Chapter Text
The air in the players' lounge was thick, not just with the hum of a dozen industrial air conditioners, but with the suffocating weight of shared anxiety. On the giant high-definition screens lining the walls, the scene at Rod Laver Arena looked like a fever dream. The sun was a white-hot hammer, and Jannik Sinner was the anvil.
Carlos Alcaraz hadn't sat down in twenty minutes. He was pacing a ten-foot strip of carpet, his eyes locked on the monitor, his own muscles twitching in sympathetic agony every time Jannik stumbled. He didn’t care who saw him. He didn’t care that Holger Rune was watching him from a nearby sofa with an arched eyebrow, or that the coaches from half a dozen other teams were witnessing his unraveling.
To the world, it was just the struggle of a champion against someone who was challenging him. To Carlos, this was torture.
"He’s not breathing right," Carlos whispered, his voice cracking. He gripped a half-frozen liter of water so hard the plastic crunched.
On screen, Jannik went for a wide serve and his leg buckled. He didn't fall, but he lingered in a crouch for a second too long, his racket head resting on the melting blue hardcourt. His face, usually a mask of calm, was flushed a dangerous, scorched crimson. His eyes were glassy, staring at nothing.
"Come on, Janni... move, please move," Carlos pleaded under his breath.
The clock on the top corner of the screen had been a constant source of dread. Every minute that ticked by pushed the ambient temperature past another unbearable threshold. Carlos watched, powerless, as his partner— the man who felt like a piece of his own soul— was being systematically disassembled by the Australian summer. He knew the stats of the match, of course, the mounting unforced errors, the way Jannik’s first-serve percentage was plummeting, offering a lifeline to his opponent, Spizzirri. But the tactical breakdown was irrelevant to Carlos. His concern was visceral, stripped bare of rivalries and ranking points.
“Commentator 1: Sinner is in all sorts of trouble, not just with the heat, but with his conditioning. He looks completely out of shape for a major. This is a tremendous opportunity for Spizzirri to press for the upset.”
“Commentator 2: I have to agree. You simply cannot afford to lose your touch like this at the Grand Slam level. The movement is gone. One has to wonder if this— this collapse— is the first sign that his career is finally going to taper off. He's offering nothing. Zero fight.”
Carlos didn't even register their voices, only the irritating buzz of their cruel judgment. They saw a player ‘losing shape.’ Carlos saw the tiny, almost imperceptible wince in Jannik's shoulder after a routine forehand— the tell-tale sign that the first, small cramps were beginning to hit. He saw the shallow, panting breaths that no longer recovered his oxygen, just cycled the furnace air in and out of his lungs. That wasn't just tennis. That was dangerous.
He walked over to a metal table and slammed the cold water bottle down. The noise made everyone around him jump slightly, but Carlos paid them no mind. He grabbed a fresh, colder bottle and began to peel the label off with frantic, nervous energy. Joder. He cursed the ATP's heat rules in his head, a furious, impotent rage bubbling up inside him. Two-point-five, three-point-zero, four-point-five... the scale moves up in tiny increments while you're leaving him out there to almost have a stroke on court.
His worry was compounded by a chilling fact: Jannik’s skin condition. Carlos knew how fragile it was in this climate. The redhead gene meant Jannik’s tolerance for the sun was almost nonexistent, his fair skin drinking up the heat and radiating it back out, turning his whole body into a dangerously overheating engine. Esto no es seguro, the Spanish words ringing in his head like an alarm bell. The doctors should be pulling him off the court.
He squeezed the water bottle so hard the cap shot off and clattered across the room, spraying some water on the floor . He didn't even notice. All he could see was Jannik taking another swig of water at the changeover, the way his hand was trembling against the bottle neck. He was trying to hide it, but the high-definition camera didn't miss a thing. Carlos knew the cramps were not just coming and going, they were constantly there, like a snake coiling in Jannik's core, ready to strike brutally and incapacitate him.
He imagined himself vaulting the barrier, running onto the court, pulling Jannik into his arms, and dragging him to safety. The urge was so overwhelming that his chest tightened, a sharp, physical manifestation of his fear. He had to remind himself: Jannik was a strong athlete and he had to win this. He deserved to win this. But more than anything, Carlos needed him to be healthy. The title was dust, Jannik’s safety was everything.
He started reciting a silent litany, a stream of frantic prayers in Spanish and English— anything to ward off the disaster he saw brewing. He pictured their quiet apartment in Monte Carlo, the smooth, cool feel of the sheets, the simple, effortless peace of their life away from the spotlight. He desperately wanted to transport them both there, away from the screaming crowd and the blazing, murderous sun.
He looked at the scoreboard again. A break of serve. Spizzirri was up. The pressure was now lethal. Jannik stumbled trying to change direction, a slight, almost negligible misstep, but Carlos caught it. He saw the slight wince, the heavy breath. It wasn't a slip, it was a microscopic, full-body protest. Carlos’s throat went dry. He was watching his love fall apart, stroke by stroke, breath by heavy breath.
Then, the camera zoomed in. Jannik was leaning against the back towel rack, his chest heaving, his hands shaking as he tried to wipe sweat that wouldn't stop pouring. He looked small. He looked alone.
He looks like he’s about to give up, Carlos thought, and the realization felt like a physical blow to his stomach.
Suddenly, a siren-like tone chirped across the stadium speakers, echoing through the lounge. The ‘Heat Stress Scale’ graphic on the screen flashed a bright, alarming red: 5.0.
"Play is suspended," the umpire’s voice crackled. "The roof will be closed. Players will take a ten-minute break. You can leave court during break but I’ll remind you that taking medical treatment during this time is against the rules."
The lounge erupted in a low chatter of relief from the other players, but Carlos was already moving. He didn't look at his team. He didn't wait for permission. He bolted through the double doors, down the restricted hallway that led toward the court entrance, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He knew Jannik would need all the emotional support possible. He knew nothing could be done about the cramps, but he sure as hell would try to cheer his boyfriend up. Those ten minutes weren’t just a break— they were his chance to bring back the calm fighter in Jannik that was lost during the match to exhaustion and heat.