket.
Later, as the afternoon bled into early evening, Carlos woke up with an idea, a sudden and specific craving for a taste of home. He found Jannik by the window in the kitchen, nursing a hot tea and scrolling idly on his phone.
“I want to cook for you tonight,” Carlos announced, his voice firm with purpose. “Something from home. From my abuela.”
A slow, delighted smile spread across Jannik’s face. He put his mug down, giving Carlos his full attention. “Yes. Absolutely. What do we need?”
“Everything,” Carlos admitted with a laugh. “Is there a market that is still open?”
The trip to the small alimentari in the village was an adventure in itself. They moved through the narrow aisles, a quiet, domestic team. Jannik was greeted with warm nods, but the people were discreet, allowing them their privacy, even if their eyes went back and forth from Carlos to Jannik multiple times, confusion clear as day etched into their faces.
Carlos, armed with a list he’d texted his mother for, hunted for ingredients, holding up unfamiliar packages of spices for Jannik’s inspection.
Jannik, in turn, translated his questions for the butcher, and they left with a parcel of fresh chorizo, a bag of rice, and a bottle of Spanish wine that Jannik had insisted on tracking down.
Back in the cabin’s kitchen, the roles were reversed. It was Carlos who moved with a confident familiarity, his movements sure as he chopped onions and garlic, the sharp, savory smells filling the air.
Jannik became his willing assistant, following Carlos’s instructions to the letter, watching with a focused intensity that was usually reserved for a deciding set.
He was seeing another side of him, a connection to his own roots, his own family, that was as deep and strong as Jannik’s connection to the mountains.
The paella they made was not perfect. The rice was a little too wet on one side, a little too crispy on the other. But as they ate it straight from the pan, sitting on the rug in front of the roaring fire, it was the most delicious thing either of them had ever tasted.
They didn’t talk much as they ate. They didn’t need to. The simple act of sharing a meal, one that Carlos had made for Jannik in his grandparents’ kitchen, was a conversation in itself.
Later, as they lay tangled together on the couch, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the full-bellied contentment of a good meal, Carlos rested his head on Jannik’s chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart.
“You know,” Carlos murmured, “my abuela always said you can tell if someone loves you by whether or not they’ll let you in their kitchen.”
Jannik’s arm tightened around him, his fingers gently stroking his hair. He pressed a soft kiss to Carlos’s temple. “She sounds like a very smart woman,” he whispered.
Carlos loved the domesticity of their time together, the profound softness of it all. God, he loved it. He had never felt more seen, more at peace. But as he lay there, lulled by the fire and the steady, grounding beat of Jannik’s heart under his ear, a different kind of hunger began to stir deep in his belly.
It was a sharp, insistent ache that had been quietly building for days, a low thrum of need that was so deeply intertwined with the overwhelming wave of emotion he felt for the man holding him that he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
He was so fucking in love it made his bones ache.
He shifted, lifting his head from the solid warmth of Jannik’s chest. Jannik’s hand stilled in his hair, a silent question. He looked down, his expression unreadable in the warm, flickering firelight.
Carlos didn’t say anything. He just looked back, letting everything he was feeling, the gratitude, the overwhelming affection, the raw desire, show in his eyes. He let Jannik see all of it. The air in the room, which had been thick with sleepy contentment, suddenly grew charged, heavy with unspoken things.
A muscle in Jannik’s jaw twitched. His gaze darkened with a slow, dawning understanding. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. A silent permission. A silent confession that he felt it, too. Yes.
That was all the invitation Carlos needed. He surged upward, closing the small space between them, and pressed his lips to Jannik’s.
The first kiss was impossibly soft, a question. It was a deliberate exploration, a mapping of familiar territory that suddenly felt brand new. It tasted of wine and woodsmoke and the deep, uncomplicated intimacy of the day they had shared.
Then, the kiss deepened, and it became an answer. Jannik’s hand slid from his hair to cup the back of his neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there, pulling him closer, slanting his mouth over his. Mine.
Carlos’s own hands came up to frame Jannik’s face, his fingers tangling in the soft, coppery curls by his nape, trying to anchor himself in the dizzying sensation. It was a kiss that unraveled them both, a slow burn that quickly ignited into a steady, consuming flame.
It was too much and not enough. A tangle of limbs on the couch, lost in a series of deep, open-mouthed kisses that left them both breathless and dizzy.
Carlos’s hands slid from Jannik’s neck, down the strong column of his throat, his fingers mapping the frantic, living pulse they found there before moving lower, gripping the soft fabric of his sweater, needing to be closer, always closer.
Jannik’s hands slid down Carlos’s back, pulling him towards him until their chests were flush, the friction of their clothes a frustrating barrier. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his forehead coming to rest against Carlos’s. The air between them was electric.
“Not here,” Jannik whispered, his voice a low, rough thing that was barely audible over the crackling flames. He took Carlos’s hand, his fingers lacing through his, a silent promise in his grip. He stood, pulling him gently to his feet.
He led him from the fire-lit living room and down the short, cool hallway to the bedroom. The room was dark, the only light a faint, silvery moonlight filtering through the large window, turning everything to soft shades of silver and grey.
They stood in the center of the room for a moment, their hands still linked, their eyes adjusting to the dim light, their ragged breaths the only sound. Then Jannik reached out with his free hand, his fingers finding the hem of Carlos’s jumper. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes asking a final, silent question. Are you sure?
Carlos answered by letting go of his hand and pulling his own jumper over his head, dropping it to the floor in a soft, woolen heap. Yes. God, yes.
The act broke the last of their restraint. They moved together, a clumsy, urgent grace to their hands as they rid each other of the layers of clothing until there was nothing left but the cool air on their skin, the soft moonlight, and the searing heat where they touched.
To see Jannik like this, bathed in the pale, ethereal light from the window, made Carlos’s breath catch in his throat. He looked like a Roman statue, all long limbs and lean, defined muscle, beautiful in a way that felt both powerful and achingly vulnerable. The moonlight carved shadows under his collarbones, along the sharp line of his hip.
Carlos reached out, his hand tracing that line, his touch reverent. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, the words an honest, unfiltered whisper in the quiet room. “Dios mío, Jan.”
A faint tremor ran through Jannik’s frame. He captured Carlos’s hand, pressing a fierce, desperate kiss to his palm, before leading him the final few steps to the bed.
The sheets were cold, but their bodies were hot as scorching fire.
What followed was a slow conversation spoken in the language of touch and breath and soft, murmured sounds. It was a desperate, hungry need, which had been kept apart for too long.
It was the slide of skin on skin, the scrape of teeth, the slick heat of their bodies moving together. It was Jannik’s name whispered like a prayer, and Carlos’s gasped in return.
It was a slow, building rhythm, a dance of discovery and rediscovery, that eventually crested into a wave of shared, shattering release, leaving them boneless and breathless in the quiet dark, clinging to each other as the aftershocks faded.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, their limbs intertwined, their slick skin cooling in the chilly air. Jannik’s arm was a heavy, comforting weight across Carlos’s chest, his face buried in the crook of Carlos’s neck, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Carlos stroked his damp hair, his heart so full he felt it might burst.
Jannik shifted, lifting his head to look at him, his eyes dark and impossibly soft in the moonlight. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice rough and heavy with sleep.
Carlos couldn’t speak. He just nodded, and leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to Jannik’s lips. It was a kiss that held everything.
The next morning Carlos woke to the familiar weight pressed behind him, an arm draped possessively over his waist, Jannik’s warm breath tickling his neck
Carefully, so as not to disturb him, he turned his head on the pillow. Jannik was still deeply asleep, his face stripped of all its tension, looking younger and softer than Carlos had ever seen him.
His red hair, a shade brighter in the morning light, was a wild, sleep-tousled mess against the white pillow. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing a slow, deep rhythm that Carlos could feel through his own back, a steady, living metronome.
A wave of affection so deep it was a physical ache washed over him, lodging itself somewhere in his throat. He had the absurd, overwhelming urge to slither beneath Jannik’s skin, to lodge himself deep between his ribs, to protect them from the noise and chaos of the world waiting for them outside this valley.
As if sensing his gaze, Jannik’s eyes fluttered open. They were blurry with sleep for a moment, the color of the forest floor after it rains. Then they focused on Carlos, and a slow, lazy, impossibly soft smile touched his lips. It was a smile of pure contentment, a smile that Carlos felt in every single one of his nerve endings.
“Morgen,” Jannik whispered, his voice a low, gravelly morning rumble that vibrated straight through Carlos’s bones.
A slow, warm smile spread across Carlos’s own face, feeling lazy and real. He lifted a hand, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Jannik’s forehead. “Hola.”
Jannik leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening again. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, closing the small space between them and pressing a soft, sleepy kiss to Carlos’s lips. Not caring for their morning breath.
They just lay there for a long time, tangled in the sheets, watching the morning light slowly fill the room. Carlos would trace the faint lines of freckles on Jannik’s shoulder, and Jannik’s thumb would draw lazy, hypnotic circles on his hip. It was perfect in its simplicity.
The next few days passed in a blissful, unhurried rhythm, each one a small, perfect gift. The domesticity came almost too easily.
It was in the way Jannik would instinctively hand him a coffee mug in the morning. It was in the way Carlos would throw a leg over Jannik’s on the couch as they read, a casual, intimate gesture that neither of them acknowledged but both of them felt.
They took another walk, their hands linked inside the pocket of Jannik’s large jacket, their conversation flowing from silly jokes to quiet confessions about their thoughts for the upcoming season.
They cooked together again, a messy, chaotic thing where Jannik tried to teach Carlos how to make a proper carbonara and Carlos, in turn, almost set a dish towel on fire, an incident that ended with both of them leaning against each other, breathless with laughter.
It was too easy, because sooner than they realised came the time for Carlos to leave. To go back to Spain, and start preparing for Melbourne.
As perfect as it was, they knew it was never meant to be permanent.
The morning of the departure was quiet. A thin mist clung to the valley, hiding the Dolomites peaks. The silence in the cabin felt different, heavier. They moved with a shared, unspoken purpose, the easy rhythm of the past few days replaced by deliberate slowness.
Carlos packed his bag, his movements methodical. He folded the soft, worn-out grey sweater Jannik had been wearing the night he arrived, the one that still smelled faintly of him, of woodsmoke and coffee. Jannik, coming into the room, saw him and his expression softened. He took the sweater from Carlos’s hands, and for a moment Carlos thought he was taking it back. Instead, he refolded it more neatly and tucked it back into the corner of Carlos’s suitcase.
“For the plane,” he said simply, his voice a little rough. “It’s a long flight.” It wasn’t really a long flight, but the unspoken message was clear: take a piece of this with you. Take me with you.
The drive back to Innsbruck was the reverse of his arrival, but the world looked entirely different. The darkness that had felt vast and intimidating was now a familiar landscape of sleeping villages and winding roads. Carlos was no longer a man escaping into the unknown, but one leaving a place that had, impossibly, become a part of himself.
It would have been easier for Carlos to go back alone, so that he could return the rental car, but that morning Jannik had looked impossibly sad, so he went with him, even if it meant that he had to take a train to go back to Sexten afterwards.
They didn’t talk much. Jannik drove, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Carlos’s on the center console. Their fingers were laced together, a tight, desperate grip.
The bustle and fluorescent lights were a harsh, unwelcome shock after the natural quiet of the mountains. Jannik walked with him as far as he could, to the entrance of the security line, the wheels of Carlos’s suitcase a loud, mournful rumble on the polished floor.
They stopped, the flow of travelers parting around them too busy to notice the two guys standing in front of each other, still in a sea of motion. There were a thousand things to say, a thousand feelings swirling in the space between them.
“So,” Carlos said, his voice a little shaky, the word feeling ridiculously small. “Melbourne.”
“Melbourne,” Jannik confirmed, his gaze intense, his eyes a swirling mix of sadness and determination. His thumb stroked the back of Carlos’s hand, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Carlos knew he should go. He had a plane to catch. The line was moving. But he couldn't move. He felt anchored by the look in Jannik’s eyes, by the warmth of his hand, by the sheer, overwhelming force of not wanting this to end. He didn’t want the bubble to pop.
Jannik must have seen the conflict on his face, because he gave him a small, sad smile. He took a step closer, cupping Carlos’s jaw with his free hand, his touch warm and steady. He leaned in, and for a moment, Carlos thought he would kiss him, right there, under the gaze of the security cameras, and he didn’t care. He wanted him to.
But Jannik was always more careful. He just brought Carlos closer, tucking him beneath his chin, his arms around Carlos’s back, a gesture that was somehow more intimate than any public kiss could ever be.
Their breaths mingled in the warm air. Carlos closed his eyes, memorizing the feel of Jannik’s skin against his, the faint, clean scent of him, the solid, grounding presence that had become his entire world.
“Call me when you arrive?,” Jannik asked, his voice for Carlos’s ears only, a rough, emotional thing.
“Of course,” Carlos breathed back, his own voice cracking.
Jannik pulled back, his hand reluctantly slipping from Carlos’s jaw, then from his hand, the loss of contact a sudden, sharp cold. For a moment, they just looked at each other, memorizing.
Then Carlos turned and walked away, not looking back, because if he did, he knew he would never leave. He could feel Jannik’s eyes on him the entire time, a steady, warm pressure on his back, a silent promise that followed him all the way to the gate.