Work Text:
The plush hotel carpet shifts, molds itself around Jannik's footsteps in much the same way as clay would.
He shouldn't be thinking of clay; or pacing this long strip of carpet in his suite. There's a match to be played tomorrow and his legs are already heavy from all his exertions in the prior week.
What he should be doing is showering. Letting the hot water cascade, wash away the tension in his muscles from a match he was not supposed to watch tonight.
The clock on the bedside table sternly blinks out the time, reminds Jannik that he needs to be asleep soon. Darren will kill him in the morning if he turns up to breakfast bone tired and bleary eyed. Again.
A dog eared book sits beside the clock, and maybe, just maybe, it can provide enough distraction to calm his racing mind.
Jannik makes it through half a page before he tosses the novel aside, flings himself face down into the luxurious layers of duvet. They suffocate him. Dimly it registers that he enjoys the burn in his lungs.
Eventually, he rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling, traces a crack, sits up. Reaches for his phone, almost, almost, unlocks it before tossing it aside again.
His body demands movement. He stalks to the window which dominates an entire wall of his suite, yanks away at the curtains to reveal the sparkling lights of Paris.
Below, the traffic is sluggish despite the advanced hour. Steady streams of light against darkened pavement. It holds his attention for, one, two, three, seconds…
Not that Jannik is counting.
A dull thud echoes as his forehead makes contact with the cold glass, his breath near enough to fog it instantly. He inhales deeply, the faint scent of industrial cleaner masquerading as air freshener fills his nose; exhales slowly.
Jannik makes his decision.
The phone feels heavy in his hand. He twirls it once, twice, between his thumb and forefinger. After the third twirl he unlocks it, goes straight to WhatsApp.
There's a plethora of unread messages; Darren reminding him to rest, Vagno checking in, a meme from Mark, his mother asking what he’s eaten for dinner, Laila…
With a dismissive flick, he scrolls past them all. Finds the chat he wants much further down. Clicks on it.
No new messages. Unsurprisingly.
Nothing since a perfunctory ‘Congrats man!’ and his own ‘Thanks!!!’. In hindsight, the excess of exclamation marks makes Jannik wince, although not as much as his overly eager follow up message, ‘See you in Paris??’ which had only received a thumbs up reply.
Before he can second guess himself, Jannik starts to type, bites his lip, stops, stares at his reflection on the blank tv screen; his hair is a mess. He runs a hand through it, pats down the back, fiddles with a curl. Looks at his phone again. Clicks send.
[J] Tough loss. You ok?
The ticks turn blue instantly. Jannik shakes his head, leave it to Carlos to be glued to his phone even after what happened earlier this evening.
Three dots appear and disappear several times on the screen. The wait is interminable. Jannik flips his phone several times, doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath until a message finally appears.
[C] sí sí as good as can be. Thank you for checking ( yes yes as good as can be. Thank you for checking)
It reads like a dismissal dipped in politeness. And Jannik knows that he should just let Carlos be. Knows, that were the positions reversed, he would not check his phone for days, let alone reply.
But it’s Carlos, and he’s clearly not okay, and Jannik cannot just leave it.
[J] No injury? The ankle all good?
[C] sí todo bien gracias ( yes all good thanks)
Another curt reply. So unlike Carlos.
[J] Do you want to talk?
Three dots appear on screen. Disappear. Appear. Disappear. Jannik’s leg starts to bounce, his fingers type of their own accord.
[J] We can talk of other things. I have a new lego set 🙂
The whole rigamarole of the three dots starts up again. It continues for a while, although eventually a message does appear.
[C] gracias janni. Not today am tired ( thank you janni. Not today am tired)
Jannik should take the hint. He really, really should. But every dismissal somehow makes his stubbornness rise even further. He knows Carlos, knows that after a defeat like this, Carlos normally needs distraction and not solitude.
So, against every better instinct he presses further.
[J] Carlos, you sure you are ok?
This time, Jannik is not left waiting long for a reply.
[C] sí hostias! porque estas tan pesado esta noche ( goddamn it, yes! why are you being so annoying this evening)
Jannik blinks at the screen, blinks at the anger radiating in waves off of the simple sentence. Before he can even begin to formulate a reply another message appears in the chat.
[C] sorri sorri just tired
It’s the perfect out, just type an empty platitude, a hurried ‘goodnight’, and be done with this hideous conversation. Jannik wouldn’t be where he is today if he were one to take an easy out, though.
[J] Carlos per favore parlami 🥺 ( Carlos please talk to me 🥺)
It’s a low blow; an underarm serve on break point. A crumb of knowledge, Carlos’ weakness for his Italian, used against him.
[C] Jannik
[J] Carlos. I worry you are not ok
[C] and how you know this? how you know i am not just tired?
Because you are the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I see when I close my eyes at night, Jannik wants to scream. Because I reread our conversations when I feel lonely and watch silly edits of our matches at three in the morning when I should be sleeping. Because I know you Carlos, probably better than I do myself.
Of course he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he bites at his thumb nail until it hurts, then types.
[J] I know you are not just tired because you don’t speak in emoji
The reply is swift in coming.
[C] 🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪🤪
[C] 🖕🏽
Jannik huffs out a laugh, runs a hand through his hair. Another chance to back away, reply in kind, stop torturing them both with this. Whatever this is nowadays.
[J] What’s your room number?
Outside a car alarm bleeps, once, twice, three times, the sound muffled by the double glazing and heavy curtains. Inside the room, the hum of the aircon intermingles with Jannik’s rapid breaths; he counts those too, wonders whether he’s finally pushed Carlos too far. His thumb hovers over the message, tempted to delete it even though the ticks turned blue instantly.
[C] no janni you have match tomorrow
[J] I don’t sleep if I don’t see you
[C] jannik!! dios! no puedes decirme cosas así ( jannik!! God! You cannot just say things like that to me)
[J] Per favore 🥺 ( Please 🥺)
[J] Caro ( Darling)
Later, Jannik will say it’s a typo. That he obviously meant to type ‘Carlos’. Later he’ll tell himself all sorts of lies. For now, it works.
[C] 1111
Jannik is on his feet instantly. He hearts the message, pockets the phone, slides into the nearest pair of trainers whilst pulling on a black hoodie. At the mirror by the doorway, he stops to check his reflection, fiddles with the curls of his fringe, this way and that, before realising how pointless the endeavour is when he’ll have to pull his hood low over them. It might be late in the evening but when you’re sneaking out to see your greatest rival, one can never be too careful.
Carlos’ room is three floors up from his. Jannik takes the stairs, his long legs gobbling up the steps two, three, at a time. The carpets are more worn out here, less plush, than in the suites, his hasty steps echoing a little too loudly in the otherwise silent corridor.
Jannik’s heart is thundering by the time he reaches the dark mahogany door, the row of gilded ones glistening starkly in contrast. Wiping his clammy palms on his sweatpants, he knocks; once, softly. Too softly. He grimaces, then knocks twice, louder, with more conviction.
Nothing. No rustling, no muffled footsteps. Just silence.
Maybe Carlos has changed his mind. Maybe it was nothing more than a moment of weakness which now he regrets. Maybe, Jannik should do what he should have done long before this point and practice some of that damn self control he’s so famous for.
It’s not too late to turn around. Go have that shower he was meant to, let the hot water burn at his skin until it’s red and itchy. Lie in the darkness, count the car headlights which play off the ceiling until his mind switches off and he can finally, finally, stop thinking, worrying, wanting Carlos.
His feet do not move, although his fist does. It practically pounds on the door, three times.
If he were not listening so intently, Jannik would have missed the soft sigh just before the door lock clicks open. Carlos’ face is drawn, his eyes tired. He keeps the door between them like a shield, only a sliver of lilac hoodie peeking out through the gap.
“Ciao.” Jannik waves awkwardly, and he could kick himself when all he receives is an unimpressed look in return. He starts to fiddle with the strings of his hoodie. “Eh, maybe I can come in, no?”
Carlos hesitates, grips the door with white knuckles, as if he’s afraid that Jannik will just barge in past him. “Ah, better no. You see I'm ok, ok? Now you can go sleep.”
A sudden realisation hits Jannik like a slap to the face.
All the dismissals, the hesitancy, it can only mean one thing. Carlos must have company, and Jannik, like the grand idiot he is, ignored all the signs and barged in where he wasn’t wanted, or needed.
His cheeks flame. “Carlos, I…sorry…I should know…sorry, I interrupt…you and your…I, sorry you are not alone, and I, sorry, I go…sorry…” A lump catches in his throat, his voice petering off.
It shouldn’t sting like this, squeeze so hard at Jannik’s chest that it steals all the breath from his lungs. He has no right to make any demands of who Carlos spends his nights with. It is what he chose for them.
No. No, it is what they have both chosen, he corrects. Somehow it does little to dull the ache.
He turns to leave, manages all of one step when a firm hand on his wrist stops him, drags Jannik past the doorway, and into the suite.
The very empty suite save for him and Carlos.
Ah.
Carlos’ eyes are no longer tired, instead they blaze. "De qué coño estás hablando, Jannik? (What the fuck are you talking about, Jannik?)"
Well, he feels sheepish, scuffs his shoes on the carpet. “Sorry, I think…thought that you, that he…I assume, sorry…” Every other word out his mouth seems to be an apology, and Jannik winces. “I know you do not like, you do not like…to be alone, after, after you lose…” He pauses again, frowns this time. “Where is Gere? Why is he not with you?”
With a noise that sounds like disgust, Carlos drops his wrist. "This, this is why you worry? This is why you come to check on me? To, to make sure I’m alone? Qué carajo, Jannik? (This, this is why you worry? This is why you come to check on me? To, to make sure I’m alone? What the hell, Jannik?)"
“No! Carlos, no…I only try, I want…”
He doesn’t let Jannik explain any further, gives him his back. Stalks off, sits down heavily on the rumpled duvet at the foot of the bed, the only messy object in the entire troom. For all that Carlos likes to present himself as a total ditz, he’s actually a very neat and organised person.
“You want everything, Janni.” He says tiredly. “And is not fair.”
Jannik approaches with caution, like one would a foal which might startle at any moment. Joins him on the edge of the bed. Not too close to Carlos though. Too close is a dangerous thing.
“I only want you not to be sad.”
Carlos lets out a wet laugh. “I lose a match everyone expect me to win? How do I not be sad?”
His hand itches to reach out, instead Jannik lays it flat, palm down, in the space between them. “These things, they happen. You learn, next time you win.”
"Sí, claro, así de fácil. (Yes, of course, just like that.)"
“No?”
“Nothing works. I cannot, couldn’t focus. All I think is…” He sighs, deep and heavy. “You watch?”
A half shrug, a pantomime of feigned disinterest. "Un po’. Was out having dinner. ( A little. Was out having dinner.)"
“With Laila?”
However much Carlos tries to hide the bitter tone to his voice, Jannik hears it anyway. “Is this what it’s all about? Her?”
Carlos doesn’t reply, he doesn’t meet his eye either. Just burrows deeper into his hoodie. Any further and he’ll disappear completely.
“I don’t keep this a secret from you, Carlos. You know already about all this.”
“You know about Gere in New York. Do you find it easy there?”
Something ugly twists in Jannik’s gut. The sound of his serve thwacking into the net, over and over, rings in his ears. He grits his teeth. “We discuss this Carlos. We make our choices for tennis. You agree.”
Jannik doesn’t mean for it to sound accusing, yet somehow it does. Maybe because said choice always seems to benefit Carlos more than him. One, two, three Championship points, there, then gone. A lopsided head to head. Tennis’ golden boy, born under a lucky star, there to always vanquish the robotic monstrosity on the other side of the net.
Carlos places his hand next to Jannik’s, palm up, giving him the choice. “Does not mean is easy.”
Except it never is a choice, not when it comes to Carlos. He is as inevitable as the rise of the sun, as unstoppable as the pull of the tide. Fated, predestined for Jannik, perhaps as a punishment for some sin in a different lifetime. He intertwines their fingers nonetheless.
“I know.”
Of course Jannik knows. Why else would he be here? In his greatest rival’s room, at well gone midnight, having to be up at the crack of dawn to prepare for his match tomorrow, other than because he just cannot stay away.
It would kill him. Any sort of distance. It almost did. Those three months of silence, of staring at an empty chat, of nothing. They almost killed Carlos too. It is an experience neither is willing to repeat.
With a gentle tug on their joined hands, Carlos comes willingly into an embrace. Lets his head rest on the crook of Jannik’s shoulder. The short, bristly hair tickles at his cheek, he likes it. Closes his eyes, and lets a small smile form on his lips.
They sit quietly for a little while, unconcerned by anything outside the comforting cocoon of each other’s arms. Jannik counts the number of breaths they take in sync. One, two, three…
Carlos’ exhale shudders, then words begin to pour out of him. “I know what we agree, I know this, and I try to be happy that you’re happy.” Jannik tightens his hold on the other man. “Is just hard to, to see her in Vienna, with your family, when you say…and in New Your, when you say you’re in love…is just hard.”
The confession hangs like a miasma in the stale airconditioned air.
And possibly it’s because of the lateness of the hour, or because confessions are easier when you cannot look into the eyes of a person, or maybe Jannik is just tired of only ever not quite saying what he means.
“What I say, about love…” Jannik hesitates, understanding that once he utters this there will be no taking it back. “When I say it, I do not think about, I…is not, it’s not about her.”
If this were a movie, Carlos would make his own declaration at this point, tears of happiness spilling onto his cheeks. Jannik would tenderly wipe them away. They would kiss, consequences be damned. They could live happily ever after.
In reality, Carlos only says. “Can you stay tonight?”
Jannik does not blame Carlos for protecting his own heart with the sort of restraint learnt from years of practice. It is why he shouldn’t agree to his request. Why he really, really, should not stay the night.
“No one else is coming?”
“I send everyone away before.” The ‘I only want you’ goes unspoken. Jannik files it away in the little box he keeps of all the other unsaid things between them. Still, the apprehension must show on his face because Carlos adds. “Only to sleep. Por favor, Janni.”
Tennis teaches you discipline, patience, denial. Jannik would do well to remember those hard learnt lessons in this instance. One look into Carlos’ pleading eyes, undoes him completely. He’s nothing but a weak man, a sinner in every sense of the word.
“Okay. Yes, Carlos, I stay.”
There is that smile which never fails to make Jannik’s stomach flip. It’s the one which he’s been chasing all evening; the one which makes all the heartache infinitesimally more bearable.
Carlos scrambles under the covers, removes his ridiculously oversized hoodie, his t-shirt; still smiling. Expectant. Jannik tries not to stare at the chiseled chest presented to him. Toes off his trainers instead, turns down the aircon dial, removes his hoodie also, but keeps on his t-shirt.
Skin on skin would be dangerous. Too much temptation for the state he has been in all evening.
Jannik slides under the duvet, plumps the pillow, remembers to take his phone out of his pocket. Three missed calls, all from Laila. Jannik tries to tamper down his grimace along with his guilt, but of course Carlos notices.
"Todo bien? (Everything ok?)" He asks quietly.
With a swipe of his thumb the notifications disappear. Jannik places the phone screen down on the bedside table. He’ll deal with any consequences come morning.
"Sì, sì, bene. (Yes, yes, all good.)"
He settles into the mattress, turns off the lights, leaving the room bathed in only the ambient glow which creeps around the curtains. Carlos moves closer, taps his arm. Jannik shifts, allows the other man to mold himself against his body.
Carlos always runs warm, and today is no exception. Jannik likes it, finds it comforting. It reminds him of being a young boy back home, of hugging a hot water bottle so tightly it might burst whilst a snow storm raged outside.
There is no storm now, other than the one which begins to rage in his chest when Carlos’ fingers find their way under the hem of Jannik’s t-shirt, tracing slow circles into his skin.
“Carlos.” He whispers warningly.
The patterns stop, but the hand does not get removed. "Dulces sueños, Janni. (Sweet dreams, Janni.)"
Jannik swallows around the dryness in his throat, ignores the featherlight brush of lips against his collarbone. "You too, caro. (You too, darling.)"
For a while he watches the play of headlights from far below criss-cross the ceiling, waits for Carlos to relax into sleep. When his breaths deepen, Jannik allows himself the luxury of placing a fleeting kiss on his forehead. Holds him closer, counts the beats of his heart, one two, three…lets it lull him into a peaceful slumber.
For now, for tennis, this is enough.
It has to be.