Archive of Our Own

Jannik knows something is wrong when a knock on the door wakes him up. It’s insistent, urgent, a voice behind it calling his name in barely-veiled agitation. Simone’s. 

It startles Jannik from a messy, syrupy-weird sleep, all slow dreams and heavy limbs. He wakes up confused, full seconds passing before he’s aware enough to check the time, that his alarm hasn't gone off yet, and then register the mind-numbing amount of notifications on his phone. Missed calls, text messages, Twitter, Instagram. What?

Four calls from Carlos, who is on the same timezone as him and should definitely not be awake. His last, unopened, Whatsapp stares at Jannik from the notification bar, reading simply:

Call me please

A cold, lead-heavy feeling sinks in Jannik’s stomach, because part of him knows this can only be about one thing. 

Simone’s face is pulled tight when Jannik finally cracks open the door, betraying nothing else other than tension. He can hear Darren’s voice further down the corridor, speaking in hushed but rapid-fire English, his accent more pronounced than usual. 

“Jannik. We need to talk.” 

Sitting on the bed, still unmade, he gathers enough courage to watch the video, pulled up on Simone’s phone. The screen is cracked on the corner, a spiderweb creeping up into the image, scratchy under his thumb.

The footage is grainy, fuzzy, distorted by the low light and the shakiness caused by zooming in too much and an unsteady pulse. It could be anywhere, really: it’s just the unassuming exterior wall of a hotel, a dark, hidden spot on the outside, safe from the noise and the light streaming from the closed windows of the bar. 

It couldn't be just anyone though. 

The artificial white-blonde of Carlos’ hair would already be a dead giveaway, even if his head didn't eventually move to reveal the bright shock of Jannik’s own ginger curls, unmistakable even under any other circumstances. Whoever took the video makes an audible gasp, distinctly female, remaining otherwise silent as Carlos’ mouth chases Jannik’s with barely-restrained desperation etched into every twitch of his frame. 

It’s not easy to see. The whole thing is shot at an angle, Carlos’ back to the camera, Jannik half-hidden by him but taller, spilling over Carlos’ silhouette. It’s too far to catch any noises, any words mumbled or whispered between them. It is not too far, however, to notice the way Carlos’ hands push Jannik’s hips to walk him backwards, or how Jannik clings to his shirt to pull him closer. Consenting. Eager. 

He can’t watch his own face when, in the video, Carlos’ mouth wanders down his jaw. He already remembers the scratch of a beard, the heat of tongue. He remembers too much. So he taps the screen instead, focusing on the red dot and how it moves further and further on the white bar at the bottom of the screen, counting the seconds left in the recording. Not long now. 

It ends like this: Carlos pulling away a little, then locking eyes, breathless, his hands still holding onto Jannik’s hips. And then, slowly, without breaking eye contact, sinking to his knees. 

The video moves away in a blurry rush and then cuts, screen fading to black. Jannik doesn't dare even glance at the comments – he closes the app instead, locking the screen and handing it back to Simone. The familiar taste of Italian is the only thing keeping the bitterness on his tongue at bay.

“How long ago was it posted?”, he asks. Something in him leaves his body, rendering him strangely hollow. That lack of emotion transfers onto his voice as a strange, cold brand of professionalism. Still, Jannik struggles looking at Simone, who’s leaning against the hotel room desk table with his arms crossed. 

“A couple hours. It’s got thousands of visits already.”

Great. Everyone on tour has probably already seen it, then. Jannik’s family, maybe, his friends. Every single half-hearted tennis fan. “Can we take it down?”

“We’re trying.” Simone shakes his head towards Darren, who’s still talking on his own phone in the corner. “But more copies will pop up eventually. If anybody has saved it, they can just repost it.” Which they probably will, because it’ll get hits. 

Slowly, Jannik nods, eyes finding and fixating on the floor carpet. 

One time. It happened one time. One time he gives in, in all of these years, all of these chances at shooting his career between the eyes. 

He can feel Simone’s words bubbling under his skin, wanting out. 

“Did it have to be him?” 

Jannik knows what Simone’s thinking, even if he’s politely skirting around the fact that Carlos is a man, and that the whole thing wouldn’t be half as scandalous if Jannik had been caught with a woman. So why him? Why Carlos? Out of everyone on tour, literally anyone else would’ve been a better choice, Simone’s saying. Jannik doesn’t have an answer he can verbalize. 

Worst case scenario, achieved. 

At least they were awarded one last dreg of dignity, of privacy. At least no one else saw the way Carlos asked without words, the way Jannik acquiesced just as silently, understanding. How they both worked together to pull down Jannik’s pants, then his underwear, before Carlos took a moment to just look and said:

“I’m sorry if this is bad”, apologetically, out-of-character self-conscious, and then pulled Jannik into his mouth. Jannik hadn’t made a noise, but his eyes had rolled back with the sudden heat, the wetness, and his head had hit the wall with an almost painful thud. First serve, Alcaraz. Ace.

Looking down, the sight was obscene. Carlos had one hand wrapped around the base of Jannik’s cock, the other one still splayed on the flat of his hip for balance, brow furrowed in concentration and plush lips spread wide. Crazy. A wet dream, a forbidden private fantasy finally come to fruition against all odds. The current world number one, the only one able to beat Jannik into submission – on his knees, willingly slobbering all over him. 

Carlos had been drunk. Not blackout drunk, but the taste of gin and lemon tonic had still traveled from his mouth onto Jannik’s tongue, bright and bitter. Enough for Carlos’ sunny smiles to melt into something dark and dangerous, enough for his usually wandering hands to get braver.

“What were you thinking, Jan?” Simone doesn't sound angry, just… Frustrated. Confused. The truth is, Jannik hadn't been thinking at all. That was the problem.

“Someone snuck alcohol in from the diplomatic quarters, I don’t know who. We were drunk.” He manages to catch Simone’s eye while he says it, keeping his face pulled into blankness. It’s a fucking lie. 

“This is not like you, Jan.” No, it sure as hell isn’t.

Jannik had been a little tipsy, but that was it. The horrible, black, twisted monster of the truth is that Jannik had wanted it, wants it still, sober. That he’d been feeling light from the tournament win and the obscene millionaire cash prize, that playing against Carlos always riled him up, and that he'd found him there, perfectly willing, stars and planets aligning for once in his life.

He doesn't need to be reminded of how stupid it was. How reckless. Career-ending. But then, Carlos –

Carlos had given him an objectively bad blowjob. A pitiful, wishful part of Jannik had attributed it to a lack of experience, stupidly wanting to be the exception to a rule. It had moved forward too fast, with too many teeth, a little dry. He still had Jannik on the verge of coming in what felt like seconds. 

Because it was Carlos, and Jannik should’ve known better than to think that a blowjob from him would be anything short of a force of nature. All enthusiastic and eager to please, red-hot lips and tongue, fingers around the base of Jannik squeezing tight, dark and blown out eyes staring up at him. Searching avidly for signs of enjoyment, half of his brain still studying Jannik in the same unintentional, instinctual way he’s been trained to do from the other side of the court. Maybe they’ve been pitted against each other too much for them to be able to work any other way, now.

Carlos had pulled off after a minute, shyly asking, “Is it okay?” and Jannik had murmured some nonsense and reached for his head, trying to be gentle as his right hand attempted to bury itself in Carlos’ still short hair, to pull him back onto his cock. His left hand had moved to cover his own mouth. 

“No.” And suddenly there were fingers pulling on Jannik’s left elbow, forcing his hand off and his mouth free. “Make noise. Please”, Carlos had said, voice just a little tight. Jannik had tried, for him, struggling to let go of himself. Used to being wound up too tight, even then, under the excuse of release and alcohol and the dark of night.

He’d come quick and hard, half on his own stomach and half on Carlos’ lips and chin, head haphazardly pulled away just moments before. Jannik’s hips had kept twitching and twitching, a grunt escaping his throat despite his own body’s inclination towards silence. 

Earth-shattering, in more ways than Jannik is willing to admit to himself. And meant to be kept secret. 

And then Carlos had reached for his own fly, hard and bulging in his pants and still staring up at Jannik like he just couldn't look away, and the only thing Jannik could do was grab him by the shirt to pull him up and bat Carlos’ hand away, replacing it with his own fingers. 

It’s lucky the video cut where it did, and luckier even that it didn't pick up any of their sounds. Because the noises Carlos made –

Darren hangs up, sighing and looking exhausted already, and stares at Jannik like a father in a bad American movie. The not angry, just disappointed kind. 

Jannik tries to avoid the lecture, even if in reality he knows he’s just delaying it. 

“The sponsors?”, he asks, switching to English. 

“We’re on it. I’ve enlisted some help to do damage control.” Jannik nods. Damage control. You’ve damaged your image, your reputation. 

Then Darren adds, “We need to align with Alcaraz’s team.”

Jannik frowns. “Align?”

“We have to know what their official position is going to be in all of this, so we can react the same. Present a united front and all that.” And what does Carlos’ team think of the video? Worse still: what does Carlos himself think about them?

Simone chimes in. “But maybe before that you speak to him?”, and Jannik knows what he is thinking. Speak to him now, before management comes in. Before PR takes over and you lose any kind of agency. 

Jannik gets up, then remembers it’s his own hotel room and that he’s got nowhere else to go, really, nowhere to hide except the bathroom where he’ll still be heard even if he runs the sink. His hands go over his sides, indecisive. 

“Uhm, can I?...”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Both his trainers get up, awkwardly trying to give him back some sense of his newly-stolen privacy. Before they close the door behind themselves, Simone adds, “Call me when you’re done, yeah?” Jannik nods.

When he's alone in his own room again, he lets himself flop onto the unmade bed, slowly letting all the air in his lungs out. Fuck. His head is spinning, stomach pulled into knots. What felt okay in the evening, by the morning seems insane.

He calls Carlos. 

The line beeps one, twice, five times, and Jannik has enough seconds to think ‘They’ve taken his phone away. Like they’re about to take mine’, before the call connects. 

“Hola. Jannik?” 

“Ciao.”

Carlos’ voice is a little hushed on the other side of the line. “Just – one moment.” There’s background noise, static and the clatter of people talking in the half-foreign rhythm of Spanish, then one last shuffle before it goes quieter. “Okay, now I can.”

Jannik doesn’t know what to say. Have you seen the video? That feels monumental. How are you?, on the other hand, much too mundane. 

“Does your head hurt?”

On the other side of the line Carlos gives a short, startled laugh. Jannik can picture the shape of a smile on his mouth, the same one he gets when he loses a point but can’t be mad about it because Jannik just did something he deems simply too good. 

“Yeah. A lot, actually. Hungover, you know? My stomach too, feels weird.”

“Take a paracetamol.”

“I did already, yeah.” Silence creeps into the conversation, louder than it usually is between them. Jannik is struggling for something else to say, when Carlos breaks. “Did you… Watch it?”

No point in lying. “Yes. You?”

“Yes.” So did half the world, according to Simone. “I mean. Could be worse, no? At least it was hot.”

Now it’s Jannik’s turn to laugh. “What?”

“It was hot. The video? You and me, and the wall, you know.” He hesitates on speaking further, mistaking Jannik’s silence for disagreement. “You don’t think so?”

And Jannik wants to let a bitter, mean, laugh out, because the sad truth is that a shitty, rushed, filmed, blowjob in a dark corner was the best sex of his life, and now his career might be in actual shambles because of it. And to top it all off, the giver of such blowjob was drunk and would’ve never done it if sober. He can’t reply. So he circumvents.

“Darren wants to know your strategy.”

There’s a beat of silence on the line, just staticky breathing and sudden tension. 

“My strategy?”

“Your… Reply to all of this. Your official position.”

“Oh, uhm. Juanki and the team are still talking, but, you know. I don’t – I don’t mind.”

Now it’s Jannik’s turn to swallow a beat of silence. “You don’t mind?”

“Obviously I didn’t want this to happen, you know. Like this. But, I mean, the year it is. If you get caught with a…”  A boy, a man. “Then who cares, right?”

Words get stuck in Jannik’s throat, incapable of coming out. Years of unwelcoming lectures and conservatively funded sponsors and snide comments in male locker rooms, of jokes. Tournaments and exhibition matches in countries where looking at a boy twice might still land you in jail, or at least get you a swift deportation back home. All of those seem to direct Jannik to one simple conclusion: other people can be gay, just not him. 

He’s your biggest rival. 

You came too far to screw this up, Jan. 

And now he has. 

“Ehm. Jannik?"

“Yeah. Still here.”

“Ah, sorry. I thought maybe you cut off or something. So, uhm…”

“I don’t think we can endorse this.” The words come out in a rush, a little garbled by Jannik’s accent, the consonants a touch too hard. He can almost imagine the frown growing between Carlos’ brows, his lips parting in confusion. 

“Jannik, I –”

“It’s just. Not good for the brand.” 

Jannik must’ve heard that somewhere before, in a meeting with PR or marketing or something equally inconsequential. The brand. Social media, engagement, fans, sponsors. His value, measured and weighted in by KPIs refreshed daily.

“Ah. Well, maybe you should have thought more last night, then.” Before you let me go down on you, he means. Before I came with my mouth biting your neck. 

Game, set, and match, Alcaraz. 

Jannik deserves that. Deserves the punishment for giving into something he knew was forbidden, for wanting it in the first place. He just didn't think Carlos would be the one to dole it out. 

“Carlos –”

“It’s fine”, he replies, but his tone doesn't match his words anymore. “I talk to Juanki.”

Jannik feels ten times worse after he hangs up, which he didn't think was gonna be the case. He thought the video, maybe, would be the worst, or perhaps the quiet look of disappointment in Simone’s eyes. The Twitter comments, the news headlines, the gossip. 

It’s not. It’s the anger in Carlos’ voice, which is not an emotion Jannik associates with him at all. Mindless excitement, frustration, a self-assured kind of decisiveness, fun – that tracks. Not this newly-born resentment. 

He calls Simone, tells him they won’t be leaning into the story. Simone listens, but the line bends with the anticipation Jannik can feel building in his breath.

“Before we settle on anything with them, I do need to know, Jan. Is this a… A coming out?”

He should be emboldened by being alone, maybe. Instead he's just dragged down by the ghost of Carlos’ voice. 

I don’t mind. 

“Coming out? What – No, I’m not. I’m not gay.”

Jannik can read the silence between them, the unspoken ‘The video evidence contradicts your words, Jan.’

“It’s never happened before, only Carlos. Only this time. Not – Never else.”

“Okay. We’ll set a meeting, yes? You take a shower, get dressed.” Jannik does.

—

His phone gets confiscated, just as he predicted, after an awkward conversation with his mother – one he hopes to never repeat again. In a way, it’s kind of a relief to have it out of his hands, honestly. He carries enough weight on his shoulders as it is.

The last text he read was a stiff one from Jack, a little clumsy but well-meaning. 

Jack: Okay so, I don't know how to address this

Jack: Hope you're okay?

Jack: Let me know if you want to talk

And then, 

Jannik: Thank you. I don’t

Jack had replied with a thumbs up emoji, and that was that. 

The worst of it though, the buried crux of the problem, is the memory of Carlos’ smile the previous night, afterwards. Pressed against the delicate skin of the underside of Jannik’s jaw first, then openly on his face for him to see. Drunk-happy, his hunger temporarily satiated. It’s also the way he’d shaken off the awkwardness commendably well, pressed a quick, dry kiss to the corner of Jannik’s mouth, and smiled again. A private thing, usually freely given to anybody and everybody, then only Jannik’s.

But Carlos isn’t smiling now. No one is. 

They’re crammed in a sterile-looking hotel conference room, very clearly divided and distributed on either side of the table. Carlos and Jannik, Carlos versus Jannik. They’re only missing the net and the umpire, the line judges and the ball kids.

Jannik doesn't know half the people here. He doesn't even know some of the suits his own team brought along, carrying sleek laptops and constantly-vibrating smartphones. 

Carlos catches his eye when he walks in, wearing a Nike tracksuit and looking a little tired. He gives Jannik a nod instead of the laughs and side hugs he’s grown accustomed to throughout the years. The weight of the phone call is still heavy between them, tense and cold where usually a quiet warmth lives. 

He sits between Ferrero and his fucking unemployed brother, and what the hell is he doing here anyway? Who brings their sibling to discuss a PR response to your almost-sex-tape? And judging by the way Álvaro’s eyes land on Jannik, he’s not pleased at all to see him either. Maybe he’s wondering what kind of devil possessed his brother to go down on his knees for the likes of Jannik, what type of dark magic he used to manipulate Carlos into wanting him.

Jannik draws his eyes away, focusing on the familiar Italian coming out of Simone’s mouth, trying to ground himself. Someone plugs a TV in and pulls up a zoom call. More faces unfamiliar to Jannik flood in, joining the circus. 

The whole thing is surprisingly clinical. The video is mercifully not played on the big screen, even though everybody present has already watched it or lived it, or both. Instead, the situation is addressed in detached, impersonal language, translated into social media numbers and lost sponsors. 

Someone on Carlos’ side of the table asks about the reception of the video online. 

“Surprisingly positive, although not overwhelmingly so.” It takes Jannik a moment to identify that the voice speaking is coming from the zoom call, distinctly American. “Our data suggests better reception among female audiences.”

Go figure. 

A different man from Carlos’ side of the table speaks next, struggling around a rough Spanish accent. “So we need to figure out how we are going to address this.”

Zoom call lady nods, and starts sharing her screen. “We have drawn a few strategies, based on previous experience and the online reaction to the video. Please let me know when you can see my –”

“What if we don’t address it at all?” 

Silence falls onto the room. The heavy, uncomfortable kind. Jannik hadn't planned on speaking, at least not consciously. But – fuck. 

He’s no stranger to being marketed, preened, packaged and sold; he’s only ever as good as his body. He knows he’s not standard-good-looking enough, not warm or charismatic enough, but he is good at tennis, and so far that has always been enough for the dollar vultures. 

But this is too much, even for him. This is taking a personal, vulnerable moment, and looking for profit in Jannik’s humiliation. 

Simone turns to him, slowly. “What do you mean, Jan?”

“I mean, we don’t do anything. No tweets, no press statements. Nothing. We ignore it.”

Jannik can feel the weight of at least a dozen stares on him, plus the online eyes. A new wave of typing and mouse-clicking begins. Darren elaborates, more familiar with the jargon. 

“So maybe we just let it blow over? The sharks will get tired and swim away if they can’t smell blood.”

The American lady is still sharing her screen – she swaps from one tab to another at lightning speed, checking numbers, refreshing databases. 

“It could work”, she says. “We could find something else to push onto the press. Another scandal to feed them, something to lessen the attention they’re giving to this.” The idea is taking shape in her head as she speaks, processing, developing. “We could do it.”

When Jannik braves a look, Carlos’ eyes are already on him, the heaviest out of them all. Jannik hates the expression he’s making with a visceral kind of certainty. It’s not the explosive but brief, quickly-hidden disappointment he wears sometimes after a bad loss, or the quiet pain of an awkward twist of his body on court. It’s something more opaque and a lot more difficult to get rid of, not something passing. 

It’s the particular brand of self-hate that comes with defeat. Jannik knows, because he’s felt it in himself, staring at Carlos. 

“¿Qué quieres hacer? ¿Carlos?” Carlos’ eyes don’t move away from Jannik, burning.

What do you want to do? 

Jannik, for one, would like to go back to last night. To kiss Carlos again. He’d like to be out of this room, and he’d like to go back to normal, to the before. 

This shouldn’t have happened. 

“If you don’t want to react, we don’t react”, he replies, finally drawing his eyes away. Jannik feels their loss somewhere between relief and disappointment, between his stomach and his chest. “What happened was not important, yes? Only alcohol. We are not together. We are here to play tennis.” He manages a smile then, blinding as usual despite the tension in the corners of his mouth. “So we play tennis.”

That's what they repeat over and over when the press eats them alive, after only a few days of radio silence from both teams. 

The grande arche in La Défense seems like an unnecessarily modern, poor imitation of the actual Arc de Triomphe, desperately trying to scream You are still in Paris! even though it feels nothing like it. But it presides over their particular puzzle piece of the city, and Jannik can’t help a look every time they drive by.

Usually, this late into the season, he would receive mostly questions about his physical state and his wellbeing, as well as his projection for the tournament, especially after the fiasco in Shanghai. Now, though –

“...the video…”

“... and Carlos…”

Over and over, around we go. He deals in silences and rehearsed paragraphs, double-checked and triple-approved by both parties. 

Carlos, for his part, has adopted a new, clinical approach towards Jannik, one that hurts more than it should. He’s polite, and correct, and even manages to laugh as he says,

“I’m here to talk about tennis, guys. I’ll reply to all the questions you have about the tournament.”

Whereas Jannik can’t make himself utter anything more than “No comment”, and microwave-reheated variations of the same lines Carlos is using. 

Luckily enough, Zverev decides to make a comment about the court being purposefully slow to benefit Carlos and Jannik, and it’s such a dumb thing to say that he catches media attention for it. Privately, Jannik encourages him. Keep them coming, mate. The stupider, the better. 

Then, only a day later, someone’s WAG is caught in an awkward position with a soccer player, and that helps too. Every bit of scandal and misbehavior helps Jannik normalize the situation and forget that he was just caught letting another man push him against a wall, and enjoying it.

But it won’t affect his performance. When the Nike cap goes over his head, he becomes someone else. Something else, perfected and polished for tennis, and tennis only. 

He can do it. He can do this. 

Carlos can’t. 

He loses in the first round of the tournament against all odds, plays like shit. He’s unfocused the entire time, arrhythmic, out of sync. Jannik considers himself lucky to have missed the match altogether. Already the highlights are painful enough to watch. 

And, selfishly, Jannik has to ask himself the question. 

Is this my fault?

It’s not wise to speak to Carlos, he knows that much. Plus, he’s been subtly avoiding Jannik – changing his schedule on the training courts, tiptoeing around him in the locker rooms. Nothing too obvious, but enough for other players to give them a wide berth, like spooky animals afraid of becoming prey if they end up in the crossfire. 

There's a few notable tournament withdrawals this year – Novak, Rune, Jack – and that eases the pressure a bit, less known eyes watching. But there are still other players who apparently consider themselves entitled to an opinion. 

On the morning of the first day competing in Paris, Jannik catches Medvedev staring at him while Jannik is taking his shirt off, swapping into his kit. 

The mark made by Carlos’ mouth is still there, sitting low on the meat of Jannik’s neck, very faint now. Barely visible even with good lighting. Somehow, Daniil seems to locate it with a laser-like focus. 

Then he smiles like he finds something extremely funny. Jannik hears the silent words in his head, regurgitations of the same shit he’s been putting up with his entire life, if not directed at him personally. 

Went to his knees quick, huh?

And you were desperate for it. 

Medvedev doesn't say anything at all, and yet Jannik still has to resist the urge to kick his knee in. He manages, knowing Daniil will put himself out of the competition soon enough without any external help. Knowing Jannik himself will beat his side of the bracket, and Carlos will beat his, and maybe they’ll be able to sort something out during their final. Maybe then Carlos will be able to understand, without Jannik having to explain. 

And then Carlos takes an out of pocket loss against Norrie, and Jannik’s hopes crumble to dust.

His hair is even whiter and blonder than Jannik remembers seeing up close when Carlos opens his hotel room door and finds him there, feeling stupid and reckless. Jannik watches as Carlos' face morphs through surprise and then anger, eventually settling into a combination of both. 

“What are you – You shouldn't be here.” Incredulous. That's it, that's the word. “Get in, fuck. Joder.”

The door closes behind them just a little too forcefully, and the echo it leaves behind allows Jannik enough time to take in the general disarray in Carlos’ room, too messy already for such a short stay. 

“You do this and somebody’s going to see you and take a picture, and then bam. All that progress. Gone.” Carlos crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and peeking from under his t-shirt, all smooth golden skin. Jannik’s really lucky Ferrero isn't here, or worse, Álvaro. “You know, they actually asked me about tennis today.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” Jannik doesn't have to press further on the apology – Carlos knows Jannik is sorry, sorry that he lost, sorry that they won’t be playing each other. Despite everything. There's always an undercurrent of… something electric, between them. A rivalry. An understanding. “I just wanted to ask, you are okay?”

Something smooths out in Carlos’ expression, wrinkles again, smooths back down. “You could've texted”, he says, and then, like he's giving in, “I’m not hurt, if that's what you're asking. I don’t know what happened.” He looks around his own room, eyes straying. “I couldn't feel the court. At all.”

Jannik doesn't find it as surprising as it could be, maybe. Carlos’ state of mind is malleable, voluble, much more than Jannik’s own. It makes him adaptable. It also makes him fallible.

“It is sticky, no?”

“Yeah. Yeah, much.”

“I’m sorry.” Jannik’s repeating himself.

“You already said.”

“Yeah.”

Jannik’s sorry for a whole lot more than he is saying. 

An awkward silence settles between them, purposeless. Why did Jannik come here? Just to apologize? 

He shouldn’t have come. Carlos shouldn't have let him in.

There's a tension between them, even know, despite it all. A simmering heat in Jannik’s belly, a stuttered want in Carlos’ frame. The same that got out of hand in Riyadh, that doomed them to the tug of war they're dealing with now. 

Usually, Carlos is the unstoppable force, and Jannik its unmovable object. Usually. 

“Look, Jannik, I don’t feel like – whatever this is. Right now. So, you should, probably. Leave.”  Before we –

That goes unsaid, but implied. 

“I wasn't going to –”

“Yes, you were.” There's a certain hardness in Carlos’ eyes when he looks at Jannik, born out of pain and rejection. And then it’s softened to a degree by something sweeter. “I have to prepare my luggage. Please.”

Jannik hesitates under the threshold of the door only for a second, turning around to look at Carlos. The hallway is empty. “I’ll see you in Turin.”

“Yeah. Bye, Jannik.”

So Jannik leaves quickly and confidently, like he’s supposed to be on this floor of the hotel and nothing is wrong in the world. Even though now he knows that Carlos cared about the video. And that he still does. 

—

Jannik wins Paris. 

He retakes the number one, however briefly. It’s still body-warm, just as he left it, before Carlos stole it away for himself.

He shakes Felix’s hand at the net, overly conscious of the way Felix leaves ample space between them the whole time. It’s polite, and normal, but also it feels unnervingly cold. Jannik's hand falls away quickly enough when Felix takes off walking ahead of him, towards the umpire. How odd. He’s used to, used to –

Carlos wouldn't have let him go like that. He would've stood closer, shoulder to shoulder, arm around the back of Jannik’s neck and then his ribs, until the cameras forced them to separate. He would’ve smelled like sweat and racket leather, and looked up at Jannik smiling even if he lost, murmuring “You played so well.” The difference has never felt as stark as it does now. The absence is acute.

So even though Jannik wins that day, something uncomfortable settles in his stomach. It takes him a moment to identify what it is. 

It’s the certainty that he fucked up. Not because they got caught, but because he drew Carlos away from himself. 

—

Turin presents itself as a chance for redemption, because he has the opportunity to retain the number one for a little longer, yes. Also because Carlos is there. 

And maybe Jannik’s composure is failing him, because it doesn't take long for Simone to sit him down. So much for being deemed robotic. 

“Just, please try avoiding being left alone with him.”

Simone speaks in Italian, the way he does when he wants to give Jannik a thin semblance of privacy. It’s just Darren and them, and they’ve got Jannik trapped for a couple of minutes as he runs through his stretches. He can only smell the plasticky material of the gym mat, his face half pressed against it. 

“What?”, he asks, but they all know who Simone is referring to. 

“Be mindful of the cameras. The situation is still delicate."

It’s true. The tabloids are still running miles with the story despite their PR efforts to redirect the attention someplace else. Every public interaction, even brief and distant as they are these days, gets scrutinized to hell and back. 

But at this point of their relationship Jannik can read Simone just as well as Simone can read him. 

“You don’t trust me to be alone with him, you mean.” It comes out bitter. And it is. 

Simone sighs, then presses fingers to his eyes to relieve tension. When he removes his hands from his face, he says,

“You’re not yourself when it comes to him, Jan.”

The stretches are quickly forgotten after that. Jannik sits up on the mat, slowly, feeling a new kind of tension flood his body, one that has nothing to do with muscle strain. “What does that mean? You think I’m gonna trip and fall on his dick?”

“We just –”

“I can handle myself.”

“Well, Jannik, clearly, you can’t.” The words echo like something hollow. Something undesirably true. And Simone doesn't look like he wants to be saying them. “I’m sorry, Jan, but you were the one that wanted to distance himself from the story. At least stop feeding the fire then, and stay away from him.”

It’s hard though, when the tour keeps pushing them together, again and again. Management schedules them to practice together, and it’s fine, as long as the cameras are pointed at them, as long as the show is on. Carlos is all big smiles around Jannik, walking alongside him to the court, mimicking a golf swing. Jannik smiles too, tighter, more awkward. 

They don’t go hard on each other. It’s just practice. It’s all fine. If there’s radio silence in private, then nobody needs to know. 

But no matter how much Jannik’s team chaperones him, how many cameras are pointed at them constantly, eventually it happens that Jannik walks into the locker room and finds it empty save Carlos. 

He’s lacing up his shoes, already changed into his kit, starring a bright yellow shirt. So loud and uniquely him. Jannik doesn't know where de Minaur is, but supposes he’s already warming up to play Carlos. 

He looks up when Jannik walks in, fingers stopping in the middle of looping a double knot. 

“Hey”, Carlos says, simple but not unwelcoming. He smiles, even if it comes out a little sad. 

“Hi.”

“You’re early?” Jannik is. He’s not playing today, but Darren scheduled an extra practice for him. He still has time, really. Actually, Jannik’s not even sure why he’s here. Maybe he wanted some time alone.

He shrugs, then places his bag on the bench opposite Carlos’. There's space on the one he’s sitting on, but. 

“Darren wants me to run drills. I don’t want to rush.”

Carlos makes a humming sound and resumes tying his shoes. Somehow, Jannik gets the feeling that he doesn't believe him, that maybe Carlos thinks he’s looking for an excuse to be here. 

“I didn't think –” The words get stuck dry in Jannik’ throat, making Carlos look up. “I didn't know you were here. If I knew…”

“You wouldn't have come?”, Carlos finishes for him. Jannik’s fingers hesitate on the handle of his bag, flexing and unflexing. 

“Yeah.” Carlos nods, straightening up. 

“Juanki thinks I can’t be trusted around you. So. I get it.” He shrugs, like it’s not relevant. Like they’re not both confessing that something snapped between them that night, and that it can’t be mended back to how it was before. That their want is so obvious for everyone around them that they’re purposefully keeping them apart.

Jannik feels frozen, watching as Carlos packs up and shoulders his own zipped bag. Then he stops.

“You know what makes me angry, Jannik? This doesn’t make sense for you.”

“What do you mean?”

Carlos looks at Jannik, really looks at him, and Jannik feels stripped bare, even more see-through than when the video came out. 

“You want something, you take it. It’s not like you to sabotage yourself.”

The ball lands right on the line, a millimeter in, close call camera zooming in to verify who gets the point. Carlos does.

Jannik forgets breathing. There’s a shuffle outside, someone about to come in. 

Then Jannik says, “I want you.”

And Carlos replies, “Then fucking take me.”

Alex rushes in, dropping his things unceremoniously on the opposite side of the locker room. He visibly startles when he catches sight of Carlos and Jannik, the leftovers of the tension flickering between them. Jannik gets the feeling de Minaur is probably wondering whether they were about to fight or about to fuck. 

Either is plausible.

“Oh, uhm. Hi, guys.” He greets them in English, a polite deference to Jannik.

It’s Carlos who replies, never taking his eyes off of Jannik. “Hola, Alex.” Jannik keeps quiet, just nods vaguely in de Minaur’s direction. 

He doesn’t wish Carlos good luck for the match before he walks out, and Carlos doesn’t ask for his well wishes. It’s only partly out of consideration for Alex, and they both know it. 

When Carlos leaves, the locker room feels unbearably empty, like all the air left with him. Jannik’s body kickstarts itself back into motion, beginning to strip down mechanically. Someone knocks on the door, calling for Alex to hurry up.

“So, uhm. Are you guys… Okay?”

Jannik turns to look at him, only halfway out of his pants. Whatever expression he makes is enough for Alex to scramble, murmuring, Yeah, sorry, not my business, is it?

Jannik finishes changing in silence. Then, he plays tennis.

—

One match, then the next, then the following one. Jannik plays like a man possessed, like there's something electric sparking at the bottom of his belly and the energy it produces is pushing him forwards, on a blind suicide run to the end of the season. No one poses a challenge. No one can stop him.

Every time his path crosses Carlos’, something burns supernova bright between them. 

Jannik decides to take what he wants.

—

The final feels like a trade. An understanding of sorts. Here, you take this, I’ll take that. Now we’re even. 

Jannik steals the trophy, heavy and cold in his hands. In exchange, Carlos gets his number one back, cleaning all the fingerprint smudges that Jannik left on it for the brief amount of time he kept it. 

It’s a good game. Close, the way they both like it, the kind of match that seeps all the energy from your body until you're functioning on pain and adrenaline. 

They go to tiebreak on the first set, back and forth until Jannik sinks his teeth in and almost leaves claw marks on the court. Then Carlos manages to break Jannik’s serve on the second set as retribution, the only person who achieves that in Turin. He’s good at that – at breaking through Jannik, that is. But he still loses the final.

Even in spite of everything that has happened since Riyadh, the trophy means that they loosen Jannik’s leash enough for some alcohol, because the rush of victory is enough to soften the layer of paranoia that's been suffocating his team for weeks now. So, they celebrate. They go out, they take pictures, they hug, not necessarily in that particular order. 

And then Jannik texts Carlos, What’s your room number?, and Carlos replies immediately even though it’s way too late and he should be asleep, and Jannik memorizes the digits and deletes their chat history like it’s incriminating evidence. Which it is.

He shows up to the closed hotel door feeling like he’s crawling back to a toxic ex, like he’s a criminal moving as silently and slowly as possible so the automatic corridor lights won’t give him away. Any time now, someone’s gonna notice he’s not in his own hotel bed. Any time now, the fucking police are going to find them and arrest them for what’s about to happen.

And Carlos knows exactly what that is when he opens up the door, half-drowning in an oversized t-shirt and boxers, barefoot on the carpet. He looks at Jannik more seriously than anticipated. Tired, maybe. Weary, still, despite how open and at peace he’d seemed in the post-match interviews. Despite how he’d egged Jannik on during the match and in the locker room, always.

He takes a few precious seconds to think, to even consider letting Jannik in. Every little harmless noise triggers Jannik’s anxiety like a fire alarm. Eventually, Carlos asks:

“What are you here for?”

And Jannik’s mouth moves by itself. “You.”

He doesn't wait any longer. Instead, Jannik grabs Carlos by the shirt and pushes him in, carelessly closing the door behind himself by kicking it closed. Bad idea: it slams, almost deafening this late at night. For a moment he wonders who’s on the adjacent hotel rooms, if Carlos’ team is about to hear them fuck. He finds doesn't give a shit, though. 

It’s hard to when Jannik kisses Carlos and Carlos kisses back, one hand holding Jannik’s jaw, the other at his shoulder, pulling him closer, after-loss-hungry. 

Jannik feels it in the pit of his stomach: a growing, empty void, something that feeds off of victory and is never quite satisfied no matter how hard he works. Still, it urges Jannik to look for something to fill itself with anyway, and suspects he might find it in Carlos.

It’s just as good as Jannik remembers, but better, because it doesn't feel as clandestine, even if it is. Their attraction – and their affection – is clear to both of them now. Apparently, it’s been obvious for everybody else for a while.

Suddenly Carlos pulls away, a frown between his brows. “You still taste like –”, he starts, before moving back in and pressing his nose to the thin skin of Jannik’s neck, audibly inhaling. It tickles for a second. When he pulls back, it’s with an incredulous laugh. “You didn't even shower, no?”

Jannik feels a stab of embarrassment. He didn't even have time to take a shower, no, not with all of the media hoops that he had to jump through, and then the team. He could’ve freshened up in his own room before coming here, but. He didn't want to wait. 

So he replies, “Sorry”, and tries to extract himself from the embrace. But Carlos holds on to him, keeping him right where he is. All he does in response is slowly move back and forth the thumb he still has on Jannik's jaw. 

“You’re a pig. But I still like you.” 

Something blooms in Jannik’s chest at the words, something warm, cut through with a sudden wave of self-doubt. 

“You like everyone”, he replies, because Carlos does. 

“I like you more, though”. 

And Jannik forgets tenderness. 

He deepens the kiss, feeling bold and out of his own mind with it, and Carlos makes a sound in the back of his throat that twists something low and hot in Jannik’s stomach. Between one kiss and the next he whispers, “I like you too”, because he just has to say it, and Carlos just laughs again and replies,

“I know.”

They're pressed close, too close and not close enough, their bodies warm and the minimal space between them completely unnecessary. Their clothes are beginning to look increasingly sheddable. 

Jannik’s jacket goes first, and then his shirt too, four hands pulling at it and off off. Carlos’ sleep t-shirt goes next, discarded to the floor carelessly. 

The next kiss is better, because Jannik’s hands can then smooth down Carlos’ bare chest, and then his back, and the noises he receives in return for his touch are all he needs to keep going. Carlos is all soft skin and muscle, tan lines much less pronounced than Jannik’s because he likes playing in the sun shirtless back home. Showy bastard.

“Bed”, he whispers against Carlos’ mouth, walking him backwards and finding no resistance.

When Carlos falls on his back on the mattress with an oof, Jannik follows, toeing off his shoes to climb onto the bed properly and then over him, slotting himself in. For a moment he feels too lanky, too pale, too thin, towering over Carlos. It all disappears when Jannik sees his face. 

Carlos’ eyes are blown out, ink black instead of hazel, his eyebrows pinched like he’s thinking really hard about something. But his mouth is hanging open, hot and wet and red-kissed by Jannik, and each one of his breaths fuels the fire burning between them. 

“God, Jannik.”

Carlos has this funny effect on him, one that nobody else has been able to drag from Jannik just yet. He makes him stop thinking. 

Before he knows it his mouth is dragging down Carlos’ neck, feeling the stubble there, the wild pulse beating under the skin. He stays there for a second before continuing a blind path down his chest, then his stomach, where Carlos’ abs tense and jump under Jannik’s tongue. He keeps surprisingly still, breathing hard, one hand hovering just over Jannik’s head, like it's afraid to touch. Like he’s trying his hardest to reign himself in.

And then he goes and says, “Did you check under the bed?”

Jannik’s mouth stops, lips tingling from use. He looks up, frowning. What?

“What?”

“Maybe someone’s recording. You know, like last time”, he says. Jannik is rendered speechless. Whatever his expression is, it’s bad enough for Carlos to cringe. “That was stupid, yes?”

Very. “Do you even want me to –?” Jannik makes a vague gesture towards Carlos and his (very clearly) tented boxers, struggling with actually acknowledging out loud what he’s about to do. 

Carlos groans, pressing fingers to his eyes. “God, yes. Sorry. I’m sorry, I got nervous and I –”

Huh. 

Jannik presses a soft kiss just above the waistband of Carlos’ boxers, one hand splayed out over his stomach, feeling the almost violent rise and fall of his lungs. Then he looks up again, catching Carlos’ lidded gaze. 

“And what?”, Jannik asks. He’s teasing. They both know it. Jannik means to drag it out a little longer just for fun, just to make Carlos suffer a bit, but reconsiders when he makes a half-broken sound in the back of his throat. 

“Please. Just”, he says, one of his hands finally moving to card through Jannik’s curls, mindful of pulling at the knots there. Then, he pushes down on Jannik’s head just a little, just enough for the message to be understood. “It won’t take long.” He punctuates the words with a self-deprecating laugh, like it’s a bad thing that he’s so turned on by this. By Jannik. 

But, in reality, it’s a rush. A chemical blur in Jannik’s head, blood pumping all the way to the tips of his fingers and his dick, almost making him dizzy. 

“Good”, is all he replies before yanking down Carlos’ underwear.

He’s not scared. Not in the way maybe he should be, hesitant with inexperience. This is just another game, another match in need of a strategy. Except this time, instead of beating Carlos into the court, he just needs to break him on the bed. Not an easy task, but feasible. Only for Jannik though.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck –”

It really doesn't take long. 

He starts licking and kissing, slowly getting himself used to the feeling, the taste, thinking of what he likes himself, trying to replicate it. It’s not that intimidating, really. Carlos babbles through it, eyes wide and fixed down when Jannik looks up. 

“Oh god, you’re beautiful”, and, “Yes, like that”, and whispered Spanish Jannik doesn't quite catch. By the time he’s worked up the courage to take Carlos in for real, spit pooling in his mouth, head moving up and down, Carlos’ hand has tightened in Jannik’s curls. 

“Will you let me – oh, god. Next time, can I –”

The question dissolves into a groan as Jannik pulls off, a little out of breath, jaw sore. He licks over the head, teasing, before prompting Carlos to continue. “Can you what?” When he speaks he realizes his voice sounds rougher than usual, like he’s been… Well. 

Carlos’ mouth opens and the words are squeezed through his teeth like a sinful confession.

“Can I fuck you?”

His voice almost breaks at the end. In Jannik’s grasp, his cock is hard and leaking, his balls tight. He’s close. 

So Jannik hums like he’s debating the idea with himself, making Carlos wait. In the end, he just says,

“I’ll think about it. If you deserve it.” 

Carlos’ cock gives a twitch in response. Eager. 

Jannik looks at him, splayed out on the bed. His thighs bulge under Jannik’s hands, all strong muscle and raw power. He pushes on one of them a little, experimentally, watching as it bends to his will. 

He realizes out loud, saying, “You would do it, wouldn't you? Try to deserve it. If I asked.” Jannik knows it’s true when Carlos looks at him, eyes pitch black and lip bitten, a silent admission on his face that’s too open, too easy to read. That if Jannik asked for something, Carlos would try to give it. 

Jannik feels himself get harder, almost painfully so. It’s a power trip.

At the same time, it’s a show of trust. It’s Carlos knowing Jannik would never ask for more than Carlos was willing to give, and that it would mean nothing on court. Carlos would still try to kill Jannik in front of thousands of people, and Jannik wouldn't have it any other way. 

Feeling suddenly possessed, propelled forward by the need to get off, come on, he lowers himself back down and puts his mouth back on Carlos, faster now. It feels like only a heartbeat before the hand is back in Jannik’s hair, pulling him up and away. 

“Stop. Stop, I’m gonna –”

Carlos comes in Jannik’s fist, spilling over fingers and his own stomach. He makes an animal noise when he does, something between a moan and a shocked gasp at the back of his throat. For a moment, he looks peaceful. When he comes to, he searches for Jannik, hands reaching out to grab his shoulders and pull him back over himself. 

Between kisses, he whispers, “You make me – Crazy”, and then he’s reaching into Jannik’s pants and wrapping a hand around him. 

This time Jannik allows himself to feel it. To feel everything: the starchy hotel bedsheets, Carlos’ legs bracketing him still, his hand around him and his lips on Jannik’s jaw. 

“Come on. Jan, come on, for me.”

Jannik doesn't moan when he comes, but he does pant into Carlos’ neck, shaking with the aftershocks. He rolls away when he’s able to, pushing himself onto his back next to Carlos and trying to catch his breath.

Somehow, this feels more monumental than the video. Which is crazy, considering literally everyone knows they’ve fucked already. 

He starts laughing without meaning to, drawing Carlos’ attention. 

“What?” His tone is blunt, but he’s smiling. 

“Nothing. Just –”, Jannik starts, raising a hand to push away the curls on his forehead. “Darren’s going to have a heart attack.”

Silence stretches for a moment between them, before Carlos sits up and looks down at Jannik. His expression is tighter now, and it makes Jannik miss the levity it showed just a few seconds ago, the heat of want that melted his features. 

“Look, Jannik”, he starts, then pauses like he’s searching for the words he wants, browsing through an English catalogue. “We don’t have to say. Maybe, for a while, we keep this to ourselves?” Before Jannik can reply anything, he adds, “I know you don’t want to be… Public. I understand.”

He’s not touching Jannik. Just looking, giving him space. It doesn't feel like enough, and at the same time it’s way too much. “You said you didn't mind.”

“I don’t. But you do. So we play tennis for now, yes? And maybe, you let me take you on a date.”

Jannik feels a smile creeping on the corners of his lips. “You just want to fuck me”, he says, and receives a swat on his leg as revenge. 

“Not just.” He doesn't deny that he wants to, though, and neither does he stop his eyes from roaming over Jannik’s still bare chest. Jannik has to repress a shiver. “In Korea. January.”

Imaginary pages flip on the calendar Jannik keeps inside his head. “That's far.”

“In a while, yes, but. The holiday, I have to go home, and you probably already have plans, no?”

Jannik does. But now he’s feeling suddenly unattracted to the schedule he himself agreed to. “It’s fine. I can wait.” Carlos sighs, something almost violent coming out of his lungs. 

“Fuck, I can’t.”

—

Seoul is always a little dazzling. An incongruous blend of a hyper-modern city trying to take over its ancient foundations, like overgrown roots breaking through pavement, nothing like Jannik is used to back home. The fans are quieter too, more respectful, less invasive. Well, most of the time at least.

“Carlos, are you single?”

A man yells his lungs out in the middle of their exhibition match, right as Carlos is about to serve. It’s been fun. Silly, in the sense that they get to play each other without the expectation to go all out, without the numbers one and two imprinted onto their foreheads. They don’t allow them to be this carefree often. 

And then Carlos hears the heckler, pauses his game and points towards Jannik and himself, and people laugh and clap like it’s funny. Everybody remembers the video, the media avoidance too recent still for this to be anything but a joke, too on the nose.

Carlos finds Jannik’s eye across the net, smiling something wicked, daring him to join in. Jannik doesn't. 

They have to get into a plane right after the game, so Jannik won’t be able to take his revenge just yet. But there’ll be plenty of time in Melbourne. 

Carlos serves, and Jannik receives.