7 Works by summerhalder
Listing Works
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He’s just tired. This isn’t really happening. He was woken up too early and he’s been in this room too long and he’s exhausted. He hasn’t eaten in hours. His blood glucose must be low. That must be it. He’s going to open the bag again, and he’ll laugh at how stupid he’s being. Carlos would find it funny, he thinks; he’d crack a joke that Jannik missed him so much that he’s seeing his face in his patients. He’d press a kiss to the bow of Jannik’s lips and whisper, I miss you always, too, and then chastise him for not eating well and taking breaks. He bets Jaime would find it funny too, and vows to tell him tonight; he cracks up at the thought of his giggles, so similar to Carlos’ own, and Alvaro’s disappointed grimace.
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One of his hands moves from where it’s buried in Shane’s hair to his jaw, intending to grip tightly and force it to stay in place, but Shane lifts his head at the same time to look up at Ilya, and it lands on his neck instead. Ilya squeezes before he realizes, hand fitting around his throat and he thinks if he’d squeezed any harder, he could feel his cock against his palm, and isn’t that a thought.
“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya breathes, pulling Shane off him and cradling his face as he coughs. “Are you okay?”
“Again,” Shane rasps.
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It turns out, in the end, that their concern is warranted. Touching his hand to his forehead in one of the changeovers, it’s burning; he doesn’t know yet if he’s overheated because of the boilerplate temperature or because he’s actually feverish, but he only manages to get through two of them by dunking his head in the ice bucket before he has to swallow his pride and retire.
Jannik gets whisked straight to the medics when they step off court after the ceremony, hands trembling when Simone grabs them to guide him to sit on one of the beds. He straightens himself out as they wait, Darren pressing a cool hand to his face. He nuzzles into the pleasant feeling; before he knows it, he’s drifting off. When he comes to again, he flinches back into the pillow propping up his head. He’s staring back at himself.
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The door swings open and clicks shut. When he lifts his head again, Rozanov is standing by the hand dryer. It’s an oddly familiar scene, mirroring their meeting in the hotel bathroom at an awards show in Vegas years ago.
The rush of blood returns, this time in anger, quick and red hot and no easier to manage, not with how much of it he's let fester. There are many things he wants to say, sitting thick and syrupy at the base of his tongue and he has to bite them back, holding them hostage behind his teeth. He can see the way Rozanov looks at him now and knows he could coax them out with his tongue if he wanted to, and Shane wouldn't be able to stop him. They'd create a mess so wet and slick and messy and maybe it'd be bad enough that they wouldn't be able to clean it up. Maybe someone would walk in and see them, fragmented and caustic in this club bathroom. Instead, he exhales through his teeth and spits out what he can bear to.
“What do you want,” is all he manages in the end.
Rozanov pauses for a beat, mouth stretching in a smirk. “I want you to suck my dick,” he tells him, and just like last time, it doesn't sound like a request.
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Novak Djokovic sits on one of the benches, watching one of the matches playing on the screen. Jannik glances at it to catch Grigor Dimitrov hit a stunning slice, and then his eyes flick back to Novak. He sits cross legged with his back ramrod straight, looking much like a statue – if Jannik didn’t see the rise and fall of his chest with his breaths, he’d assume he was a statue.
It is how it feels, though, to be in the presence of such a monolith, someone so far above that he feels unreachable, no matter how many times Jannik has met him and occasionally shared a training court with him. And now he is within arm’s distance, tangible and real in front of his eyes, and he still looks like if Jannik would reach out and touch him, he’d feel cool and smooth and perfect.
Series
- Part 2 of the undone and the divine
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Summary
Jannik watches Matteo fiddle with the remote while talking on the phone, picking at the edge of one of the buttons. His shoulders are tense; he’s unsure, restless. Even after all this time, it’s like he doesn’t know how to exist in this space. Matteo is sometimes pulled so deeply into it that Jannik can’t do anything but hang on for dear life, and sometimes even that’s not enough. It’s never the same for Jannik, it never has been – more a raincloud than anything else, and the fog of a dreary winter morning.
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It’s not like him to doubt himself, always so sure of everything, everything so carefully measured – but Carlos is, as always, his exception. He thinks about a hot night in Paris just a month ago, after his team had all wandered off to their own rooms for the night and he was alone for the first time. If he would have wanted Carlos there, if he came – if he would want to offer himself raw and frayed and tender to someone who had stripped him threadbare.
Jannik can see his eyes so clearly, framed by long eyelashes. It’s beautiful. His hand twitches as he resists the urge to run a thumb on his cheekbone, under Carlos’ eye. He can smell his bodywash, fresh and citrussy; Carlos can probably smell the champagne on his breath. "I always want you here," he says.
Series
- Part 1 of the undone and the divine