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2023
Carlos had played like he hated him.
Jannik can still feel the hush of the crowd each time he'd yelled "Vamos!", the depth of his groans whenever he’d tried to hit the ball with all his strength, the grip of his arms on his shoulders when they’d hugged at the end of the match.
Carlos had played like he hated him, and yet he now lies naked in Jannik's bed and lets him fidget with his injured finger. The sheets smell of cedar and Marseille soap, just like the Italian boy.
In the dim light of the room, Carlos looks younger than he really is, though Jannik sometimes has trouble remembering that he is not even twenty. Yet, he holds the future of tennis within his hands.
And it's Jannik’s hand he's holding right now.
“I think we should play a game”, Carlos suddenly says, his breath still short. “La hora de la verdad. Hour of truth. You can't lie as long as the game's on. Whatever we say tonight, it shall never come out of this bed. I mean, never.”
“Carlos, why would I tell anyone about our pillow talk?” Jannik mutters.
He can't really focus on anything with Carlos's legs entangled with his, but he tries.
“En serio, do you want to play?”
There is a look of malice in his hazel eyes. Jannik thinks he might get hard.
“Sometimes I wish I could smoke, just to relieve the pressure a bit”, Jannik whispers after a few seconds.
Carlos looks at him with his eyes open wide, and it's like he's never seen him before. But then he laughs, the sound so loud it resonates through the whole room.
“Okay, I didn't expect that. It's a great start. But I was thinking more of asking each other questions. Things you'd like to know but would never dare to say out loud in real life. And remember, you can't lie, I'll know if you do.”
Jannik thinks about it for a minute.
Hooking up with Carlos, the one kid on the tour Darren keeps telling him is going to be his greatest rival, is a thing. Opening up, giving him any type of information that Carlos could use against him in the near future, is another.
But right now, they're more horny teenagers than top tennis players. The bottle of lube is still open on the night table, and Carlos's clothes are scattered across the floor.
For once, Jannik wants it to be a normal hookup situation with no underlying dynamics he'll have to reflect upon later. He is just a man in his twenties, enjoying the presence of another hot dude in his sheets.
“I'm game”, he finally says, after what feels like an eternity.
At first, the questions are easy to answer.
Jannik talks about sometimes regretting not choosing skiing. Carlos tells him how scared of Novak he gets sometimes, swears the Serbian appeared as a snake in his nightmares once.
They speak with their hands, too. Jannik traces invisible shapes on Carlos’s chest as he admits he misses his brothers. Carlos counts the freckles on his cheeks when he asks him about his nonna.
“Last week, you said this was a one-time thing.”
Jannik closes his eyes. He pictures it crystal clear. The heat of the Californian desert, the Indian Wells frenzy, Carlos's golden skin under the sun, and the desperate need to know his taste after a couple of drinks with his team.
“Why did you booty call me in the middle of the night today then?” Carlos asks, his voice softer, less confident than a few minutes before.
There are lots of things Jannik could say. Like how he hasn't stopped thinking about that night ever since, how he could still feel Carlos's lips on his neck days after, how he's woken up all sweaty and out of breath and looking for his presence in bed mere nights ago.
But it's the hour of truth, and he can't lie. And if he has to be honest, there's only one reason Jannik called him tonight.
“It's those damn white shorts.” He clears his throat. “They, um… they fit you well.”
“What?” Carlos sits up in the bed, visibly confused, his mouth ajar. “What do you mean my shorts fit me well?”
Jannik swallows. “I mean your fucking shorts distracted me throughout the entire match. It's your thighs and... And damn it, your ass, Carlos. It's a wonder I managed to win today. I couldn't even focus on the ball.”
The air thickens between the two bodies. Carlos's face reddens. Somehow, Jannik’s open desire for his body intimidates him.
The weight of their mutual attraction hangs in the atmosphere, and Jannik knows from the look on Carlos's face that they're thinking about the same thing. This might not be just a Sunshine Double thing.
“Hour of truth. Did you mean it?”
Carlos is falling asleep on his shoulder, the game long dissolved in kisses and panting breaths and the sound of skin on skin.
“What? Just sleep, Jan. You have training tomorrow”, Carlos groans.
“Yeah, exactly. So, did you mean it? What you told me at the net today.”
Jannik waits a few seconds, but nothing comes from Carlos. He continues.
“You told me to go for it. You just lost your number one spot because I took you out in the semis, and the first thing you said was, “go for it, I'll be rooting for you”. Did you mean it, Carlos?”
There's a moment of silence, and Jannik almost thinks he's never gonna get an answer from the Spaniard.
“Yes, I did.” Carlos's voice is weak, almost just a whisper. “If it can't be me, there's no one on the tour I'd rather see win than you, Jannik.”
Jannik thinks about his own tears in the Indian Wells locker room and how he'd resented Carlos for making winning look so easy. His eyes go back to the man resting on his chest, being so genuinely supportive barely seven hours after he lost, and within a second, Jannik knows he's down bad.
2024
They had exchanged smiles over the net. The crowd had gone wild over what could already be considered the point of the tournament, and Carlos had smiled at him from the other side of the court. A real grin, the kind that makes your eyes crinkle and your teeth come out.
They had exchanged smiles over the net, and there had been a look of worry on Carlos's face when Jannik fell trying to hit one of those impossible balls he loved to play when the point already seemed lost. Yet Carlos had bragged about beating him, and Jannik had watched him from the cool-down room, resisting the urge to barge into the media room and shut him up.
Carlos had bragged about beating him, and now he was showering in Jannik’s bathroom.
The morning is still young, but the sun is already high in the Californian sky. The mirrors are all fogged up, and the air thick with the scent of Marseille soap. Jannik always finds it weird when Carlos hugs him goodbye smelling like himself. Or when he starts using Murcian expressions like he grew up in southeastern Spain. They are morphing into one another, and it's a wonder no one has noticed it over the past year.
"I am so late, Juanki is going to kill me!" Carlos whines from the other side of the steamy shower screen.
Jannik watches his shoulder and the muscles of his back through the glass. He can feel his stomach tightening with the thought of stepping into that stall with Carlos.
“I hope he does”, he teases instead, resisting the urge to touch Carlos's wet, tanned skin. “That way you'll stop bragging about beating me in your interviews. I know you're obsessed with me, but come on.”
“¿Qué dices? I knew it. You're still mad I won yesterday, huh?”
Carlos's face lights up with mischief. His accent is stronger in the mornings. That is something Jannik has understood through months of waking up in the same bed.
“I'm not mad,” he lies. Of course he is. Carlos knows it too. “I just think you talk too much.”
“I talk too much?! Please, Jan, who was it that promised to destroy me in straight sets here, huh?”
Jannik closes his eyes. He remembers Carlos's defiant look back in Melbourne when the Italian had told him: “If Sascha beat you here, I will destroy you in Indian Wells. Straight sets. I’ve got other things to do.”
“It's those fucking shorts. I know you did it on purpose. They're tighter than last year's for fuck's sake. No room for imagination,” Jannik mutters.
He'd almost lost his mind when Carlos had stepped on court.
“That's not a good excuse, Jannik. You don't need to imagine. You know exactly what's under these shorts”, Carlos snaps back, standing naked on the other side of the transparent screen.
“That's exactly the problem!”
Jannik stands up. Right now, he doesn't care about Juanki or any of the things he has to do before boarding his flight to Miami later this afternoon. In this very moment, the only thing that matters is the smug look he'd like to wipe off Carlos's face.
“The shower is big enough for two, you know”, Carlos says, and suddenly his voice is less confident.
The water stops running.
“Juan Carlos is going to kill you”, Jannik replies, but he's already taking off his shirt.
“I really don't want to think about him right now.”
For a moment, no one speaks. They just look at each other, and Jannik wonders if he will always feel like his chest might explode whenever Carlos is around.
But then Carlos's phone vibrates on the shelf and his brother's face illuminates the screen.
“Hostia, es Álvaro. Can you pick up the phone?”
Carlos’s expression shifts, all teasing gone. Jannik frowns at the annoying reggaeton ringtone.
“What? Don’t worry, he knows I'm here. He’s supposed to cover for me. Just answer it, Jannik. Por favor.”
“Carlos, hostia, pero ¿qué haces? Juanki te está buscando y ya no puedo seguir mintiendo. Si no estás aquí en diez minutos se va a rayar y te va a matar. De verdad, ¡date prisa!”
Jannik thought his level of Spanish was decent but hearing the words flowing out of Álvaro’s mouth humbles him immediately.
“Um, Álvaro… this is Jannik. I–“
“Ah, Jannik ¿qué tal? Can you tell my stupid brother to hurry? I know he enjoys your company but he has a fucking tournament to win.”
“Yes, I will. He's…he's in the shower right now.”
“Vale, pues. I'll see you around, Jannik.”
When Álvaro hangs up, Jannik stays silent. Carlos is mumbling a song, washing his hair vigorously.
Jannik has had a hard time dealing with the fact that they're being so normal about it, about them hooking up every time they play the same tournament, about knowing the exact number of moles on Carlos's body and the sound of his moans when Jannik touches him the way he loves most. Yet it seems like what just happened, answering Carlos's phone as if they'd been married for years, is a whole other step into intimacy.
“Hour of truth”, he declares when Carlos steps out of the shower, with just a towel around his hips, his dark hair dripping wet.
The Spaniard grabs the toothbrush he left here three nights ago before looking at Jannik. He's waiting for the question. The game is on.
“Who did you tell?”
Carlos opens his mouth, but at first nothing comes out. He sees the crease of worry that has appeared between Jannik’s eyebrows.
“Can we talk about it later? You heard Álvaro. Juanki is waiting for me.”
“Hour of truth, Carlos. You invented the game. You know it can't be postponed.”
Carlos's phone rings again. His dad. This time he turns it down immediately.
“Álvaro knows. Obviously.” Carlos bites his lip. “And Holger, too.”
“Holger? You told Holger? Cazzo, why did you do that, Carlos?”
“I didn't mean to, okay? I was showing him something on my phone, and there was this picture of us in bed, and he saw it, and I couldn't lie to him. He's one of my best friends.”
Jannik pinches the bridge of his nose. He's not angry. It’s something tighter.
“What did you tell them?”
Carlos faces him now.
“I told them the truth. That it was supposed to be a one-time thing, but that a year later I'm still in your bathroom, and yet you refuse to admit that there's more to it than just sex.”
The words hang in the air for an instant. Carlos is looking at him so candidly that Jannik thinks he might have hallucinated. There's more to it than just sex. Neither of them had ever said it out loud before, though they both know it's the truth.
“It's alright, Jan”, Carlos says when the silence stretches too long. “You have the right to be falling for me.”
“But I'm not!”
Jannik doesn't even know why he denies it. The game is still on and no one is convinced, not even himself.
Carlos smiles sadly.
“I think I should go now. I'm really late and I have a tournament to win. I'll see you in Miami.”
He comes out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. He smells of Marseille soap. Jannik wants to cry.
2025
Jannik had cried after the match. Not in the locker room, not on the way back to his hotel. Fifteen thousand people had been looking at Carlos hugging his parents and brothers, fulfilling the prodigious prophecy that had been cast upon him, while Jannik had stood on a bench all alone.
Jannik had cried after the match, hoping not one person on the Philippe Chatrier court would notice his wet cheeks. For once, he'd been honest in his speech.
“It's very, very difficult right now, but it's okay”, he'd said, and Carlos had looked like he was about to cry for him.
When the Spaniard had hugged the Coupe des Mousquetaires, Jannik had wished it had been him instead of the trophy.
Jannik had cried after the match. And in the locker room. And on the way back to his hotel. And he's crying in his bed now.
The room is too quiet. There is no one to fight with over which movie to watch, no one to tease him over his missed smash, no one to kiss the tears away. The suite is way too big for just one person, and the other side of the bed is desperately empty.
His mom has called, asking him if he wanted to come home. His team has tried everything in their power to bring a smile to his face. His friends have sent texts. Jannik has never had so many people telling him they're proud of everything he has achieved. Even Novak sent him a DM on Instagram.
And yet, he still feels like shit. And he wants a cigarette.
“I won't sleep tonight very well, but it's okay”, he had said back there on the podium and the simple thought of having been so vulnerable in front of the whole world makes him want to throw up.
An old French movie is playing on the TV, something about policemen in Saint-Tropez that Jannik doesn't really understand, but that keeps him from spiraling more than he already is. He sees it so clearly, the three missed championship points that would have spared him any of this, that it's painful.
And then, there's Carlos. The way he dropped to the red soil, how his face lit up around his team, how cordial his handshake had been during the ceremony, when minutes before it looked like he could renounce his title just to comfort Jannik. And his fucking shorts.
Jannik’s phone lights up on the night table. Another stupid congratulatory text, he supposes. It almost angers him. Why should he be congratulated when he basically fumbled the match of his career?
This time, Jannik doesn't even want to read it. He tries to focus on Louis de Funès's absurd face. But then a second text comes in, and a third.
hour of truth. hora de la verdad. ora della verità.
whatever you want to call it.
i know ure not sleeping.
Jannik hates how fast his heart starts beating when he sees Carlos’s name on his screen.
you should be celebrating your title
i am.
pero te echo de menos.
¿entonces? are u playing?
Jannik thinks about it for a second. He knows the game can bring up things he doesn't want to talk about right now, and he knows Carlos is probably very drunk.
im in
shoot
The three little dots appear for longer than Jannik’s patience can handle. He is sitting upright in his bed, every nerve of his body anxiously anticipating Carlos's question. The match, the tears, the movie, they all seem to have been forgotten within a minute, and the only thing that matters right now is his phone screen.
do u wish i never existed?
The question takes him aback. Jannik has never really thought about it before. It's like Carlos has always been part of the picture, like somehow their names cannot be dissociated from one another.
They've always been Jannik-and-Carlos, interchangeable number one and two, holding the future of the sport on their shoulders. They're also the same Jannik-and-Carlos who play rock-paper-scissors to decide whether the morning playlist is going to be reggaeton or German techno, Jannik-and-Carlos who have never been able to watch an entire movie together, not once in two years, Jannik-and-Carlos who still won't admit they're very much in love with each other (or maybe that's just Jannik).
If Carlos didn't exist, or at least had never picked up a tennis racket, Jannik would have many more trophies on his shelf. He would have played every tournament without a shadow of a doubt over whether or not he could win it. He wouldn't be somebody's biggest rival, but the greatest player the tour has seen in a long time. No one could resist him.
Jannik picks up the phone.
“Hola, Jan.”
Carlos's voice sounds very far. Jannik doesn't remember ever seeing him drunk.
“Are you completely stupid?” he says, his pulse pounding at his temples.
“What? No, I meant it. I-I do miss you.”
“Not that, Jesus, Carlos,” Jannik exhales. “Mi fai impazzire,” he mutters.
On the other side of the city, someone calls for Carlos. He doesn't answer.
“You can't speak Italian during the hour of truth. That's not fair”, he whines.
Jannik wants to kiss him right now.
“Why'd you ask?”
He knows he’s not supposed to ask a question if he hasn’t answered first but he figures Carlos won't be strict about the rules of the game.
“Pues, first of all, I am extremely drunk at the moment.”
Jannik wishes he could see the look on his face and drown into his hazel eyes.
“And you looked like you wanted to die back there. And I know it's my fault in some way. So I figured it might be easier for you if I didn't exist.”
They stay silent for a bit. Outside, people are singing an old Spanish song that Carlos loves.
“Get to the end of it, ciccino. I know there's more.”
Jannik’s voice is soft, almost like a hug to a kid.
“It's just that…” Carlos sounds like he's about to cry when he should be having the time of his life. “When you told me that we should keep our distances back in Rome, I felt like you resented me for something. I don't know. I don't want us to be distant, Jannik, but I get it if you think it's better for the sport. Lo superaré.”
“Zitto. Just shut up, Carlos.”
Jannik is pacing around the room now, his hands shaking. He remembers the look on Carlos's face in the Roman trattoria, how confused he'd seemed.
They’d spent three months together, in between American hotel rooms, Carlos's family house, and Monegasque beaches, and though Jannik had never said it out loud, there was nothing he could do to deny how in love with Carlos he was.
But then the ban had ended, and he'd returned to the court. How was he supposed to give it his everything to defeat Carlos when Jannik knew all these things about him?
How he always cries watching Forrest Gump, and how he hates coffee unless there's cinnamon in it (something that deeply hurts Jannik's national pride). How he has to call his mom every day just to make sure she's okay, and how he would do anything to make Jannik feel better after he's lost a match (which only ever happens when he plays Carlos).
“I'd renounce every trophy if it meant that I could wake up next to you at least once again,” he finally says, and it's like his shoulders are lighter than they've been in years.
“You don't mean it.”
“It's the hour of truth, Carlos. I can't lie,” Jannik replies. It's so honest, his stomach hurts.
“¡Carlos, por el amor de Dios! To’ el equipo te está buscando. ¿Qué coño estás haciendo? Tienes que venir ya, que vamos a abrir el champán.”
Jannik recognises Álvaro, though he's slurring his words. He's even drunker than Carlos.
“I guess I have to go,”Carlos whispers.
Jannik knows he only has to say a word for Carlos to drop everything and come spend the night with him. He closes his eyes.
“¡Hola, Jannik! I'm sorry, I have to take him from you.”
“¡Cállate, Alvi! ¡Venga ya! Sorry, Jan.”
“It's alright. Tell him hi for me. Oh, and Carlos?”
“¿Sí?”
“Hour of truth. Will you remember any of it tomorrow?”
Carlos stifles a laugh.
“I can't lie. Probably not.”
Jannik’s eyes are still red and puffy, but the smile on his face could light up the whole room.
“It's alright. Love you then.”
2026
Jannik had yelled after breaking Daniil in the third set. The Iceman of tennis, the one who never showed any emotion on court had let out a cry so feral the entire Foro Italico had roared with him. He'd understood then why so many players showed so much of what they were feeling, how good it felt to release your emotions in the moment and not two hours later, all alone in a hotel room.
Jannik had yelled after breaking Daniil in the third set, and Carlos had made fun of him later that afternoon.
“You're turning into me, I see it!” he'd said, as they had been rewatching the highlights. “You're raising your fists, you're yelling after important points. I almost thought you were going to say vamos at some point.”
Jannik had tried to defend himself, but he'd known that Carlos had been right. He had liked the idea.
Jannik had yelled after breaking Daniil in the third set, and Carlos had made fun of him, but right now, as he's resting on his back, the weight of everything he has accomplished finally sinking in, it is Carlos who is playing with his hair to relax him.
Messages keep coming in on Jannik’s phone, everyone celebrating his Golden Masters achievement. Novak welcomes him to this very private club. Thousands of people like his latest Instagram post, the one with his home trophy.
And then, among all these notifications, there is the only one that really matters. Jannik’s heart skips a beat and he feels very stupid. Carlos is literally sitting in bed with him, he shouldn't be reacting like that.
“You couldn't even wait five minutes to like my post. I knew you were a big fan of mine, but come on,” he says, a cheeky smile on his lips.
Carlos's hand stops moving in his hair.
“What do you mean, a big fan of yours? I picked the photos. I'm just admiring my work!”
“Oh yeah, sorry. That's why you congratulated me on your public story before I even got here, huh?”
Jannik can hear Carlos's sheepish smile spreading on his face.
“I was just being polite. You don't deserve it anyway.”
“What I don't deserve are those ridiculous biceps emojis,” the redhead continues to tease. “What are we, twelve?”
“Oh, no me jodas. What is it? Did you want me to use hearts on fire?”
“Well, technically… I am your boyfriend,” Jannik says, beaming.
The words taste sweet in his mouth, and Carlos's sudden kiss even sweeter.
“Why are you laughing?” Carlos asks against his lips.
“Nothing. I'm just imagining the reactions if you posted my face with hearts on your main account.”
Carlos laughs and their bodies are so close it resonates through Jannik’s chest.
“They're all already freaking out just because we don't publicly hate each other. Imagine if they saw us right now!”
Jannik cannot recall the number of times he's been asked about Carlos and how they managed to maintain a friendship when their rivalry is the symbol of tennis. His answer changes every time.
And then, there's what they both like to call the slip-ups, moments where they stopped trying to pretend to just be cordial with one another.
Flying to Melbourne together from Seoul probably wasn't the best idea they had. They had spent twelve hours cuddling on the plane, had fallen asleep watching a very bad movie halfway through the flight (Álvaro had taken very cute pictures of them) and by the time they had reached Melbourne, Carlos smelled of Marseille soap and cedar.
Then, there had been the One-Point Slam, when Carlos hadn't been able to resist the urge to pat Jannik’s bum, just like he had done in Korea days before, and like he always did when Jannik came out of the shower. Iga had almost choked.
In Torino, Jannik had thought Carlos was about to cry during his speech after the final.
“Hour of truth, did you mean it?” the Spaniard had asked days after that.
Jannik had replayed the words in his head.
“If it's another player than me, I always choose you,” he'd said, in front of everyone, without even thinking about it.
Of course he had meant it.
But the worst of it all was probably the Monte Carlo final net hug. Jannik had never been a tactile person, and his embraces at the net had always been rushed. But then, in front of the whole crowd, he'd clung to Carlos's body like he would disappear if he let go. He'd giggled like a middle school boy, but by the time he had realized it might not be appropriate, he couldn't have cared less. He had just won a major title on clay for the first time. The only thing he'd wanted was to hold the man he loved. Not to mention the fact that sun-kissed Carlos looked absolutely diabolical in blue.
“Hour of truth,” Carlos says, hours later.
They haven't moved from the bed. Carlos's splinted wrist is resting on a pillow and he's wearing Jannik’s Azzurri jersey (though he keeps making fun of them for missing out on the World Cup, they actually fought about it once).
“Do we really need that?” Jannik sighs.
“It's tradition, we have to respect it. So, hour of truth, do you miss me on court?”
Jannik doesn't answer at first. He thinks about the five Masters he's won since the beginning of the season, about how everyone thinks he's going to win the French Open and Wimbledon now that Carlos has officially forfeited.
“It's boring. Daniil played like a beast, that was cool, but with Casper, I didn't enjoy it. He didn't try to get every ball like you would have. It was too easy.”
Carlos nods silently.
“I will come back, you know. Someone needs to stop you or people might get bored of watching you win every other Sunday.”
They're looking at each other now. Jannik presses his forehead against Carlos's. They both smell of Marseille soap.
“I can't wait.”