Chapter Text
They meet for the first time on court in Milan. Insignificant then to Alex, but he realizes now—belatedly—that it must've cursed him.
Alex had come in with too much confidence, maybe—a bit too much faith placed in his own racquet and feet. At number eighteen in the world, he’d been the top seed. The one to beat.
He’d been scarier back then, back when he was fresh-faced and bright-eyed, back both when and before he’d really had a chance. He’d liked that, liked the way lower-ranked players looked at him across the net, all caution and calculation, already half-defeated before the first point.
Jannik, decidedly, wasn't like that.
Jannik was his friend, or close enough for the tour’s standards; locker room conversation, shared practice courts, the occasional easy laugh in hallways. Nothing substantial. Nothing Alex could actually hold. And maybe that's Alex's fault, though it's not like Jannik ever made much more of an effort anyway.
They hadn't played each other before then, not when Jannik was still playing mostly Challengers. Maybe that was all the apology he would get. A few good years before. Before.
Milan had been nice that year, somewhat. Cold, yes, but manageable. The kind of cold that would seep into your bones if you lingered too long, or the kind of cold that felt inevitable. But manageable. It was not the kind that would permeate his performance, not like in the years to come.
Just a chill in November.
It was Alejandro, that first day. It'd been a solid win that should've been done in three but pushed to four. Miomir was the day after, another four sets—he felt ashamed of that third set, of the single game, but didn’t linger on it. Casper followed—that had been Alex's easiest win—then the semis against Frances, with another third set that Alex doesn't want to think about. Then finally.
Finally.
Finally.
Alex’s mind wanders to the finals often. Then wanders back to the days before, before any of the matches. He always seems to find himself stuck on the before. There's before Jannik, and there's after Jannik. Always Jannik, and always before.
Of the eight of them, Alex had arrived in Milan last, because he'd made it the furthest in Paris.
It wasn't much a deep run, but he'd made it to the round of sixteen before losing to Stefanos Tsitsipas in an embarrassing two sets. That match had been on Halloween, so it was a quick turnaround from Paris to Milan, and he’d only arrived late in the night on the Sunday before.
He’d crashed upon reaching his hotel room.
Monday dragged on slowly, though it only really began at Armani.
Suit fitting. Nothing new—not for Alex, who debuted in the top 100 last season and had steadily been climbing up the rankings since, and had already done multiple fittings before. It wasn’t routine, but it happened often enough that Alex knew the motions of it.
The difference, though, was the camera.
“I officially got in at 11:00 P.M. last night, but we’re here and ready to go,” he’d said.
The camera didn’t intimidate him, nor did the thought of being recorded, but he’d been full of so much nervous energy that he’d been sure he somehow managed to make that one sentence sound wrong.
Frances was there, and that was the first thing that Alex registered, because he knew Frances. He liked Frances (though it wasn’t a special trait; everybody liked Frances, his jokes and his outgoing personality). The second thing he registered was Jannik.
Jannik, all gangly limbs and awkward demeanour, dressed in a plain white sweatshirt and a pair of comfortable-looking grey sweatpants that looked just a bit short on him. His curls were less defined then, and there was something distinctly boyish about the way he interacted with Frances and Alex—like he didn’t feel like he belonged, exactly, and he didn’t, then. He still doesn’t.
It was nice, though, being at Armani with them. Frances made it easy. Comfortable. His presence seemed to relax Jannik, at least, although it wasn’t like Alex was particularly doting on him. It was just something he noticed as the tension in his own body started to drain out of him.
“Yeah, I mean, he’s a hotshot now,” Frances said to the camera, nudging Alex lightly with his shoulder, and Alex had to turn away and cover half of his face with a hand. “You know, he’s gotten into the top twenty, he’s like, ‘you know, I can roll in whenever I want now.’”
It was just good. Good in the way Frances was, playful and teasing but good-spirited. It drew the smallest smile from Jannik, anyway. That was some measure of success.
Then came the actual fitting, which Alex had been less than excited about, but he was prepared. It was what they were there for. He wanted it to be a quick affair, anyway, or as quick as a fitting could be.
Maybe it was quick. Maybe it was slow. Maybe it felt like moving through syrup, or maybe it was over in the blink of an eye. Maybe it was a lot of things, or nothing at all, or maybe it had all been a dream of Alex’s—a fantasy of a calm before the storm. Though there never really was much of a calm, nor much of a storm. Not with Jannik.
It was Jannik’s first suit.
He’d admitted it casually, though slightly embarrassed, when prompted by Frances, who had meant no harm when he laughed after the confession. Then came Jannik’s almost shrug, though it was really just him opening his arms and staring at Frances. Then the moment passed.
Alex’s eyes lingered. He didn’t think of it as lingering then, just taking stock, but perhaps his eyes did travel up and down the length of Jannik’s frame slower than necessary. He looked nice in the suit. It fit him well enough, which was the entire point, and Jannik seemed somewhat comfortable in it despite it being the first suit he’d ever really worn up until that point.
Generally, the fitting had been rather painless, which Alex found himself thankful for later when it became the only solid memory he could really pick out.
The tournament itself became something of a blur, only coming back into focus on Saturday.
(Alex is sure there is more that he remembers, or more that he should remember, but whenever he searches, he finds nothing other than what lives in videos and photos. Just little glimpses, here and there. Moments with Frances, with his team, with his family. He can’t reach any further past that despite how much he wonders. Jannik must have taken that from him, too—or maybe Alex gave it away. Maybe he lost it in sweat or tears or gasps or grunts. Maybe it melted off of him onto his racquet, dripping down and seeping into the court. Maybe he lost it at the net with a firm handshake and mumbled words. Maybe Jannik deserves it. Maybe Alex does, too.)
Of course, Alex had expected to make the finals like he had the year prior. He'd lost to Stefanos like he had in Paris, but losses against Stefanos never stuck in the back of his mind for long.
Alex liked to think, then, that he took losing very well, all things considered. He'd like to think that even now, except.
Except.
There was Jannik waiting for him in the finals. That, Alex hadn't fully expected, but he couldn't complain. Despite the level Alex had been seeing Jannik all week, Alex felt a bit of comfort in the fact that it was him. Because it was Jannik, Alex had felt safe enough to be arrogant.
He saw Jannik early that morning, earlier than Alex had anticipated, sitting comfortably at a table in a dark blue hoodie. He’d been eating breakfast. Alex had walked by too quickly to catalogue his plate, to analyze his food, and maybe it was a bit rude of him. Dismissive, even. He hadn’t realized Jannik had spoken to him until later, much later, when the documentary came out, and only then did it also strike Alex just how young Jannik was.
In that moment, his focus had been on dining out with his family and friends, and not on Jannik. Alex had no reason to think of Jannik outside of tennis. He didn’t cherish that nearly as much as he should’ve.
The match was slated later that evening, so Alex found himself at the practice court long after his food settled. Jannik had also been there. That didn’t surprise Alex in the slightest, nor did it distract him from his practice.
Much of his day was spent hovering around Jannik, or orbiting him, but they never really intersected. They’d be in the same room for half an hour, an hour, two hours, and wouldn’t speak a word to each other—not when there were other people around to talk to. Not when they had their separate groups.
And maybe they weren’t really friends anyway, not in the way normal people are friends. They didn’t speak much outside of the locker rooms when they shared them. Alex didn’t even have Jannik’s phone number at the time. They were friendly, like every guy on the tour was friendly with each other.
Still, Alex could pick Jannik’s laughter out of a crowd.
Alex remembers, after a while, being led out in front of the graphic printed on the wall of them, the eight of them. And Jannik had followed closely behind. It was as much press as they’d do. Only photos, and that would be enough. It was enough.
There were too many bodies for the amount of corridor left over—camera operators, staff, photographers crouched low, somebody adjusting lighting with an elbow in Alex’s peripheral vision. He’d barely found a place to stand, comfortably, before Jannik was guided in beside him, close enough that Alex could hear his steady breathing.
He didn’t think anything of his proximity to Jannik as they’d been instructed to hold the trophy. They’d only been directed to stand a moment for photos before the match. And stand they did, with matching neutral expressions veering almost in the direction of hostility.
Every camera flash left Alex dizzy with anticipation, and every second between shutters lasted for what felt like years. He became acutely aware of Jannik beside him in vague fragments—the sleeve of his hoodie, the edge of his hand just lightly brushing against Alex's, the quiet drag of breath through his nose.
It couldn't have lasted longer than a few minutes, and yet it dragged at a pace that didn't match the time. Alex felt like he was underwater, maybe.
Then it was back down the hallway, back towards their locker rooms, back towards the inevitable.
"I'll see you after, alright?" Jannik had said, grip tightening on his racquet as he started to increase his pace, ready to jog. He spared only a brief glance back at Alex.
“Alright, I’ll see you, big dog,” Alex replied, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Game, set, match: Sinner.
“He is an unbelievable player,” Jannik says. Alex can't look at him. “He's so fast. I tried to play my game, not make unforced errors, which today I didn't make a lot, so I'm very happy.”
Alex almost threw up in the locker room.
He bent over the sink hard enough that his palms slipped against the porcelain before taking hold. His stomach lurched twice, violently, as if his body had not yet understood that the match was over and there was nowhere left to run, but nothing came up. Still, his throat was tight.
It had been right there. He could feel it, the win, the trophy in his hands. The match had been on the strings of his racquets and the soles of his shoes. He could practically taste it. He'd made the finals again, like he had in 2018, and he'd lost again, like he had in 2018.
It was worse that time. Straight sets. 4-2, 4-1, 4-2. Alex hadn't been able to break Jannik’s serve even once.
Even if it wasn't a humiliating loss, even if he'd played well, Alex was still somewhat bitter. More bitter than he'd had any right to be. Jannik was the better player, and that was that.
Except.
Jannik found him in the hall, eventually, shoes squeaking against the floors. Alex looked up at the sound of him.
“Has this been your best ever performance?”
Jannik looks nervous, almost flustered. “Maybe yes. This week has been unbelievable.”
It wasn't like he could stay all that upset, not when Jannik entered so slowly, face still reddened from effort, hair still matted with sweat. That was the thing about Jannik back then. He was so young. He'd turned eighteen only a few months prior, and he hadn't played much tennis on tour level. It made him timid.
So Alex made it a point to be friendly, but no more than necessary.
“That was a good match, mate,” Alex said. He was sure to keep his voice steady for it, for Jannik.
Jannik nods at him. “Yes. You, ah, play very good. You were tough to beat,” he replied, a beat too late. He cleared his throat, shifted on his feet, and ran a hand through his sweaty hair.
Alex thought back to the trophy ceremony then. He thought back to microphones and crowds and trophies, trophies that weren't even with them. He thought back to flashing lights and loud orders.
Then to the locker room.
(“You played well, Alex. Anybody would have lost against him tonight.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean it. You played well.”
“Yeah.”)
Alex didn't let himself linger on the locker room any longer than that, though.
He did his best to smile up—up, because Jannik was taller, because he even had the height advantage—at Jannik.
“Yeah, man. You played, just, insane. You were everywhere,” Alex replied. It was hard to find the words for it.
"It’s a pretty simple match to evaluate,” Alex says. His chest feels tight. “I had nine break points and I wasn’t able to convert any of them.”
Admitting it is difficult, but Alex forces himself to.
“Jannik played a really impressive match. He was putting me under pressure. In the end, he just played too good.”
After all, Jannik had ended the match in an indecently short period of time—hardly more than an hour, if that. Only an hour to strip Alex down to his barest form and exploit every mistake.
Alex threaded his fingers through his still damp hair and looked away from Jannik again. It wasn't that Jannik made him feel any smaller than normal, but the loss took something out of him automatically.
“Thank you,” Jannik said. He dropped his gaze to the floor, like he was embarrassed or flustered. Alex thought then, horribly, that Jannik didn't have the right to feel that way.
“I want to congratulate Jannik for an incredible match.”
Alex doesn't mean it, not with his full chest, and it tastes like poison on his tongue.
And still, Alex nodded. Jannik deserved his grace, no matter how disappointed Alex was with his own performance. Deliberately, he swallowed his bitterness, and reminded himself again that Jannik was only just eighteen.
(“Unbelievable.”)
“I'll see you next year, yeah?” Alex forced out—and maybe it was that statement, that moment, that sealed his fate.
“Yeah. See you.”
1-0, Sinner.