Chapter Text
SHOCK As Carlos Alcaraz QUITS!
The tennis world has been left in a state akin to mourning as one of its most prodigious talents, one of its icons, its phenom, announced that he would be withdrawing from all competition for, as of now, an indeterminate length of time.
Carlos Alcaraz, 27, and well on his way towards becoming the undisputed GOAT of tennis, appeared with none of his usual effervescence at his press conference yesterday. Were it not for the golden trophy sat gleaming by his elbow there was nothing in his demeanour to indicate the completion of a double three-peat at Wimbledon.
Little could the assembled press pack have known, however, of how we were about to be treated to the biggest sporting scoop of the last decade, if not century.
“I need to step back from tennis for a bit.” Alcaraz declared without fanfare.
Unlike in the movies, there was no instant pandemonium, no barrage of shouted questions, no blinding array of flashbulbs from the photographers. In fact his declaration was met with such astonished silence that the clicking from a single pen went off like a gunshot.
Alcaraz, with an apologetic nod at the stupefied press officer, continued to speak, albeit haltingly, seeming to struggle with his English in a way he had not in some time.
“This decision was not easy, of course. I think, I discuss, with my family, my team, they agree this is the best thing [to do]. There is not that feeling anymore, on the court, for me. And I always want to feel good on court, happy.
But I do not feel that way so much right now and if I carry on then I think I will quit for real. So I take a break and maybe let the others win for a bit.”
The joke did not land. Alcaraz unperturbed by it, picked up his trophy, and with a smile more genuine than any other he’d worn that day disappeared through a non-descript door, seemingly oblivious to the way he had just upended the order of men’s tennis in one fell swoop.
So, what next for Alcaraz?
Ibiza, would be where the smart punters lay their money. Alcaraz has always liked a good party. Or, perhaps a Caribbean sojourn with 'friends' on his private, luxury yacht is more in keeping with recent exploits. One thing is for certain, we shall not be seeing him on a tennis court any time soon.
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Mountain air has an added crispness to it, more like pine and less like the salt he's used to from back home. Carlos breathes it in, fills his lungs with it, lets it settle deep and calming within his chest as he wanders the cobbled streets of this quaint South Tyrolean town.
Sesto, the sign had read as he'd hopped off the local bus earlier.
It is mid October and rather quiet. Most summer hikers have returned home and not yet been replaced by winter skiers. The serenity is absolute; the pretty alpine houses, with their wooden balustrades and colourful plant pots, all but singing with it.
Under the impressive shadow of the Dolomites, time simply seems to melt away. And with no strict timetables to adhere to, Carlos is happy to amble aimlessly. Part of him misses the mindlessness of the daily routine, his days planned down to the minute by others. A much greater part has not yet grown tired of this newfound freedom.
Whilst admiring the vista from the main square, he gets a gentle tap on the shoulder. Turning, he finds a young-ish couple dressed in hiking gear, holding out a phone to him.
"Könnten Sie bitte ein Foto von uns machen?” ( “Could you take a photo of us, please?”) The man asks. Uncomprehendingly, Carlos blinks, leading to an addendum in heavily accented English. “Photo, please?”
Although he plasters a pleasant smile on his face, Carlos' heart sinks. Not because he dislikes fan interactions per se, but because he'd rather been enjoying the anonymity to be found in these skiing heartlands. The requests for selfies decreasing at an inversely proportional rate to his travels northwards into the mountains. Or so it had seemed.
Angling the phone this way and that, he tries to fit everyone into the shot even though the couple have not crowded around him as other fans normally do. When he’s managed to take at least a couple of selfies which look decent, he tries to hand back the phone.
The man stares at him as if he were an idiot. “No, you take photo, of us,” he points at himself and his companion, “with mountain.”
Ah.
Well, this is awkward.
Clearly, Carlos' assumptions have made an ass out of no one other than himself. Red-faced, he mumbles some apologies, snaps a couple of photos, then all but throws the phone back before scarpering into the nearest shop.
Which as it turns out is tiny trinket shop, shelves lined full with hand painted figurines. The lady behind the counter has greying temples and a warm smile, which she gives him in greeting. Carlos quickly shakes off the lingering discomfort from his previous faux pas and smiles back, uses the three words of German he knows plus a few more of Italian before they settle on English.
Ingrid is chatty, in that way which is common to someone who is used to making small talk with tourists. She asks Carlos where he is from and guesses correctly before he even has a chance to reply; she asks how long he has been travelling, ‘a few months’, and how he’s liking the area, ‘is very peaceful, I like it very much.’
And he means it, truly. For all that he has travelled over the years there are few places which have settled so quickly and easily beneath his skin. The romantic in him wants to believe some hand of fate may have lead him here.
Ingrid hums, wraps a couple of chosen trinkets in tissue paper. “It is the mountains, they draw you in. Careful Charly, or you never leave.”
Carlos can think of worse outcomes; thinks the peace of being able to walk down the street uninterrupted might be worth the forfeit of his beloved sun from Murcia. With a toothy grin he takes the paper bag Ingrid holds out, heavy with presents for his family.
As she rings up the total, Carlos stomach gives an impressive rumble. “Ah, you know somewhere to eat, near here?”
After eyeing the cuckoo clock on the wall opposite, which with impeccable timing lets out three melodic chimes, Ingrid scrunches her nose. “It is too late for lunch. Maybe too early for dinner too.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I think you have a best chance if you go to Jannik’s. Always he is in the kitchen that boy. He will cook for you even if they are closed.”
The name scratches strangely in Carlos’ mind, almost like an echo from a dream. Before he can dwell on the strange feeling overlong, it is replaced by another rumble from his stomach. Ingrid laughs, takes pity and provides him with the necessary directions before shooing him away.
Carlos is glad for the cool air which hits his overheated face as soon as he steps outside, runs a hand several times through his hair before setting off down the street as instructed. It is a route which takes him past the old church tower, and onto the very fringe of the town where a lone squat building sits beside the road.
Its facade is neat and tidy, all white washed walls and varnished shutters; in keeping with the rest of the area. A couple of rustic picnic tables sit shaded by purple and green striped awnings which flutter lazily in the breeze.
The picturesque tableau stirs memories of summers at Wimbledon; so much so that Carlos can almost taste the tart strawberries on his tongue, hear the thwack of a tennis ball in the distance, feel the ghost of cold metal against his lips.
Swiftly, he banishes those annoying associations out of his head. Tennis is another lifetime entirely, one he does not want to think about anytime soon.
An old fashioned brass door bell gives a cheery jingle when he steps inside. It is the only greeting Carlos receives.
As far as restaurants go, it is not the largest by any means, eight, maybe ten tables at best. It’s cosy though, all wood panelled walls and plaid tablecloths, net curtains in the windows and what look like family photos behind the bar.
Aromas of homely cooking permeate the air, and Carlos sniffs at the heavenly scent with abandon. It makes his stomach complain noisily again.
“Guten Tag?” (“Hello?”) He calls out with an accent which mangles probably every syllable.
The faint noises emanating from the kitchen silence, although there is no reciprocal reply. As the seconds tick by and still no one appears, he gravitates towards a table set by the window, overlooking glorious views of the mountains.
To distract his fidgety hands, Carlos starts to tidy the plates and cutlery which have been left over from someone's lunch. He wonders vaguely why there is no waiter to clear the mess.
“Um welche Uhrzeit nennt man das?” (“What time do you call this?”)
The voice is not loud, but it is firm. Carlos startles, drops a fork with a noisy clatter, turns, and almost drops the entire stack of plates when he sets eyes on the utter masterpiece of a man who has emerged from behind the bar.
Carlos first, last, only, impression is…phroaw!
What on earth is a man that looks like that doing hiding himself away in a kitchen of all places?
With those high cheekbones, pert nose, and long limbs he should be earning his living on magazine covers and runways of the world. With a pristine white t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and an apron slung casually around his waist. Objectively, subjectively, and everything in between, he's absolutely gorgeous. One could even call the man stunning were it not for the pinched frown which he was currently directing at Carlos.
Right, he’d been asked a question. Not that Carlos had understood a word of it. But it would be very impolite to just keep staring with his mouth hanging open like a drooling dog.
“Eh, hi…” For some reason he attempts to wave, which again very nearly sends the stack of plates sprawling to the floor. Carefully, he lays them aside before continuing. “Sorry, I…sorry…I, I was…are you, eh, Jannik? They say, to, to, ask…”
His babbling does little to lessen the frown on the other man’s face. "Sie sprechen kein Deutsch?” ( “You don't speak German?”)
Carlos blinks slowly, then hazards a guess. “Er…no?”
“Scheiße! Warum schicken sie mir nie, was ich bestelle?” ( “Fuck! Why do they never send me what I ask for?”)
There’s no mistaking the tone of annoyance now from…Jannik? Presumably this man must be Jannik? Carlos does not want to assume, but Ingrid had said he was a chef. And this person is very clearly a chef. Who else could it be?
With long, elegant fingers, the other man pinches the bridge of his nose before removing his chef’s cap. A plethora of dark copper curls spill out from beneath it, and Carlos considers it a minor miracle that he does not swallow his own tongue at the sight. An even greater one that he remains coherent enough for speech.
“Sorry, I can, you know, go…it’s okay, sorry to bother…”
“You speak English.”
It is not a question. Carlos nods vigorously, replies anyway. “Sí!”
The chef tilts his head, appraising. As his gaze lingers, Carlos feels his cheeks heat up with both the realisation that he has in fact not spoken English, and with the niggling worry that he might be about to be recognised.
So it is to his great relief when the other man asks, “Italiano?”
“Ah, no, no. I speak it, a little…un po, e molto male.” He laughs, nervously, makes a gesture of a little bit with his thumb and forefinger. The chef’s lips do not even twitch. Carlos goes to run a hand through his hair then thinks better of brushing the long fringe from off his face. “I am from Spain. Spanish, I can do.”
“You would hope. With being Spanish.”
Carlos cannot tell if it is a joke or not, he hopes it is, he chuckles anyway, just in case.
“So you can do, English, Spanish, Italiano molto male,” the chef drags out those two words, “and no German, yes?”
“Sí, yes.” Carlos confirms, wondering how this conversation descended into an interrogation regarding his language skills.
“Okay, okay.” The chef nods. “We make this work. Maybe Helga is not so happy, but we make it work. Pick the plates and follow me.”
Compliance is much too ingrained in him from years of training for Carlos to do anything other than as he is told. Although, he would be lying if he said that the appeal of remaining in the presence of this handsome chef for as long as possible did not play a large role in his easy assent.
Arms heavy with clattering crockery, Carlos trails obediently, tries doggedly to not be distracted by the way the other man’s apron strings draw the eye to his very perky, very peachy, behind. He almost walks into a barstool for his troubles, manages to avoid it only through some fancy footwork which his coaches would be proud of.
Thankfully, the chef does not notice, or does him the courtesy of pretending not to at least, leads him past the bar and into a tiny, but perfectly formed kitchen where white tiles gleam under fluorescent lights.
A pile of summer greens sits half chopped on the workbench, and on the stovetop a couple of pots bubble away lazily, filling the space with the same scent of melt in the mouth onions which Carlos found so enticing earlier.
There are also plates, dirty plates to be exact, many dirty plates. And pots, and pans, and cutlery, and glasses. They cover practically every inch of available space which is not already in use. It reminds Carlos of that time he and his brothers decided to cook. Somehow they had managed to dirty every single item in the kitchen, and burnt the food to boot. Not much of a birthday surprise for their poor mother.
“You can scrub, yes?” The chef asks, holding out an apron and a white cap much like his own.
Oh. Oh.
Suddenly the play unfolds before him with startling clarity. This poor man thinks Carlos is here to work! And although he lets out a startled laugh at the absurdity of it all, it is a misconception which must be corrected immediately.
So, setting down his cargo on some complicated crockery jenga-like tower, he tries to explain. “No, no, I don’t…this, this is not why I come here…”
“You waste my time?” The chef cuts him off, looking unimpressed. “Too good to wash pots?”
Quite frankly, the idea that one of the GOATs of tennis could end up washing dishes in a tiny local restaurant, is a little, or rather a lot ridiculous. Not that Carlos thinks himself above such menial tasks, he’s always the first to empty the dishwasher at home, to offer to sweep up a clay court after practice.
Surely, he’s not become such a snob?
“No, I don’t, I don’t mean it, like this.” He rushes to clarify, accent becoming thicker with each word. “What happens…”
The chef holds up a halting hand before wearily gesturing with it towards the door. “Look, I understand if you do not want to do. Is not the best job, not what you expect probably. You can go, I manage.”
Carlos spares a glance to the clock on the wall, then across the kitchen. The bubbling pots now seem dangerously close to boiling over, and the leafy greens still sit unchopped. Worst of all is the insane amount of plates piled high in the sink. There is little chance one person could complete all those tasks before a dinner service without running themselves ragged.
His gaze settles back on the man in front of him. Here, under the harsh fluorescents, the dark circles beneath the chef’s eyes become readily apparent, the tense set to his shoulders. He looks pale, tired, achingly human; the sight tugs terribly at Carlos’ heartstrings. It makes his decision simple.
Moving forward with intent, he takes the apron from the other man and ties it on with a neat bow to the side. However, it is at this precise moment that Carlos’ growling stomach decides to make its presence inconveniently remembered.
He casts his eyes heavenwards. Why? Why must God hate him so?
“Since when do you not eat?” The other man asks with a sigh.
“Early…earlier?” Carlos stammers awkwardly, heat crawling up his neck. “This morning?”
A loud hissing from the direction of the stovetop makes them both jump. The chef swears under his breath, rushing over to tend to the angrily spitting pot. Carlos is glad for the momentary distraction, wonders how weird it would be if he picked up a cabbage leaf and started fanning his face with it, or maybe ate it, to avoid further embarrassment.
It does not take long for the chef to, almost magically to Carlos’ eyes, bring the misbehaving soup (or is it a stew? stock?) under control. Once he seems satisfied there has been no damage to the flavours, tasting it once, then twice more, he disappears through a narrow doorway which Carlos assumes must lead to a pantry of sorts, without a further word.
Unsure as to what to do, and not wishing to disturb, Carlos just stands there for a moment waiting to see if the other man returns. When he does not, Carlos rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and moves towards the sink. Those plates will not clean themselves after all.
His stomach grumbles unhappily. Carlos, surreptitiously glances at the pots of soup (stew? stock?) before thinking better of it, he should not touch without asking. Then his eyes fall to the veritable pile of cabbage leaves, or what looks like cabbage anyway. Surely, no one would miss one measly leaf? He is so very hungry, and there are a lot of pots to wash.
He slithers next to the workbench, picks up a leaf and gives it a tentative sniff. It smells fresh, maybe a little sharp but not unpleasantly so. As an athlete Carlos is used to seeing food as nothing more than fuel for his body, his diet often horrendously restrictive, he’s surely eaten worse than this.
Never one to do things by halves, he takes a large bite, an action which he comes to regret almost instantly as an incredibly harsh, acrid taste fills his mouth. He gags around it, coughs, splutters, tries to find somewhere to spit out the offending mush on his tongue, but the delay only makes things worse so he is left with little option other than to swallow it. Which he does, with a shudder.
“Those raw, they are not so good. Very bitter.”
Carlos whirls around, grimacing from both the acrid aftertaste still in his mouth, and from having been caught looking like an idiot (again!!). The other man seems nonplussed by his antics though, walking over briskly and plucking the leaf out of Carlos’ grip to replace it with something much heavier.
“This is better. To eat.”
Peering up at the chef, who really is rather tall, Carlos feels his mouth drop open when he then looks down at the plate in his hand. “What’s this?”
There is almost a twitch in the corner of the chef’s lips when he replies. “They have bread in Spain, yes? Ham, cheese, also, no?”
This simple description does not do justice to the veritably mouthwatering array of neatly arranged delicacies. Thick slices of dark rye bread generously buttered, elegantly curled slices of cured ham, several thin wedges of smoked cheese, and a dainty pot in the centre of it all filled with colourful pickles. Carlos can only gawp.
“Wha..?”
The chef gives him a stern look. “If you do not eat, you cannot work. You, you…how do you say…faint. Then, I have you on the floor and dirty pots.”
“Oh.”
“Sì, oh!” The chef shakes his head, his curls unfortunately now tucked back under his cap so they do not sway prettily across his forehead. “Eat first, wash after. Two hours to dinner, you think you can do?”
A familiar sense of challenge begins to creep up Carlos’ spine, the sort of tingly anticipation to prove himself which he has not felt in a long time. He smiles, wide and bright. “Two hours, no problem chef. Vamos!”
“Ba…mos?” The other man asks quizzically.
“Sí, like let’s go chef! Let’s do this. Pumped! Vamos!”
“Okay…” The chef just side-eyes him strangely. “You say if you have questions. Do not try to do something you do not know how and flood the kitchen.”
Carlos agrees enthusiastically, because really how difficult can it be, he does it all the time at home. Sure, the volume is much greater, but it’s all just soap, water, and a bit of elbow grease at the end of the day. Isn’t it?
Well, as it turns out, washing dishes in a restaurant is nothing like doing it at home. The tap, for starters, is an entirely too complicated contraption, with its flexible hose, lots of twisty levers, and buttons. And when Carlos finally does manage to get it to work, the water shoots out with such pressure that he ends up drenched from top to toe.
His custom sneakers squelch horribly underfoot whenever he moves, and as if that wasn't mortifying enough, Carlos very quickly learns how everything he thought he knew about cleaning plates is utterly and completely wrong.
The chef spends over ten minutes painstakingly explaining the correct process, which sponges should be used for what items, how the wire scourer would damage the chopping boards but leave the metal pots gleaming. There are three different types of drying towels, which if used incorrectly will leave marks on the glasses, fluff on the crockery, and dull cutlery. Not to mention the few particular pans which should be left to air dry.
Overloaded with information, Carlos’ head spins, so much so that he does end up flooding almost the entire kitchen when he opens the glasswasher too soon. As sudsy water spills onto the tiles, the chef sighs for what feels like a millionth time, trudges off and comes back with a mop and bucket. Wordlessly, he hands them to Carlos, who cannot stop apologising profusely, hating the way he’s being more of a hindrance than a help.
“Just focus, yes? Do not rush everything.” Is all the chef says before returning to his own tasks.
It is familiar advice. Carlos is certain every coach he’s had from the age of five to twenty five has imparted similar words to him often. ‘Calmate Carlitos. No vayas siempre con tanta prisa.’ ( 'Calm down Carlitos. Don't always rush things.') Resting his chin on the wooden broom handle, he watches the chef go from workbench to stovetop to pantry with effortless ease, the movements practiced and precise.
For an instant he imagines the other man (Jannik. Carlos' gut instinctively supplies the name. And he's used to trusting his gut) as a competitor across the net, one whose footwork would leave you in awe. Carlos knows the feeling on a tennis court, but he wants the same here, wants to be just as good, wants to be able to move around this kitchen with the same easy confidence as Jannik. And the only way to achieve that is to knuckle down and get his head in the game.
“You can do this, Charly.” He mumbles to himself as if he were playing a final set tiebreaker.
With renewed determination he sets to mopping the floor, making sure to not miss a single drop of soapy water. Tackling the piles of plates comes next, and Carlos does so with gusto. It is monotonous work but he finds that he does not mind, compares it to practicing hitting the lines with a serve over and over again, straight down to the pleasant ache of use which settles into his arms and back.
Jannik checks in on him when he can, gives a nod of approval once, which shamefully is all it takes to make Carlos’ heart flutter like crazy. He works even harder after that, falls into a good rhythm which leaves him with only a few pots left to scrub when an older lady bustles into the kitchen, unwinding a colourful scarf from around her neck as she goes.
“Ach, Jan, die Kälte kommt dieses Jahr früh. Meine Knochen sind zu alt dafür, ich muss mich wohl an einen sonnigen Strand zurückziehen.” ("Ack, Jan, the cold is coming in early this year. My bones are getting too old for this, I need to retire to a sunny beach somewhere.") She stops short when she spots Carlos, looks him up and down, smirks. “Oh, ist das der gutaussehende Kerl, den Sie als meinen Ersatz gefunden haben?” (“Oh, is this the handsome fellow you've found to replace me?”)
“Du weißt, dass du unersetzlich bist, Helga.” (“You know you're irreplaceable, Helga.”)
“Mit Schmeichelei kommt man überall hin, mein kleines Hasi.” ("Flattery will get you everywhere, my little bunny rabbit.") She pinches Jannik’s cheek and he, honest to god, giggles. Then, she winks at Carlos. “Und hast du einen Namen, oder darf ich dich einfach Süße nennen?” (“And do you have a name, or can I just call you cutiepie?”)
“Helga! Verjage ihn nicht!” (“Helga! Don’t scare him off.”)
Judging by Jannik’s scandalised tone, Carlos is rather grateful that the entire conversation has sailed right over his head. He blinks blankly between them, which in turn makes Helga cackle.
“Oh je, ich habe ihn so erschreckt, dass er verstummt ist. Also, wie heißt er?” (“Oh dear, I've shocked him into silence. So, what's his name?”)
Now, it is Jannik's turn to blink, bemused, stuttering out a string of incoherent noises accompanied by some vague handwaving.
Understanding crosses Helga’s face and she clicks her tongue amusedly. “You do not even ask the poor boy's name. Too distracted, I bet.” Then, she points an accusing finger at Carlos. “And you, you do not speak German. It is why you are washing the pots.”
Carlos shrugs apologetically. “Sorry?”
Helga sighs with dramatic flair. “Ayy, Jan, I am not getting younger, I die in this job if I am not careful.”
“Mark sagt…” (“Mark says…”)
“Mark sagt immer viel, aber dann tut er es nie.” (“Mark is always saying, and then he never does.”)
Curiosity itches over Carlos' skin at the sudden switch back to German. He might feel offended were it not clear that it is a sensitive matter being discussed from the way Jannik's lips pinch or how he returns his full attention to the chopping board to signal an end to the conversation.
With a huff, Helga turns back to Carlos, holds out a hand as if for a handshake, then promptly pulls him down for a double cheek kiss. “Anyway, as Jannik is in a grump now, I have to introduce myself. I am Helga, customer liaison officer…”
“S…sorry?”
“I am the waitress, honey.” She pats his arm, rests her hand on his bicep, gives it a tiny squeeze. “And what’s your name, handsome?”
“Ch…Charly.”
“Hmmm, good name. Good muscles on you too. Maybe later, you'll let me put them to good use.” As the dull thunk of the knife on the chopping board gets progressively louder, Helga smirks , leans in conspiratorially. Carlos cannot help but take an immediate liking to her. “He does not like it when I flirt with the pot boys. Get’s jealous, you see.”
“Helga, benimm dich!” (“Helga, behave yourself!”)
“Ay, Jan, let me have a little fun. I have one foot in the grave already.” With that said she gives Carlos another squeeze of the arm, throws a wink at Jannik, and waltzes out of the kitchen spritely as any twenty year old.
“She kill us all first.” Jannik huffs around a tight smile. “Sorry, she is old. Old people, not always, eh…very polite, you know?”
There's little chance for Carlos to reply before Helga’s voice is cutting in from across the dining room. “I am old Jannik, not deaf. Do not make me call your mother.”
Laughter bubbles up inside Carlos . He tries to hold it back , he really does, it ends up coming out as a snort from behind his hand anyway. Jannik looks about ready to commit murder, which is rather worrying considering the size of knife he’s wielding.
“Back to work. Thirty minutes until customers arrive.” Jannik all but barks; which might be terrifying were it also not incredibly hot.
“Yes, chef.” Carlos exclaims, welcoming the shock of cold water from the tap.
As he scrubs away at the final few pots a prickle of awareness tickles at the back of Carlos' neck, he straightens to find Jannik studying him, face inscrutable.
“You do not look like a Charly.”
“Wha..?” Carlos replies, incredibly eloquently.
“Charly. It does not, does not feel…right. On you.”
Carlos manages to just about catch himself before saying something incredibly stupid, like ‘you can call me whatever you want handsome.’ Briefly he wonders whether the spirit of Helga has possessed him.
“My proper name, it is Carlos.”
It's not terribly incriminating to give out his given name, right? There's lots of other, non famous, people called Carlos, right? A lightbulb isn't suddenly going to go off over Jannik's head as he figures out that he's had the world number one tennis player cleaning pots for the past hour, right?!
Jannik simply nods, tests out the name, rolls the r and elongates the s. The sound makes Carlos want to melt into a puddle of goo on the floor. Which, on second thoughts, he would then have to clean up, so probably best not.
“I know you already know, but I am Jannik. Sorry, for not saying sooner.” He holds out a hand, which Carlos clasps automatically. They both have callouses on their palms, the same, but also different. One's are those of a chef, and the other's are those of a tennis player.
For a moment a sense of deja vu so vivid hits Carlos that he swears he smells the earthy tang of a clay court. It is there and gone within the blink of an eye though, replaced by the gurgling from the bubbling pots, and the ding from the first order of the night being rung up.
Their hands disentangle, drop away; Carlos fingers continue to tingle regardless. Jannik moves to take the ticket, clips it securely above the serving hatch.
“Hope you are ready, Carlos.” He says with the slightest curl of mischief to his lips. “Now, the real work start.”
‘Real work’ is quite possibly the understatement of the century, Carlos has not felt this rushed and off-balance since he was twelve and being scrambled all over the court by a boy twice his size. Wash this pan, grab that bowl; no, not that bowl, the one at the back. Helga comments on his frazzledness as she drops another stack of plates into the sink.
“This is not even busy. Wait until it is proper ski season.” She cackles at the look of pure horror on his face.
Not that Carlos is planning on still being here for the ski season.
Is he?
That conundrum will have to wait for later though, as Jannik asks for another of those godforsaken bowls which for some unfathomable reason are kept behind all the others even though they are the ones used the most.
The rest of the evening blurs into a fog of plate, pots, knives, forks, and everything in between, until the last one is neatly put away in its place.
With Jannik still busy scrubbing the stovetop, Carlos wanders into the dining room in search of Helga. He finds her with a mop in one hand and the other rubbing at her back. She straightens immediately when she spots him.
“Charly, congratulations, you survived your first shift.”
“Gracias, Helga.” Carlos smiles, gently taking the mop handle from her. “Let me do this, it's late, go home and rest.”
“One good thing of being old,” She grins, "getting pretty men to do my chores. I'll say goodnight to Jannik then.”
Carlos begins to mop as Helga bustles off to the kitchen, not making much progress by the time she reemerges again bundled up in her mottled coat and colourful scarf. She tucks a cloth swaddled container more securely under one arm and uses her free hand to pinch Carlos’ cheek.
“You are a nice boy, Charly. I hope you stay around longer. Gute Nacht.”
“Gute Nacht.” Carlos repeats terribly, Helga’s laugh mixing in with the tinkling of the brass bell as the door closes behind her.
Once the floors are scrubbed clean, and the tables relaid with fresh tablecloths, Carlos collapses into one of the chairs. There's a dull throb on the soles of his feet, his muscles aching in places which they never have before, not even after a five hour, five set match.
Absentmindedly, he picks at the skin which has cracked in the crevices between his fingers. The stinging sensation it brings is enough to stop Carlos from dozing off where he sits. Although his eyes do close of their own accord.
When he opens them again, there's a steaming bowl full of stew under his nose, a plate with more slices of the rye bread he'd eaten earlier, and Jannik, sat on the chair opposite, a small hint of amusement playing on his face as he watches Carlos. It disappears quickly once he finds him looking back.
“I, ah, think maybe you are hungry.” He gestures vaguely at the table.
Now that Jannik mentions it, Carlos realises that beneath the exhaustion, he is absolutely starving. Eagerly, he takes up a spoonful, then pauses with it halfway to his mouth when he notices that his is the only bowl. “You do not eat?”
Jannik fiddles with the ring pull of his cola can. “There was only this left. Not enough for two. Is okay, I make something later.”
“When?”
“Later, Carlos.”
“When later? You already cleaned the kitchen.”
“You know, I do have a kitchen, with food, at home?”
“It will be very late then.”
“I am use to it.” Jannik shrugs tiredly. “Eat. It will go cold.”
Call it an inkling, or perceptiveness, or perhaps even a gut feeling, but Carlos knows that Jannik, exhausted as he is, will not go home and cook himself a proper meal.
Without a word, he clunks the spoon down on the table, and ignoring Jannik’s raised eyebrows, walks decisively to the kitchen. Carlos picks up another bowl, a spoon and the end crust of the loaf which will be perfectly edible once it’s soaked in the stew.
Returning to the table, he sets his bounty down before carefully dividing the stew between both bowls and adding the chunks of crusty bread to each. “Now we have enough for two."
Jannik looks surprised by the offering, but does not argue further. They begin to eat in, mostly, companionable silence, apart from when Carlos has to bite back a moan as the first spoonful of flavour hits his tongue. From the way Jannik pauses for a split second, he's not sure he was entirely successful.
Such cooking deserves high praise, and Carlos delivers a steady stream of it between mouthfuls. Jannik demures the compliments away, says the genius lies in his father’s recipes and not in his own hands.
When both bowls have been wiped clean, Carlos stands. “I will wash these.”
A firm hand on his arm stops him from leaving. “Carlos, I want to say thank you for, for helping today, you know. It is not what you expect, I know, and still you help.”
“Ah, Jannik, it’s okay, I enjoyed.”
“You enjoy?”
“Sí, for me it’s very different from normal, but I enjoy it very much.”
Jannik stares at him as if he's grown an extra head. “Look, Carlos, if you want, the job is for you, but I also will be honest. The hours are long, the work is hard, and the pay is not so good.”
Money is of very little concern to Carlos, although he cannot say that without giving himself away. Also, you do not reach the pinnacle of your sport if you are shy of hard work, but that cannot be said either. So what he does say is…
“Do I get, dinner, like this every night?”
“If you like. Is the one, how you say this…eh, perk, I can offer.”
By comparison to the level of perks Carlos has become accustomed to, the offer is paltry. He's never found a decision simpler to make in his entire life.
“So, what time you need me tomorrow, chef?”