Work Text:
Shoot
The irony is not lost on Jannik that it's Laila who sends him the photos of Carlos in Vanity Fair.
"Maybe you do a photoshoot on hardcourt?" she jokes. "Not as sexy though."
He sends a laughing emoji because -- well. It's funny.
Her message with the link to the Instagram post is sandwiched between a message saying, "I saw the end of the match! So good Jan!" and another, "Oh! I will have some time off for Paris.”
She tells him to have a good rest of his day and that she loves him.
After a second, then two, Jannik writes, "I love you too."
He resists the urge to add, "Why can't I do a shoot on the clay also? I've won on it."
He wonders how Carlos manages to look triumphant and regal, even when dirtied and on the ground.
How he manages to seize everyone's attention when he's not even playing tennis.
It makes Jannik mad.
At least, that’s what he thinks it is. The prickly hot jagged feeling in his throat, when he opens the link and sees Carlos splayed on the clay, in white.
“King Carlos Alcaraz” declares the cover, as if Jannik hasn’t since dethroned him, as if tennis were a monarchy, not a system of wins and losses, of clawing your way up to the top -- nothing by birthright.
What the hell does that even mean King.
Jannik really is -- so very, very mad.
He scrolls through the pictures, and he realizes with horror, that the muscles in his stomach tighten in the familiar rhythm his body has known since the first scorching blood-rush of their meeting:
Arousal.
He puts down his phone and lies back on the bed and thinks, It’s not like that.
Except it is like that. It’s always like that, with Carlos.
The clay they used for the shoot reminds Jannik of his own hair in the light. He thinks of Monte Carlo, of the seaweed-sunscreen scent of the coast while he reigned over Carlos on clay.
His phone buzzes and he picks it up and there’s another text from Laila: “Also he talks about you in the interview! Sincaraz. So cute.”
There’s an interview, not just a shoot. Of course Carlos didn’t just roll around dirt for some meaningless photos.
Jannik reads the interview.
Carlos bares just enough of himself, then covers it with a fine layer of clay.
“Well, I think that nowadays we have to be way more careful with what we say, and what we do, but at the end of the day, we’re just human, you know?” Carlos says.
Offense as defense, Jannik knows all about it. The way Carlos anticipates your reply: I win, but if I don’t, I’m just human, you know?
Jannik is human, feels the thrum of his flesh as it responds to the photo, the one everyone’s talking about, of Carlos on his stomach.
He is looking over his shoulder, coy, sleepy-eyed and pouting. Jannik wants to press his palm on where his spine curves, sweet and graceful.
Instead, Jannik presses his hand against the growing hardness in his sweats and exhales.
“Alcaraz,” the article says, “likes to keep the tension with Sinner within the match.”
Jannik groans, once.
He slips a thumb between his waistband and his skin, and the warmth is shocking.
It’s the warmth of a handshake with Carlos at the net, damp and adrenaline-high.
On the subject of their rivalry Carlos is diplomatic: “When you are competing at this level, having a close friendship is complicated.”
“It can be done.”
“I’m all for it.”
Jannik grits his teeth at that.
He and Carlos aren't friends, and Jannik slides his hand down to where he’s fully erect now, mad at Carlos for insinuating that there is room for them to be close.
The closest they’ll get is a shared flight and joint interviews for PR, because Jannik must always be thinking about how to rub Carlos's face in the dirt, no hesitation.
It is easy to smile and pretend along with the trophy in his hands pushing down his fury.
He’s won five in a row and everyone is still thinking about Carlos.
Even his girlfriend.
Even him.
It doesn't matter, of course. All Jannik cares about is winning. And he has been. So that’s good.
Carlos’ thighs are squashed flat in the photo, the one where he’s on his stomach, looking up at the camera like he’s inviting you to --
Jannik squeezes himself once. Twice.
There are patches of skin not covered by clay. Pale and mottled and hairy.
Jannik wishes they had published an image of his whole body like this.
He’d put his hands on Carlos’ ass and let it fill his palms and --
He squeezes his dick again and it nearly hurts. It feels good.
Carlos would feel good, in his hands.
Jannik wraps his hand around himself and strokes, once. Twice.
Anyway, he won last time. And the time before. And the time before that. And the time before that -- in Miami, where Carlos apparently did this interview.
Carlos says, “I sometimes wish I could have more moments for myself, to do things a 22-year-old guy would do.”
What does Carlos do, Jannik thinks, in his quiet moments for himself?
Does he think about Jannik?
Well of course he thinks about Jannik. He must, for it is the nature of their relationship. Carlos must watch Jannik’s matches, puzzle out how to beat him as much as Jannik does him.
Carlos watched him jump into the pool in Monte Carlo and said, “I just wanted to take the moment in.”
He has a vision of Carlos touching himself to the thought of fucking Jannik, wet and smelling like chlorine. In the pool, or right next to it, on cold tile. Wherever.
Jannik closes his eyes, then opens them again so he can look at the next photo: Carlos in a suit.
He’s short.
Or, looks short. The pants are too long.
Anyway, he’s shorter than Jannik.
Jannik pulls down his sweatpants to make room because the thought of Carlos being smaller, having to stand on tiptoes to hug him properly, to kiss him...
Oh! The thought of kissing Carlos --
That’s good.
So good.
Carlos admitted, in that show, that he kisses with tongue on the first date. He has an interesting mouth, Carlos. Lips meant to be abused, teeth a bit too big.
And his tongue. He licks his mouth sometimes, when he looks at Jannik.
Jannik wants to feel the filthy warm wet of it. Carlos’ stubble would scratch against his skin probably.
The article says Carlos is bombastic and he, stoic. He doesn’t feel very stoic at present, a light sweat blooming along his hairline, on his neck.
He blinks, hazy with it.
They write, of course, about Roland Garros.
The writer describes it: “Riveting.”
Jannik was not very riveted; or perhaps, he was. In the same way one could be riveted by a car crash.
They have these celebrities talk about Carlos, in the article.
Spike Lee, who gave Carlos his hat, and Pharrell Williams, who says that when he plays, Carlos is expressing something.
Not that Jannik isn’t -- it’s just that Carlos is loud in his expression.
He hears the echo of Carlos’ tennis grunt, “Ah--ugh--ah” the rhythm of it riveting.
Irritating.
It’s too dry, so he spits in his hand. Goes back to work.
Fuck, it’s so good.
He scrolls back up to the photo of Carlos on his belly and thinks about that first push into him.
Well, first. Fingering him, opening him up. Jannik squeezes his eyes shut at the thought of making Carlos’ hole wet, sticky with lube, with Jannik’s come, with spit, with anything, and sinking his fingers into tight muscle.
He’s fucked women in the ass before, of course, but a man -- Carlos -- might be different. He would be darker there, maybe. Jannik would make him hold his cheeks apart, make it easier to fuck him.
He tightens his grip and imagines guiding himself, rubbing against Carlos’ rim, and teasing.
“Jannik,” Carlos would whine in that particular way he says Jannik’s name -- Gi-anni -- “Jannik, please.”
Or would it be in Spanish? Jannik would understand, he’s been learning. On Babbel.
He doesn’t think about why he isn’t working on his Danish. Or Bosnian. Well, Laila speaks German so it’s fine.
Speaking of Laila, his phone buzzes again and it’s her: “Maybe I can come for the final on Sunday?”
Jannik bites his lips and swipes the notification away. He returns to the article, the photos, and goes to the best -- worst -- one:
Carlos on his back, arms folded under his head, a strip of his stomach showing, the tuft of dark hair, and Jannik wants to pry his legs apart and fuck him.
He does, in his mind. Carlos looking up with that same face, as in the photo. It’s like, serious, and not. Like he’s about to laugh. Carlos Alcaraz always on the verge of a smile.
Jannik thinks about burying his face in Carlos’ armpit and licking him there, maybe.
“Cazzo,” he gasps. “Merda.”
He’d put Carlos’ legs on his shoulders and be merciless about it, like he was in Monte Carlo. And London. And Beijing.
He digs his other hand into the sheets and pulls, and imagines Carlos’ hair instead. Thick and dark and -- “Buzzcaraz is elite,” the article says.
That bald look in New York. Maybe Jannik would have appreciated it more, if Carlos hadn’t beaten him so soundly.
King Carlos Alcaraz, the youngest man to win the career Grand Slam.
Jannik is close, so close now, chasing the clench in his stomach, his thighs, his asshole, and goes all the way back to the cover photo:
Where Carlos is smiling with his stupid horsey teeth, and Jannik wants to put his hands on that shapely waist and thrust and thrust and --
“Carlos,” he bites out, and shoots cum all over his stomach and thighs.
His vision whites out. White and dirtied with clay.
When he’s finished, the high of it dissipating into the chill of the room, he wipes his hand on his shirt with a grimace, reaches for his phone and texts Laila back:
“If I make it. I would like it if you came.”