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Chapter Text

The trophy looks heavy. 

He wouldn’t know, of course. It’s not as if his plate was. But the trophy looks heavy. 

He keeps glancing at it. It’s in Carlos’ hands and it’s shining, even if the sun has already begun to set on Paris. The shadows that are displayed on the Philippe Chatrier court are making Carlos’ smile even bigger.

Is that even possible? Can Carlos’ smile really get bigger?

He is glowing. Shining as much as his trophy. His , because it was already his last year, and it’s also his this year. 

The trophy looks heavy. 

His heart is. He can feel it in his throat. He’s trying to look happy, even though people wouldn’t really mind, wouldn’t notice the difference. Robot, uh? He doesn’t feel like a robot right now.

He feels like he could explode any second. 

The trophy looks heavy and he cannot hold it. 

He feels exhausted. Fucking longest Roland Garros Finals ever. He feels every minute of it in his muscles. He also feels like his head is gonna blow up. Perhaps it is. 

Perhaps he will blow up later, when he comes back to his hotel room, when he closes his door and cuts everything off, keeps everyone out. Perhaps that’s what he needs, a good night crying and feeling sorry for himself.

He’s not this kind of player, but then again, he wasn’t the kind of player to lose a Grand Chelem finals before tonight, so, hey, everything can change, uh? 

He notices he’s been staring at Carlos when the younger man chuckles awkwardly. Jannik blinks. 

“It’s not gonna go away, you know?” Carlos’ voice makes him reconnect with his body fully, and his eyes fall on his own hands. His fingers are whiter than usual because he’s been grasping at his plate for God knows how long. His teeth are gritted, too. Yeah, so he’s tense, nothing too surprising. He just lost Roland Garros after leading the whole fucking match. He wants to bite back, but Carlos is just trying to be nice; he can feel it. He’s trying to test the waters, to see if Jannik is mad at him. 

How could he be mad at him? He just played better tennis than him. He tries to smile - emphasis on tries. “Just securing it. Wouldn’t want to go home empty-handed, yeah?” 

Carlos laughs, a bit too much for what it is - a lame, hurt joke. Jannik feels his heart flutter, because that’s always what it does when Carlos laughs too much at his jokes. 

The trophy still looks heavy. He can’t stop glancing at it. He wishes it were his. He wishes his hands were holding it. He wishes it could be his smile in the pictures. It would never be as bright as Carlos’ but it would be his and he would be proud . 

He isn’t feeling proud, right now. He’s feeling like shit.

As if on cue, Carlos opens his mouth again. He feels hesitant, more than a minute ago. 

“You played amazingly, you know?” 

Yeah, he does. But he isn’t the one holding the trophy, right now, is he? 

“You-” He tries, but is immediately cut by Carlos, whose hand (the one that isn’t holding the fucking heavy trophy) lands on his biceps. Jannik represses a shiver. He isn’t sure about how he feels about being touched right now, when he feels so overwhelmed by everything. But Carlos’ hand is warm, and it doesn’t feel bad. 

“No, Jan, you were incredible. Like, best tennis I’ve ever had the chance to play against. I want you to know that.” 

The thing about Carlos is that he is an open book. The man can hold neither a lie nor a truth. Jannik always thinks that he looks like a freaking puppy, too eager to please. 

And right now, his eyes are so honest and so warm, it makes Jannik’s nose scratch and no, fuck that, he’s not fucking crying in front of Carlos, in the middle of Chatrier, and certainly not because Carlos just said his tennis is good. 

He freaking knows his tennis is good. 

He freaking is World Number One Tennis Player right now.

But Carlos’ hand is warm and his eyes are shining with honesty and the trophy looks heavy and he really wants to cry right now.

“I-”

But before he can respond, tell Carlos that he was the one who played incredible, a woman in a white outfit interrupts by touching Carlos’ arm (the one holding the fucking trophy).

“Carlos, press is waiting for you.” 

And that’s how the moment breaks. Carlos blinks one time, two times, his mouth still open, his fucking warm eyes still right in his, and Jannik smiles for the first time since the match ended.

“Go.” He murmurs.

He feels Carlos’ hand, still on his biceps, squeeze. One time, two times, and then the usual Carlos smirk returns. 

“I’ll see you after, yeah?” 

Jannik lets out a laugh. Yeah, sure. He just lost the game of his life, he wants to shut his hotel room and not talk to anyone ever again, but yeah, he’ll wait for the man who just stole his thunder, uh? 

The woman in white seems to turn a bit annoyed, the way she grabs Carlos’ shoulder again. Despite that, Carlos’ eyes are still fixed on Jannik, like he’s the sole person deserving his attention right now. 

The winner’s attention. 

It makes Jannik’s skin tingle. 

More than that. 

It makes him nod. 

“Yeah.” 

And that, is the other thing about Carlos. It’s simply impossible to tell him no.  

The way the Spaniard’s smile brightens tells him he said the right thing. 

“Perfecto.” The brunette says, before he turns to the woman in white, whose teeth are gritted. Looks like Carlos is late for media, now, given how mad she seems. She begins to walk fast, and Carlos follows. Jannik watches him go. His eyes fall on the trophy again, stuck on Carlos’ arm. It still looks heavy. 

But Carlos holds it like it weighs nothing.

And maybe that’s the difference between the winner and the loser. 

From the moment he exits the Court until the moment he finds himself seated on the bar stool, it feels like a whole damn day went by. He met with his team, talked a bit with his mother, reassured her with short sentences, a few Sto benne, mama that he knows she didn’t believe. 

The worst thing is, he feels fine. Physically, now that he has had his recovery, he feels like he could play another match. Maybe not a five fucking hours one, but maybe just a few balls. He feels the urge to, even, just to see if he lost his mojo when he lost that final. 

He knows he’s being dramatic, right now, nursing a whiskey glass in a majorly empty bar, having a meltdown about how he could have lost his mojo. It isn’t his first defeat. It isn’t even the first game he lost against Carlos. He isn’t feeling sad about his head-to-head stats or whatever.

He isn’t even feeling sad, per se. 

He’s feeling-

He doesn’t know how he’s feeling, exactly. 

He’s feeling like a loser, that’s for sure, and he cannot blame anyone but himself. He had the game in reach, a hand practically already on the trophy. But then, something happened. He’s not sure what; it just happened, and now, he’s not the one going home with another Grand Chelem win. 

With a sigh, he takes his glass in his right hand. The other keeps stroking the plate trophy that he brought with him just to remind him that he lost, even though he won’t forget that easily.

It stands on the bar, right next to the humid circle that his whiskey glass left on the wooden surface. He’s not quite sure what he’s going to do with it, yet.

Certainly not keep it at his. 

Maybe he’ll give it to his mom - she told him she was proud earlier, so maybe she’ll want to have it. Truth be told, he doesn’t care about this stupid plate. She could use it as a fucking appetizer service set for all he cares. 

He’s being dramatic again, he knows it. He can feel it. His fingers are gripping his glass, his jaw is tensed. He is looking at that plate trophy as if it had insulted him - and maybe that’s what it is, after all, an insult, a way of reminding him that he might be World number one, but he still can be freaking number two to Carlos freaking Alcar-

“Nice trophy. Seat’s taken?” 

The voice startles him. He doesn’t control the move his hand makes, so a few drops of whiskey land on his fingers. He turns his head to the side, and there he is. Two-time Roland Garros Winner, smiling brightly, basking in the winner’s glow. 

Jannik blinks at him and smiles. At the same time, he leads his whiskey-wet hand to his mouth so he can get the liquid off, which makes him mumble a bit: 

“Seat’s all yours.” 

Carlos doesn’t miss a beat and sits. Jannik takes the time to lick his fingers, tasting the sour alcohol. He watches as the Spaniard’s hand comes close to the plate and caresses it, with a reverence that is almost too respectful for what it is - a second-place trophy. 

“It’s pretty dope.” He says. 

It’s not. Not for Jannik, at least. He’s this close to making a terrible joke, such as You can have it too, if you like it that much when the bartender lets a glass slide on the bar counter. It’s full of a translucent liquid that smells awful lot like vodka, and lands right in front of Carlos’ hand, whose head shoots up to look at the bartender. The man’s smiling. 

“It’s on the house. Congrats on the win.” 

Carlos laughs, big and bright. He takes the glass and holds it in the barman’s direction. 

“Gracias,” he says before downing a few gulps, happily. 

Jannik feels his cheeks grow hot. He knows if looks could kill, he would be committing a mass murder, right now, the way he’s staring at that barman. He didn’t have this kind of privilege. He was not offered his drink.

He feels anger in his veins. Real, pure anger, mixed with a desperation to feel a tenth of what Carlos must be feeling right now. Like he’s the Prince of Paris. Like he’s dominating everything. Everyone. 

Including him.

Carlos makes a face when he downs his glass, the type of face you make when you overestimate your ability to handle a situation. Jannik thinks bitterly that this is probably how he must have looked when he lost the 4th set. He snorts for himself, discreetly. Pathetic.  

But then Carlos smiles at him, beams at him, his lips wet from the alcohol, and Jannik feels bad. He’s being a joykiller. Carlos is nothing but a 22-year-old Grand Slam winner trying to enjoy his well-deserved victory. 

“How was media?” He asks, trying to shut his disappointment up. 

Carlos laughs again, his hand pressing on his face. Jannik has been to a few parties with him, so he knows he’s not the type to be drunk easily, and it certainly isn’t with the few vodka gulps he took that he will be. He wasn’t with him before, though, so he doesn’t know if he had a few drinks to celebrate with his team. Maybe they had champagne before media. Maybe they had champagne during media. 

Had Darren and Simone prepared champagne bottles in case he won? They’re not the type to, but now, Jannik cannot help but wonder. 

“Ah, man, terrible.” Carlos has a weird way of talking in English, especially with the “R”. That’s because he’s Spanish, probably, and probably that Jannik himself has the same weird way of pronouncing them, but it’s always endearing when Carlos speaks. He sounds like a child. “They were on fire. Think they were impressed, you know?” He laughs again, like everything is light and bubbly. Jannik wishes he could relate. “Asked me what it felt like to play the best tennis in the World.” 

The Italian chuckles. He takes another sip of whiskey before talking. “What did you answer?” 

Carlos turns his head towards him and flashes another wide smile. Though this time, he looks more serious. “I told them to ask you.” 

Jannik feels his heart stutter in his chest. His eyes land on the plate, still there, still waiting on the bar, still reminding him that he played second best today, and then his eyes are back on Carlos. The Spaniard is looking at him, still, his teeth on full display, eyes crinkled. Jannik feels his cheeks redden. He drops his gaze. “Shut up.” He murmurs. 

But Carlos is nothing if not stubborn. “It is true, Jannik. You played the most amazing tennis today. You made me doubt so much, for so long, until the very last point. You exhausted me, you made me lose my focus, you made me madder than I’ve ever been on a tennis court. I would have never played that well if you hadn’t made me.” 

“Stop,” the readhead tries, voice low and deep. He wishes he could drown in that glass he’s holding. Carlos is talking directly to him, his whole body turned towards him, but Jannik’s not looking back. He cannot, not when he’s already a whiskey down, not when he still feels like he’s been stepped on, not when he knows the fucking puppy eyes are back and that he’s going to feel his heart beat faster as soon as he’s gonna look back at the youngest. 

Carlos’ hand enters his field of vision, and his eyes follow. The Spaniard points to the plate. “I was serious, you know? I truly believe you’ll win this Open, one day. And not just one time, but multiple times. And we’re gonna fight each other hard, each time; and we’re gonna make history, again and again.” 

His hairy hand drops on the bar, next to Jannik’s. The Italian feels his heart jump in his chest. His fingers flex on the wooden structure, letting go of his glass, as if scared that Carlos will take his hand any second. He wants to look at him, now, but he cannot, so he closes his eyes. The more Carlos talks, the more he feels like he’s going to faint. The youngest doesn’t seem bothered.

“'Cause that’s what we did, today, you know?” 

It feels good, though. Maybe that’s why he’s not looking at Carlos, because he’s scared of what more he would feel if he were. 

“We made history.” 

Jannik suppresses a shiver, eyes still closed, mouth still sealed. 

“And just so you know, there’s no one I would have rather written history with than you .” 

This time, he doesn’t escape it. He opens his eyes and the puppy eyes are there. The brunette is looking at him like he’s a kind of rare bird which shouldn’t be startled or it will disappear and never ever come back. He’s looking at him like he’s scared of what just came out of his own mouth, although he’s still gently smiling, like always. 

Carlos has not stopped smiling since their match ended, but now, it feels more special. Maybe that’s because there are no more cameras around, and Jannik knows it’s genuine. Maybe that’s because he’s the only one witnessing this smile, not the Philippe Chatrier Court, not the international TVs, only him, selfishly, in the middle of a bar, not keen on sharing.

Maybe that’s because the smile came with the most beautiful thing anybody has ever told him. 

Just like earlier, on the court, Jannik feels his skin tingle. He could blame it on the whiskey beginning to hit, but he knows that would be lying, and more than that, it would be denying the power Carlos holds in his hands right now. 

And he’s not the type to deny this type of talent. 

He knows he’s supposed to talk, now. He’s supposed to thank Carlos, to tell him that he, too, is happy that they wrote a piece of history together. Nothing comes out, though. He’s never been a man of many words. It’s even a miracle he succeeded in saying a few words earlier. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries not to think about how he must look like a fish, right now. 

Carlos laughs, genuinely. He shakes his head, eyes shining. 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything. I was not expecting big words, anyway.” 

He doesn’t seem disappointed. It looks like nothing can kill this man’s joy tonight. He just looks amused, at best, proud to have turned Jannik speechless, at worst. He takes the vodka to his mouth and downs a few more gulps, as if nothing happened. As if he hadn’t crushed Jannik’s heart with a few lines. 

It feels wrong not to say anything, though. So, very low, very slow, Jannik murmurs: 

“Thank you.” 

Carlos’ eyes shine even brighter when he looks back at him. He winks, and then, he makes a move with his hand, like he’s trying to move past the conversation they just had. Then, he puts one of his elbows on the bar surface and talks again, way louder than what he just said: 

“You’re not going to believe what a journalist asked me-” 

And just like that, Jannik feels his heart come back to a regular rhythm. That, he knows. Carlos talks, he listens, pretends to be super interested in everything he has to say, and reacts when he needs to. 

That is them. Carlos and Jannik. 

Not Roland Garros two-time winner and Roland-Garros loser. 

Just them and a drink. 

Like they’re friends and not rivals.

A drink turns two, then three, and then, when they decide it’s time to go back to their hotel, it’s late at night, and they’re giggling for nothing. They’re not drunk, though. They’re just exhausted, pretty much knackered from their day. 

Carlos ended up paying for the drinks. Said it was on him for making Jannik wait for the media to be over. Jannik did not try to stop him, letting himself have that, only for the night.

There’s a car waiting outside the bar, with a chauffeur, and Jannik laughs. 

“Fancy.” He says, before entering the car. He didn’t even think about how they would go back to the hotel, so he’s happy Carlos did. Happy he’s in charge. 

Once in the car, he lets go of his trophy plate in the middle seat, and the back of his head hits the headrest. He sighs, feeling a bit tipsy, and closes his eyes just for a minute. He hears Carlos close the door, and then he feels the car is moving, but he doesn’t pay any more attention. He tries to relax, letting his legs stretch out in the big space they have. 

A calm music is playing in the car. It doesn’t cover Carlos’ laughter, though, so Jannik opens his eyes again. 

Carlos is looking at himself in the silver plate. He’s smiling with all his teeth, playing with the magnifying reflect, looking way too stupid for a multiple Grand Chelem winner. Jannik laughs at the scene. 

“Nice smile.” He murmurs, kicking playfully at Carlos’ ankle with his feet. Carlos, still smiling, bites back instantly.

“Nice legs.” 

Jannik feels his cheeks grow hot. He did not feel exposed while they were at the bar, because they were indoors. Most importantly, his legs were hidden by the bar. Now, though, they’re in the car, and his long legs are stretched out between them because he is too tall to sit normally, and his shorts look way shorter than they really are. He puts his hands on his lap, trying to forget about the fact that his legs are on full display in front of the Spaniard. He regrets putting on shorts, now. He should have put on pants, even though it still felt hot in Paris when he prepared. 

Carlos is still holding the plate in his hands, but he’s not looking at himself in it anymore. His head is turned towards Jannik and he’s smiling, eyes shining in the dark lights of the city. 

“It’s always so distracting to play against you, you know?” 

Jannik chuckles shyly. “Is it, now?” 

The Spaniard’s head falls on his headrest, still turned towards him, and he hums. “Hm, hm. You really have nice legs. I feel like I cannot concentrate on the game, sometimes. All I can see are your legs."

Carlos’ voice is deeper than it was just a second ago. Jannik could swear it is.

He feels his cheeks grow redder. “Shut up.” He says, shaking his head slowly, his heart beating faster in his chest. “You’re not serious.” 

“I’ve never been more serious” is Carlos’ answer. Jannik’s laughter falters, and Carlos takes it as his cue to continue digging the Italian’s grave. “You have no idea how difficult it is to play against you, Jannik. Every detail of you is just so distracting.” 

Jannik holds his breath when Carlos lifts his hand until it’s right next to the Italian’s head. 

He seems to hesitate before touching the mole displayed on his right jaw. “That, I know I cannot look at, or I’d lose my focus.” 

Carlos’s hand is warmer than it was on the court earlier. It feels as good as it did, though. Maybe even better. Jannik doesn’t dare to move. 

He doesn’t have to, anyway, because Carlos beats him to it. His hand moves from his jaw to his nose, and his index finger rests just above his skin, without touching, just tracing the shape of his nose. “And your freckles seem brighter when you play.” 

Jannik’s eyes widen. He keeps quiet, still, only his breathing being louder than the music still playing in the background. He feels like his throat is closing, like his heart is beating out of his chest, but he cannot move, not now, not when Carlos is talking with that voice and looking at him with those eyes. 

The Spaniard’s hand leaves his nose, never touching it, and continues higher and higher until it reaches the side of his head, next to his ear. He feels Carlos’ fingers delicately touching his hair, then, the curls that he cannot seem to control, the ones that kept poking out of his cap during the match. His breathing stops when Carlos’ finger rolls into the strands of his hair and he smiles shyly. “You seem blonder than before, too. I couldn’t quite decipher if you had done something to your hair. Made me sad, for some reason.” He chuckles. “Guess I don’t like not knowing something about you.” 

His eyes are fixed on Jannik’s hair, and the Italian feels like he might faint at any moment now. Strangely enough, he feels the urge to reassure Carlos. “I haven’t.” The Spaniard looks at him for a moment, surprised that he talked, lost too. “Done something to my hair. I haven’t.” Jannik adds. 

Carlos seems happy with the answer. He smiles. “Never do so, please. Your hair is so-” He cuts himself, then, and Jannik feels like screaming. 

He wants to yell so what, tell me, tell me how you think I look, tell me everything, tell me I look pretty . He doesn’t, obviously, just looks at Carlos expectantly, waiting for something that doesn’t feel like coming, fighting with his own heart that seems two seconds away from escaping his chest to fall into Carlos’ lap and dance in his hands for another compliment. 

Carlos lets go of his hair and shakes his head, seemingly realizing what he has just said, just done. “Yeah. I think you really have no clue how difficult it is to play against you.” He says, straightening his position in his seat. 

The silver plate is still in his lap, and it shines suddenly, illuminated by one of Paris’ streetlamps. 

Jannik looks at it. “Yet, you always win.” 

The Spaniard chuckles. “I do, yeah.” He doesn’t escape Jannik’s look. “Maybe ‘cause I love knowing that I make you mad almost as much as you make me weak .” 

Reasonably, Jannik knows Carlos is joking. He knows this is just silly banter between rivals, a bit drunk after a night out. Reasonably, he knows Carlos doesn’t believe in what he’s saying. 

A part of him hopes there’s a part of truth in those words, though. It hopes he has the power to make Carlos weak, as much as the Spaniard seems to make him weak on the court, sometimes. His voice is low when he responds. 

“I hate losing to you.” 

Carlos’ smile brightens. 

“I love winning to you.” 

Jannik feels his heart beat faster. This silly banter is starting to make him feel dizzy, and the way Carlos’ eyes are shining is making him so - 

“I hate that I’m number one with everyone but never with you.” 

He’s talking before thinking, now, and that never happens. He always thinks three times before opening his mouth, always measured, always collected. What is happening in the backseat of this car? He feels like he’s a man possessed. 

Carlos squints his eyes, and the words flow out of his mouth easily. Why do they always come out of his mouth so easily?

“You’re number one with me,” Carlos says. 

Jannik closes his eyes, and suddenly, there’s a hand on his, in his lap. He opens his eyes, and Carlos is closer than when he closed them. His heart flutters again, his breath catches, and he feels like he’s going to die on the spot when Carlos begins talking again.

“You’re number one to me, always. And if someone makes you feel any less than a number one, then they don’t deserve you, they don’t deserve to see you play, and they certainly don’t deserve to see you at al -”

He doesn't think before grabbing Carlos' neck. He most certainly doesn't think either before pushing his mouth against his, but now his lips are on the ones Carlos used to give him all those wonderful compliments, and he cannot think about anything other than Oh my god, I’m kissing Carlos. 

Maybe that’s also what Carlos is thinking right now, because he makes a bit of a strangled noise against his mouth before pushing his lips against his and kissing him properly. 

Jannik feels like his whole body is catching fire. He also feels Carlos’ hand that was on his just a moment prior fall on his legs - naked legs, and that doesn’t help anything about that feeling of burning out of his skin. The Spaniard’s body melts against him, his hand climbs onto his thigh, and Jannik feels an animalistic noise escape his throat before he can control any of it. He grabs a handful of Carlos’ hair, which makes the youngest open his mouth in surprise, and suddenly Jannik feels a rush of adrenaline going through his whole body, just as his tongue licks into Carlos’ mouth. 

“Jan,” Carlos whispers against his mouth, and Jannik nods, like he’s agreeing to something Carlos didn’t even say.  

He keeps kissing the Spaniard, keeps pushing his head against his just so he has a better angle to kiss him even deeper. He feels Carlos’ hand on his thigh, grabbing at his skin like he’s trying to anchor his body. Jannik vaguely wonders if Carlos is grabbing him sufficiently hard for it to bruise. A freaky part of him hopes so, hopes to see the mark of Carlos’ hand, of his fingers on his white skin. The thought is so maddening that his jaw clenches and he bites his partner’s lower lip. 

“Mierda !”  

Jannik chuckles against Carlos’ mouth when he hears the curse. Carlos’ hand falls on the expanse of his back until he finds his shirt’s hem, and then his hand touches Jannik’s skin. Something in his chest tightens and he lifts his leg, trying to straddle the Spaniard, except his leg hits something cold and hard and it takes a few second to register that it is that fucking plate trophy, still in Carlos’ lap. He takes it in his hand before tossing it to the floor. 

“Oi!” Carlos says, watching it fall, but Jannik doesn’t give him time to mourn the trophy. He gets his mouth on his collarbone and kisses, hard, nibbling at it. The intensity he puts into this kiss is enough to make Carlos forget about the plate, and the Spaniard makes a noise so loud it almost scares Jannik. Of course Carlos would be so vocal. 

Jannik puts his right hand on Carlos’ mouth and chuckles. “You’re so loud!”  

The Spaniard smiles like a madman, or like a high man, he cannot tell the difference. The most important thing is that the smile can be seen in his eyes. He seems so happy that for a moment, Jannik gets lost in his eyes. “Yeah, well, you just kissed my neck !” 

Jannik is about to tell him that he wants to kiss his whole freaking body when the car comes to a stop suddenly. His eyes turn to the window and- shit, the hotel. 

The Italian’s brain seems to get back to reality because he instantly returns to his seat, feeling his cheeks so hot. He forgot they were in a fucking car, way too lost in the way Carlos was kissing him. Now, in his seat, he has a direct view into the rear mirror, where the chauffeur is looking at them, his eyes amused. 

“Gentlemen, I fear we have arrived at our destination.” 

Jannik wants to die. Carlos chuckles next to him, and yeah, forget about dying, he wants to hit him first. How can he be laughing when they have just been witnessed playing horny teenagers in the backseat of a car?! 

“Joder, yes. Yes, we have. How much do we owe you? I’ll double it.” Carlos asks, and Jannik still feels his cheeks burning, but now he also feels his heart flutter. How can Carlos be so sweet, all the fucking time?

Maybe it’s not his brain talking. It most certainly isn’t anymore, because he spends the next seconds witnessing Carlos paying a very very big amount of money without interfering. He just stares at him while he gives the change to the very amused driver, and then he looks at him grabbing the plate that fell on the car floor before he opens the door. Carlos is out of the car before Jannik comes back to reality, and when he does, the Spaniard’s hand is right in front of his nose. “You coming?” 

Jannik feels like this question is more than just a way of asking him to get out of the car. He feels like grabbing that hand is much more of a choice he has to make. 

For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just looks at Carlos, whose smile is so bright it might as well replace the Eiffel Tower light, whose eyes are those signature puppy eyes again. His right hand is still in front of Jannik, and in his left hand, he’s holding that stupid silver plate. 

Jannik’s silver plate. 

Jannik looks back at Carlos’ eyes, which don’t seem quite as sure as a few seconds prior. His face is already dropping, like he’s preparing to get rejected. 

The beautiful smile Carlos has had all night long is fading.

Jannik doesn’t think for a second more. 

He grabs Carlos’ hand and gets out of the car. 

“I’m here.” 

And Carlos’ smile comes back to life, even brighter than before.  

So bright, in fact, that one would think he has just won another trophy. 

Maybe he has. 

The elevator ride is the weirdest of his life. 

Jannik has chosen the left part of the elevator and he’s facing Carlos. 

Carlos is smiling. He still has the trophy plate in his hands. Trophy plate that might as well be his at the end of the night, because he’s been taking care of it as if it were the most important thing in the world. He seems relaxed, as if nothing happened. 

As if they hadn’t shared the hottest kiss in the backseat of a taxi. 

Jannik doesn’t know what to do with his body. He feels hot everywhere, even though he’s still in his shorts. He knows his cheeks are most definitely bright red, and honestly, he’s kind of proud he isn’t sporting a more evident trace of what just happened. 

Carlos is. On his neck, there’s a red area. Jannik recognizes it because he remembers vividly pushing his lips against that part of Carlos less than ten minutes ago. 

He flushes again. Yeah, no, not going there. 

The elevator is empty, except for the two of them, and Jannik thanks every lucky star that it’s very late at night and that people are sleeping. They should be, too. He feels exhausted, like he could crumble every minute now. He briefly remembers his wish to shut his hotel room door and never talk again, and that seems so long ago, now, that it makes him chuckle nervously. 

Hell, what is going on? How is he there, in an elevator, looking at Carlos holding his second-place trophy, and not sleeping, not weeping his tears about the loss of his life? 

His skin tingles and he feels a shiver take over his body. 

He needs to get his shit together. He’s going to tell Carlos that the night’s been fun, but that it’s over now, that he’s going to stop on the third floor to get to his room, right next to Simone’s, and that he’s going to have a good night's sleep, a restorative sleep, and that they’re going to agree about the fact that this night has been- that he doesn’t exactly know what this night has been but it most certainly isn’t something that they’re gonna talk about ever again because there’s simply no fucking chance he wanna think again about how Carlos’ tongue has been-

“You coming?” 

Jannik quivers. He looks at Carlos, who’s expectantly holding the elevator door. He didn’t even notice that they had come to a stop and that the elevator had opened. 

This isn’t the third floor.

Jannik knows he’s breathing way too hard for normal. 

He also knows he must be looking like a deer in a car’s lights right now. 

He looks at the silver plate in Carlos’ arms and takes a step forward.

Carlos smiles at him. Jannik hates that smile. He hates that his body isn’t responding to his brain anymore. He hates that he follows Carlos in the hotel corridors, right up to his hotel room; he hates that the Beep! of the door opening seems to be reverberating in his whole body. He hates that he feels like his heart is gonna explode in his chest when he closes the door behind him, slowly, but willingly. 

He still doesn’t know what to do with his body. He hasn’t said anything since he exited the car, and now he feels like he should be saying something; he knows he should be telling Carlos that they should just part ways, now, that they shouldn’t continue whatever they began in the car. 

Carlos lets the silver plate fall onto the bed, and Jannik feels his breath catch even faster. 

“You gonna stand there?” 

The Spaniard hasn’t even turned towards him before saying that. Jannik is still facing his back. The youngest has his head inclined, as if he were still looking at the trophy plate. 

Jannik knows Carlos is waiting for him to make up his mind. He knows he’s letting him decide whether he wants to listen to his body and resume what was going on in the car ; or listen to his brain and run out of the room right this very second.

And that’s the thing. 

Jannik lost the match because he listened to his brain. 

“I-” 

His voice is hoarse. He blinks, surprised by the sound he just made. 

Carlos seems surprised, too, because he turns his head towards him, above his shoulder. 

There they are. The puppy eyes. 

Jannik feels his heart warm up, blow up, and the next second, he’s crossing the living room to get to Carlos. 

He grabs Carlos’ head and pushes his mouth against his. The brunette makes a desperate noise before grabbing Jannik’s shoulders and pushing him towards his own body. Jannik feels like he’s falling, his whole body moving in the direction of the bed. Carlos falls first on the mattress, and he knows he’s going to plummet on the Spaniard’s body and that he’s going to hurt him, but he has no choice, so he lets himself fall. 

Carlos’ body is hard, strong underneath him. He hears the man make a deep noise, and his cheeks flush. He rubs his hands on Carlos’ side, half straddling him, half on the bed. “Me dispiace, me dispiace, me dispiace …” He says, like a litany. 

Carlos doesn’t seem to mind, because his hand is already slipping underneath Jannik’s collar, touching the naked skin displayed, grabbing a handful of his curls with his other hand. “Don’t care, kiss me.” 

Jannik doesn’t think twice. He puts a hand near Carlos’ face, on the bed, and lowers his upper body so that he can kiss him with intent. Carlos moans into the kiss, into his mouth, and Jannik thinks Shit, I’m not surviving that. 

Carlos’ hand in his hair tightens, and he lets Jannik play with his mouth all he wants. He doesn’t shut up, like, ever, and Jannik doesn’t know what to do with the information that Carlos is a very very passionate lover. Probably that he wants to learn every way to make him even louder. 

He feels the other’s hands travel his body until they find the hem of his shirt, and suddenly, the cold air of the hotel room hits his back. He whines against Carlos’ mouth before straightening his body so that Carlos can pull him out of his shirt. 

He has half a second to feel ashamed of his slender chest, but then Carlos’ mouth is on his skin and he feels like he’s going to die on the spot. His mouth is warm and wet and he kisses his sternum all the way until his belly, and Jannik hisses. “Carlos, fuck!” 

The Spaniard hides a laugh on his skin and Jannik feels the vibrations of it travel his whole body. He whines again, but before he can say something else, Carlos puts both of his hands on his hips and reverses their positions. Jannik lets out a Oof! when his back hits the mattress, and he has no time to think before he feels Carlos straddle him and a mouth on his neck. 

He feels like he’s falling, falling, falling in lust limbo, his whole body feeling way too hot. His eyes roll backward when Carlos makes a move with his hips that elicits a pleasurable feeling between his legs that he hadn’t noticed yet. Fuck, he’s hard already. He whines loudly. 

“Yeah, I wanna hear you,” Carlos says, his voice deep. Jannik opens his eyes - when did he close them again?- only to see a very shirtless Carlos on top of him. He opens his mouth, surprised, and his hands find the toned muscles of Carlos’ shoulders in no time. 

“Cazzo , sei- ” He has no word. He doesn’t even know what he had in mind before opening his mouth. Certainly nothing too poetic or too refined, so he doesn’t finish his sentence.  

Carlos beams at him, his eyes bright like diamonds in the half-dark room. “Italian, uh?” He seems almost proud, and Jannik wants to laugh. 

“Sorry, I’ll-

– No, don’t.” 

Carlos did that a lot, tonight, not letting him finish his sentences. It doesn’t bother Jannik, cause he doesn’t always like to talk, but most importantly, he feels understood, seen. The way Carlos seems to be predicting everything that will come out of his mouth is doing something to his heart. 

“Talk in Italian if you want to. I love hearing you.” 

His voice is all sweet when he says that. He looks almost shy, for a minute, almost ashamed of his confession, and Jannik feels his chest heaving. Carlos is in full puppy mode, right now, and he needs to do something about it or he’ll combust, right there and then, and he’ll die and the night will be over way too soon because he will be dead of feelings. 

His left hand envelops Carlos’ cheek and, delicately, he leads his mouth to him. Their kiss is soft, softer than the rest of them, and he feels Carlos dissolving into a warm puddle on top of him. Almost reverently, Jannik lets his other hand travel to the youngest’s back. He feels every muscle, every bump of skin, and most importantly, he feels how hot Carlos’ body is right now, and he whines timidly against his mouth. “Si? Sei impressionato?” He murmurs, and the body on top of his tenses. 

“Jan…” 

Jannik moves his hips, just to feel Carlos’ body shiver. “Ti piace quando parlo italiano?” 

The moan that follows might be the best answer he could have had. “Si, si, me encanta, fuck, Jannik, I just wanna-” Carlos lets his hand surround Jannik’s head before he gives him the most intense kiss of his life. His lips are strong and his mouth is demanding and Jannik is breathless and dizzy and horny and he doesn’t want to waste any more time talking or he will explode. 

Carlos seems to get the program because next thing he knows, the Spaniard’s mouth is kissing his lower belly and his hands are teasing the hem of his shorts. “Freaking slutty shorts.” He comments before locking his thumbs into them and getting them off. Jannik stares at the ceiling and begins to pray, because there’s no way he’ll last longer than a minute if Carlos starts calling him a slut. 

He feels like one, though, because the second Carlos’ hands touch his naked hips, he bucks up, whining. That is enough to elicit a laugh from the other, and the Italian grabs his hair. “Stop laughing!” he says, voice wobbling. He shouldn’t have done that, though, because the way Carlos is looking at him between his legs tells him everything he needs to know about what kind of lover Carlos is- a lover who devours. 

Carlos flashes him a proud smile and then his mouth is on his dick and Jannik lets his head fall back down on the bed. “Cazzo , fuck, fuck, fuck.” He says, abs flexing, body shivering, and then Carlos’ hand joins his mouth and it seems like Cazzo, fuck, fuck, fuck isn’t fucking enough for what is going on inside his body right now. 

His muscles hurt, too, because he played a long match,  fucking longest match of Roland Garros history and he might be a professional athlete, he certainly isn’t used to getting his dick sucked right after this kind of effort. His fingers are buried into Carlos’ skull, because there’s not enough hair to grab because that stupid man decided to get a haircut before the French Open and now he cannot grab him the way he would like and- 

“Ah, fuck-” 

Yeah, he didn’t say anything about anyone being stupid in this room. Carlos knows how to move his tongue just the right amount, at just the right time. Jannik closes his eyes so hard that he sees white, and he lets go of Carlos’ skull to hold his own hair. He tugs on his curls, enough to hurt himself, but that’s exactly what he needs, right now, to feel something, to feel his body is still here and not getting sucked by Carlos’ mouth entirely, to feel he will survive this blowjob and he won’t die on the spot. 

He has half a mind to wonder how Carlos is so good at that. How he learnt, with whom, if he did the same thing to Sascha last year- The thought makes him want to scream, to cry and to laugh at the same time, and that’s it, he’s going crazy, he knew he would, he just did not know it would be because of a magnificent blowjob. 

And then, Carlos’ mouth lets go of his dick, and Jannik whines, but before he can say anything more, he feels the lips get to his ass, and he makes a noise that is more a shout than a moan. 

“Carlos, fuck, you’re going to- I’m going to-” 

He doesn’t know if he wants to die or to cum, he just wants to stop thinking, honestly, and his brain isn’t helping anyway, so he helps Carlos by lifting his hips, until the youngest holds them for him and he lets his body dissolve in the big hands. Then, he lets himself enjoy the feeling of having this beautiful man eating him out and whines, whines, whines, his vocal cords burning inside of his throat. 

“Baby.” 

He doesn’t understand Carlos is talking to him, at first, but then his brain refreshes and Jannik opens his eyes and the way the Spaniard is looking at him makes him want to shut his brain and never think of anything else other than those beautiful eyes staring at him. He is leaving small kisses on his thigh, on his hips, near his crotch.

“I need you to grab the lube for me, alright?” 

Jannik doesn’t say anything, his body moves without even thinking. He follows Carlos’ orders until he finds the lube bottle in the bedtable, fuck- why does Carlos have a freaking lube bottle in his hotel room, anyway, how many people has he fucked right here - before giving it to him. 

“Thank you, baby,” Carlos says, and Jannik whines again at the pet name. 

Carlos laughs, then, a pure and honest laugh, and Jannik feels a bit offended to be laughed at. “Stop making fun of me.” He says, and Carlos laughs again, his eyes shining. 

“I’m not making fun of you, I’m just telling myself this is surreal.” 

Jannik blinks, looking directly at Carlos while the youngest opens the lube and smears it on his fingers. “What is?” he asks, timidly. 

Carlos is warming up the lube on his fingers. “To have you like that, sprawled on my bed, naked and flushed.” On cue, Jannik flushes a bit more. Carlos chuckles again, before kissing his lower belly, tenderly, gently, caressing his white skin with his thumb, while his other hand, the lubed one, finds his ass. “I have wanted you for so long, I feel like you’re the most complicated trophy I’ve ever won.” 

Before Jannik can respond- before he can even understand what it means, Carlos touches him intimately. His abs flex again before he collapses back on the mattress, Carlos’ fingers working him open, slowly and meticulously, and how the fuck is a 22 year-old so skilled already, how does he know exactly what to do, when to do it, and what is going to make Jannik want to crawl out of his skin and just, just die of pleasure. 

Maybe he’s just too easy for Carlos. Maybe his body has waited for this moment for so long and now, it just cannot comprehend the fact that it’s happening, for real. He feels like he wants to cry again, and Carlos taking him back into his mouth is his last straw. 

“Carlos, you- stop!” He whines, his whole body tensed on the bed, the long and calloused fingers still moving inside. “I’ll come, you-just stop, please, please stop, amore mio, please-” 

He doesn’t even register the fact he just called Carlos by a fucking pet name, he doesn’t think about how desperate he sounds, how his pale and tall body must be looking right now, with his face fully red, his abs flexing, his hands in his own hair, his cock pulsing in Carlos’ mouth. 

Speaking of the devil, he lets go of him just enough to say, playfully: “Good, ‘cause I want you to come.” 

Jannik whines again, his voice breaking in the process, and he shakes his head. “No! Voglio- voglio che mi scopi, Carlos, per favore, stop!” 

Carlos really has a soft spot for his Italian, because that is enough to make him stop. Jannik feels like whining some more, because now that Carlos has stopped, all he wants is to come, but in no time, the Spaniard’s head is right next to his, and Jannik doesn’t think before kissing him, hard. 

He tastes himself on Carlos’ tongue, and that’s enough for him to moan again. Carlos kisses him, still, long and sweet movements of his mouth, his tongue licking, his teeth nibbling at his lips, and Jannik’s body shivers again. 

“Yeah?” Carlos says, finally answering his Italian plea. “I will fuck you, I will, I swear, but first, I need you to ride me, okay?” 

How did Carlos even understand that Jannik begged him to fuck him is a mystery. The most important thing is that he understood and that he is agreeing to it. Jannik feels his body burn beneath the Spaniard’s, and that’s when he registers that the brunette still has his pants on. 

“Spogliati.” He asks, and Carlos takes a few more seconds to understand what it means. He’s helped by Jannik’s hands, which unbutton his jeans, before tossing them aside, briefs with it. 

He takes a moment to let his eyes roam over Carlos’ body. He’s so toned, so tanned, so big muscles and huge expanse of naked skin, and Jannik is drooling, basically, he knows he is. Carlos takes the lube bottle, rapidly, before teasing himself with a few strokes, which makes him hiss. 

“I’ve never been so hard, fuck, Jan, you have really no idea how much I want this.” 

The thing about Carlos is that he never shuts up. Jannik flushes again, his cheeks are burning, he can feel them, he can feel himself radiating with heat, and he doesn’t know how to answer without basically begging Carlos to get his dick in him already, so he just gets on his knees, pushes Carlos on his sternum until the Spaniard lets himself fall onto the mattress, back to the cushions, and with every ounce of grace he can find, he straddles him.

Carlos is looking at him like he’s a prettier Jesus. Jannik finds that he doesn’t mind the attention, for once. The noise Carlos makes when he gets his hand on the Spaniard’s cock makes him feel so powerful and so wanted that he forgets everything. 

When he guides the dick up to his ass, he doesn’t even remember how they got there. Philippe Chatrier doesn’t exist, tennis doesn’t exist, defeat doesn’t exist. He lets himself slide on Carlos’ cock, eyes fixed to the Spaniard, who’s still looking at him like he’s one of the World Seven Wonders, and, for the first time since the match ended, he feels light. 

He doesn’t feel like a loser anymore. 

Carlos’ hands get to his hips, stabilizing him, and Jannik moans, letting his head roll backward. His own hands find Carlos’ chest, and he tries to move, just a bit. He feels so full, like Carlos might be right up his fucking throat. 

“Joder, you’re so tight .” Carlos’ teeth are gritted, and Jannik chuckles, high on hormones. Just because he can, he contracts his lower self, he feels the dick throb in him, Carlos cursing at the same time. His thumbs on Jannik’s hips caress him slowly, and his voice is low when he talks again: “Don’t do that, bebé, I’m too sensitive, I’m going to come.” 

Jannik chuckles again. Fuck’s sake, he sounds light, as light as he feels. He’s moving continuously, now, with deliberately slow movements, deep circles that makes him shiver regularly. He gets his mouth close to Carlos’ ear and whispers playfully, imitating Carlos earlier: “Good, ‘cause I want you to come.”

Carlos laughs, full-on body laugh, eyes crinkling and everything, hips buckling timidly, fucking into him. Jannik feels his heart stutter, cause that’s what it does when Carlos laughs at his jokes, but also because he feels so much pleasure. The next moment, he feels lips on his collarbone, and he moans automatically. Carlos talks against his skin: “You really are- the most interesting person I know, fuck, I- I feel so lucky to know you, to fight against you, to call you my rival. ” He resumes his kissing, not forgetting a single spot on his neck. 

Jannik feels his chest tightening. Carlos keeps kissing him tenderly, and Jannik feels so emotional all of the sudden, because Carlos has been running his mouth all night long about how he likes him, and he hasn’t said anything back. 

He takes a deep breath, his hands grabbing Carlos’ shoulders timidly. His voice is hoarse, unsure.

“I feel lucky, too.” He says. He feels Carlos stop moving, and he is scared he has said something bad, but Carlos’ fingers flex on his hips and that fuels him enough to continue. “You’re the best I've played against, and it’s so hot, so- so raging, you have no idea how mad it makes me.” 

His mouth runs without thinking first, and maybe, for once, he doesn’t care. His hips are still moving, still making him breathless because he can feel how good it is, how Carlos is so big in him. “I hope we play tennis together all our lives, I really hope we do, because there’s no chance I’m not becoming the one beating your ass.”

Carlos laughs against his sternum, and Jannik feels this laugh all the way into his body. His forehead is resting against Jannik’s skin, starting to feel wet, but neither of them cares. “You’re crazy,” Carlos says, still laughing, and Jannik’s hips buckle up.

The movement makes Carlos gasp, and the redhead takes advantage of the surprise to move faster, riding Carlos the way the Spaniard intended. “Si, sono pazza,” Jannik says, in Italian, cause it’s way easier for him to open up in his mother tongue. Carlos’ fingers flex again on his hips, helping him with his movements, his breath more and more erratic. Jannik feels his legs hurt, and his back muscles burn. He doesn’t stop his movements, though, keeps riding, his mouth letting a few kisses on Carlos’ cheeks, talking slowly and lowly directly into his ear: “Ma sono pazza di te. Solo di te.” 

And then, Carlos circles his lower part with his big, muscled arms, and next minute, Jannik is on his back, Carlos is on top of him, and he’s taking control over the rhythm. Jannik whines, his head falling to the cushions. “Yeah, god, yeah,” he moans with pleasure, and Carlos’ nose buries into his curls, his big hands cupping his cheeks and his mouth peppering kisses on Jannik’s face. 

“You look like an angel.” Carlos talks against his temple, and Jannik feels his core shiver with toe-curling pleasure. He keeps making noises, unable to stop them, unable to think about anything other than the way Carlos is fucking him right now, and how this is the best way he could ever be fucked. 

But then Carlos decides to make a liar out of him, cause it gets better. 

“Wait a second, baby.”  

Suddenly, he’s out of him, and Jannik almost yells at the emptiness he feels, but then Carlos grabs him by the hips and flips him over. Jannik’s breath catches in his throat, and he feels Carlos’ body on him again, and he knows what’s going to happen will be the death of him. 

Carlos guides himself back into him, fucks one time, two times, and Jannik lets his forehead fall into the sheets, totally useless except for the fact he keeps his hips up. “Yeah, fuck, there,” He babbles into the sheets, and he feels Carlos’ hand on his lower back, pushing him into the sheets.

“Yeah, like that, baby?” 

Jannik nods, as if Carlos did not know he’s a second away from cumming already. His hands are everywhere on his body, holding, caressing, touching, and Jannik feels so overwhelmed, so on edge, he keeps moaning in the sheets, at the loss for words, the friction of the sheets against his dick so awesomely pleasurable. He is just trying to keep his body alive, even with the force of Carlos’ movements in him, fucking him into the mattress, when suddenly, he feels a hand in his hair. 

“You gotta look at that, Jan, fuck,” Carlos’ voice seems like it belongs to a dream, and Jannik is half passed out already, but the hand in his hair is gently pushing his head up and he tries to find what Carlos wants to show him. 

And then, he feels his heart escaping his ribcage, cause right there, right in front of them, Carlos is holding the fucking silver plate, his trophy, and is using it as a mirror to show him their bodies, naked. Jannik closes his eyes, the sight too much to bear, but Carlos talks and he can’t help but open them again.

“I’ve never seen something so beautiful, fuck, look at us, look at you.” 

He’s looking, actually, and he looks fucked up. He looks like he’s having the fuck of his life, which he is having, but it makes him look like- like… 

“Fuck,” He says, closing his eyes.

He looks like a slut. 

“Pretty, pretty angel,” Carlos says, though, and Jannik whines again. 

His orgasm’s there, he can feel it building in his whole body. He feels it in his bones, in his muscles, in his lower back, in his lower belly, and he can feel tears building in his eyelids, he can feel his mouth opening, and suddenly, he’s coming, his voice breaking with the way he moans, again, and again, and again, and he can feel Carlos accelerate his movements, grabbing his hips, telling him how beautiful he is, how perfect he looks, and then his mouth is on his neck, or maybe on his cheek, he doesn’t understand what is going on because everything is so overwhelming, and he can feel Carlos coming inside, his hips flush against his ass, and he feels like he’s dying and then coming back to life. 

It takes him a few minutes to open his eyes again. The first thing he sees is the trophy plate, still on the bed, still next to them, but facing the ceiling, now that Carlos has let it go. Then, he feels such delicate lips on his skin, travelling North, then South. Carlos is kissing the whole of his back, his hands slowly massaging his hips and his ass, and he feels taken care of, and it’s enough to make him moan another time. 

There’s a bit of silence, only broken by Carlos’ mouth making kissing noises. Jannik smiles to himself, imagining Carlos travelling his body just to make him feel good. He feels worshipped. He feels safe.

At one point, he feels uncomfortable lying on the wet patch his release left on the sheets, so he turns onto his back. He makes a face of discomfort, and Carlos immediately looks worried, so Jannik makes a grabby hands gesture, and the Spaniard is on him the next second. He kisses him gently, slowly, letting him come back to his right mind. 

“You good?” Carlos asks against his mouth after a few minutes, and Jannik lets his fingers run through Carlos’ hair. 

“Do I not look good?” He chuckles, before kissing Carlos’ cheek. “Because I feel fucking good, right now.” 

Carlos seems relieved, which is weird because Jannik did not even notice he was worried. “No, you look perfect.” The Spaniard says, with a deep voice, which seems to hold more than just what he said. Jannik doesn’t question it, though, because Carlos kisses him, slowly. He lets him, still caressing his hair, his heart beating fast, his chest warm. Carlos whispers, “You are perfect, Dios, you’re perfect.” 

Jannik feels his heart shrink in his chest, and he smiles against Carlos’ lips. He kisses him with more intent, just to hear his breath catch, taking it away. 

They kiss lazily for a few minutes. Then, Carlos moves a bit, putting his head in his hand, his elbow stretched on the bed to continue looking at Jannik. His eyes travel over his naked body, and he smiles. 

His hand drops on the Italian’s hips, and his thumb traces the marks his hands left while he was holding Jannik and fucking into him. 

“I always wondered if I’d leave marks,” Carlos murmurs, and Jannik flushes. 

He knows his skin is fragile. He always has bruises everywhere. He feels a bit proud to have those marks, though. He knows he’ll have a souvenir. “Yeah? Have you imagined that often?”, he jokes. 

Carlos keeps his eyes fixed on his hips. “Do you want the honest answer or the socially acceptable one?” he says, but his smile tells Jannik everything he needs to know. 

The redhead flushes again, and he diverts his eyes. Carlos follows the movement and he smiles wider. “Are you that surprised? Everybody makes fun of how desperate I look when you’re near me.” He chuckles, a bit awkwardly. “Matteo says I am no better than a teenage girl.” 

Jannik represses a smile, knowing damn well that Matteo can be a pain in the ass sometimes. “You’re not.” He tries to reassure Carlos, but the man shrugs. 

“Maybe I am, I don’t care. I like you, I’m not ashamed of that.” 

Jannik closes his eyes instantly, as if Carlos’ words were such a shock that he didn’t want to see them. Which is utterly ridiculous, if you ask him. “Carlos…” He whines, his cheeks burning, wanting Carlos to stop talking and to hear more at the same time. He’s turning fucking schizophrenic.

Carlos laughs again. He doesn’t seem bothered at all. 

“What? Wasn’t it obvious already? I mean, I believed I had made it clear just a few minutes ago, but if you want to, I can prove it ag-” He says, playfully, but Jannik gets his hand on his mouth before he can finish his sentence. Carlos laughs against it, and the Italian chuckles too, too enamoured by the crinkling eyes staring at him. 

“Don’t you ever shut up? Aren’t you tired?” He says, laughing. Carlos shakes his head behind his hand, and Jannik feels his heart flutter again, letting go of his mouth.

“What do you mean, tired? I’ve been waiting for this moment for years, you think I’m gonna get tired now? I think I’ve just gotten started.” Carlos kisses him before he can respond. Jannik giggles against his mouth, and they resume their kissing, chuckling in between. 

They take a shower afterwards. Despite what Carlos can say, they’re beginning to feel very tired, and it shows. The Spaniard yawns, and Jannik smiles tenderly. 

“How about some sleep, uh?” He asks, and Carlos nods without adding anything, which is surprising enough. 

It doesn’t last, though, because when they reach the bed, Carlos laughs. 

“Gosh, I hope you’re planning on exposing that one.” He says, and Jannik takes a bit to understand what he means, but then he sees the trophy plate still on the bed, and he flushes dark red immediately. 

The memory hits, how desperate he seemed to be when he looked at his reflection, how hot it was. He takes the trophy rapidly, while Carlos is still laughing, and throws it on the floor, embarrassed but smiling, because Carlos’ laugh is so contagious. 

“Stop laughing!” he says, but Carlos shakes his head and doesn’t obey. “I don’t like it, anyway,” he adds, and sits on the bed, pouting. “I wanted to give it to my mom, but, yeah, not anymore.” 

Carlos follows him onto the bed and kisses his temple rapidly. “Why don’t you want it?” he asks, pushing the sheets so he can lie in bed. 

Jannik shrugs. “It’s not the one I wanted to take home.” 

The Spaniard’s mouth moves, like he’s trying to find what to say. He stays silent for a moment, and then he drops his hand on Jannik’s knee. 

“I hope you’ll win it over me”, he whispers. 

Jannik turns his head towards him, his hair a little damp from their shower. 

Carlos has his puppy eyes back. Jannik feels his heart warm up.

He tries to search for the tightness in his chest, the one he had all night long, but he doesn’t feel it anymore. 

He doesn’t know how he feels, but he doesn’t feel like a loser. He feels like a fucking winner.

He smiles, beaming at Carlos.

“I hope I win it over you, too.” 

He moves forward, just to kiss Carlos again, just because he can. 

“But, first, I’ll beat your ass in Wimbledon.” 

Carlos laughs against his mouth, and his hands surge forward just to reach for Jannik’s hips. He pushes enough for the redhead to fall on him. Jannik chuckles doing so. 

“Oh, I’m sure, World number one.” 

Chapter Text

The trophy is light. 

It’s shining. 

It’s in his hands and it’s light. 

Jannik is smiling. 

He cannot stop smiling. 

He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. 

He looks at all of the cameras flashing before him, trying to get the perfect picture of him holding that trophy, and he’s feeling a bit out of place, but he’s smiling, wide. 

He just won Wimbledon and he cannot stop smiling. 

It just feels so good.

When he saw Carlos messing up his last point and realized he had just won the match, his brain had thought back about every one of his matches in Wimbledon. How he had lost in the quarterfinals in 2022, then in the semis in 2023, only to be beaten in the quarters, again, in 2024. 

How he had to live through years of people calling him a hard court merchant, doubting his ability to win a Grand Slam on another surface. 

And then, that match in Paris. 

His chest tightens thinking back to that final. 

He hugs the trophy tighter. 

His eyes fly to Carlos, who is still there, still on the court, still next to him. 

The brunette is smiling, too, showing off his plate trophy. 

Jannik feels his cheeks heating up. 

He blinks a few times and turns around, to face other cameras, photographers yelling his name. 

But his brain is already gone. His body too. 

He cannot concentrate on the cameras. 

All he’s able to think about is how Carlos is so close, still here, still sharing his court, holding his second place trophy with no disappointment nor sadness clouding his smile. 

He’s just— he’s just smiling, happy to be here. 

Why does he seem so happy to be here? 

Why is he smiling that much?

Jannik thinks back to the French Open and his chest tightens. He wouldn’t have been able to smile like that, even though he had tried. He was just so crushed by the match they had played, so lost in his own head, and he knows he would have been all night long if Carlos hadn’t— 

His cheeks heat up a bit more. 

He cannot think about that here. 

Not when he’s facing hundreds of cameras and being filmed by international televisions. 

He tries to shut his brain up, and lifts his trophy to kiss the handler. 

He closes his eyes and tries to empty his mind. 

Why can’t he be normal, for once? 

But he cannot be normal about Carlos. 

Not when Carlos himself isn’t normal about them. 

Not when he joins him in his part of the court, the one Jannik is resolutely staying in, because he cannot be close to Carlos, right now, he just can’t ; not when he beams at him, glowing with — what, second place glow? Is that even a thing?

Jannik blinks, feeling his breath catch in his throat, unable to breathe normally. 

He knows they have to take pictures, it’s the regular protocol. He still feels giddy when Carlos’ body stands right next to his, and it all must be in his head, but he swears the Spaniard slightly leans towards him, their shoulders brushing. 

Jannik tries and hopes to keep a neutral face, his eyes focused on the flashes, his whole body tensed, trying not to move, not to invade Carlos’ personal space, and trying not to think about anything other than Smile for the cameras, it will be over soon, and not the way Carlos has smiled when he told the whole fucking world about their great relationship out the court but great rivalry on the court.

Is that how they can call that? Is seeing each other naked, having sex, and then not even talking about it Carlos’ idea of a great relationship out the court? 

He feels his cheeks flaming up. 

He’s trying not to think about that. 

He’s trying to be normal about them. 

Why can’t he be normal about them? 

Why can’t he be like Carlos, smiling widely even though he just lost, relaxed, free in his head, his brain not obsessively thinking about how they were fucking barely a month ago, and how they’re here, now, next to each other, carrying the weight of being each other’s best rival, each other’s only thorn. 

“You look good.” 

Jannik takes a few minutes to understand that Carlos just talked to him. 

They switch positions, facing another group of photographers, and it’s only when Carlos briefly turns his head towards him, catching a glimpse of his side profile and then looking back at the cameras, that it reaches Jannik’s brain.

His heart beats faster. 

He straightens up, feeling incredibly dizzy all of the sudden. 

It doesn’t help when Carlos’ voice echoes again, albeit more discreetly. 

“Winning suits you well.” 

Jannik wants to whine Stop, perché stai facendo questo?

At the same time, he wants to ask him to repeat that, to beg him to tell him those kinds of things all night long. 

And it makes his head spin, because a small voice inside chuckles proudly: Carlos isn’t normal about us, either. And it makes him smile. 

“Thank you,” he says, his lips curving up. He’s still looking at the cameras, not wanting to give Carlos the pleasure of looking at him, yet.  

He eventually does so, though. When they switch positions again, for another burst of pictures. He looks at Carlos, and Carlos looks at him, and for a few seconds, they’re looking at each other, straight in the eyes, and Jannik forgets they’re in the middle of the court. 

For a few seconds, he’s back in the taxi, he’s back in the hotel, he’s back in the bed, and he feels like flying, his insides fluttering weakly, his heart beating in his ears, and he cannot fucking breathe. 

They face the cameras, and Jannik bites his tongue, hard, punishingly, but it doesn’t help, because his brain has stopped functioning regularly and there’s something else guiding him, something that must be between his legs, because he mutters: “Nice trophy.” 

He feels Carlos’ laughter before he hears it. The Spaniard’s body is shaking next to him, and then a deep laugh echoes through the Court. 

“Yeah?” his rival says, and then he turns towards him. Jannik quits looking at the cameras, and he lets himself watch Carlos — like, really watch him. Watch the way he’s smiling at him, the way his eyes are shining with mischief, the way his body is standing like he owns that court, even though he’s just got beaten on it. 

He knows whatever will come next will have him. 

But it doesn’t change the way his body reacts when the youngest moves his hand slightly, just to move his trophy, just for it to catch Jannik’s attention, and then he’s looking at the trophy plate Carlos is holding, watching his reflection inside, seeing his flushed cheeks, his messy hair, his post-victory glow, and the scene is such a déjà-vu that he feels himself shivering. His hand tightens on his trophy.

Carlos is looking at him with a predatory smile. “I like it too,” he murmurs, moving his hand again, watching with attention the way Jannik’s face distorts with memories of them. “Would make a pretty mirror, don’t you think?” 

It’s so obvious how his voice is dripping with irony. It makes Jannik gulp, and then, for his own good, he blinks and stops staring at the trophy plate. His eyes catch Carlos’, and it doesn’t help his cardiac rhythm. It spikes. 

Carlos lifts a brow, his lips curling with tease, and he lifts up his index, slowly. They’re still looking at each other when his finger brushes past the winner’s trophy, Jannik’s trophy. “Bet you’d look even prettier in this one,” he says, voice dropping a tone again. Jannik freezes, feeling goosebumps invade his arms and legs. 

If he had any doubt about being on the same page as Carlos, he doesn’t have any, now. 

He knows exactly what they’re both talking about. 

He feels himself swaying, and it feels like Carlos’ finger, the one touching the trophy, is touching him, directly. He doesn’t hear anything other than his voice, and doesn't think about anything other than them.

It’s just them, only them. Like it’s meant to be. The Only Two. 

“You should come and try both,” he murmurs, and there’s a second in his head when he thinks That can’t be me talking, that can’t be me asking Carlos to come to my room and to have me face this trophy while he fucks me again. 

But — that’s him, and that’s exactly what he wants, right now, what he needs, even. 

He sees surprise on Carlos’ face, and he hopes he did not completely misunderstand everything, he hopes he did not let his hormones talk bullshit. But also, why does Carlos seem so surprised about this? It is as if he hadn’t even thought about the possibility Jannik might be interested in whatever he was hinting while hitting on him.

But surprise disappears quickly, and lets confidence take over. Carlos’ eyes darken, and the Spaniard nods. “I should, yeah,” he agrees, his voice hoarse, “I should ask for a re-match.” 

His breathing had stopped being normal a while ago, but Jannik inhales deeply, suddenly. It feels like every ounce of tension just flew away. Like every thought he had about them since that fucking morning after just— disappeared. 

Carlos wants a rematch. 

That’s all that matters. 

He’s about to tell him to meet him now, to drag him back to their hotel, when his brain catches up with everything. 

They’re still in the middle of the Center Court. 

He still has a protocol to get through. 

He still has a ball to attend. 

His heart fastens, and he looks around him, a lump in his throat. 

Carlos chuckles in front of him, and when he looks back at him, the Spaniard’s smiling brightly. 

“Go,” he says. Jannik feels a lot of déjà-vu, “everyone is waiting for you.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then he asks shyly: “Will you?” 

The unsaid part is obvious: Will you wait for me? Will you come to me? 

Carlos nods. 

Jannik smiles. 

He takes a step back and lets his eyes wander over Carlos’ body, how he looks even more toned and tanned in this white outfit. 

How he’s smiling widely at him. 

How he’s holding the trophy plate like it’s just another. 

How he looks happy just being second. 

Second to him. 

He shakes his head and turns around, walking back to the host who will lead him through the protocol. 

He watches the public still clapping for him, and his smile gets bigger. 

He’s so happy right now. 

Winning in Wimbledon is unique. 

It makes you a part of history, but it also makes you feel like a Prince. 

It’s what crosses his mind while he looks at himself in the mirror, in his black suit, freshened up by his shower. 

Everything is going so fast. 

Just a few moments ago, he was on the balcony, showing off his trophy to the biggest crowd he’s ever faced. 

Just a few moments ago, he was being shown his name on the Wimbledon wall of fame, right under Carlos’. 

And now he’s there, getting ready for the ball. 

He looks at himself and thinks Just take everything in. 

He deserves that. 

Iga is beautiful in her grey dress. She’s smiling brightly, albeit a bit shy, and Jannik tries to comfort her evident awkwardness by smiling widely and moving like a fool. It works, cause she giggles and lets herself loosen up a bit. At the end of their dance, she whispers: “Thanks.” 

Jannik smiles widely: “No problem. I’m sorry for not being the ideal Prince.” 

She giggles and raises a brow: “I’m sorry for not being the one you want to dance with.” 

There’s a beat of silence, during which they look at each other, and Jannik sees how comforting Iga looks, like she’s trying to tell him something only with her eyes. He flushes a bit and drops his eyes to the floor, feeling shyness take back his body. 

She pets his shoulder and flashes him a wide smile: “Don’t overthink it.” 

He nods, and then, they part ways. 

Jannik thinks back to what she said while he gets to his table, and something feels hollow in his chest. 

He spends the night with Darren, Simone and his family. 

Takes his mother for a dance, a well deserved one, and it heals something in his chest to see her chuckle. He knows how incredibly worried she was after Roland Garros. He knows how difficult it was to watch a match again. 

Jokes about Darren staying, happy to have won the bet. His trainer rolls his eyes, laughing fondly, telling him that he needs to win plenty more to convince him to stay. Jannik takes that as a challenge. 

Laughs with his brother about his sudden fame, for being the Formula One fan over Jannik Sinner’s brother. 

He feels good and light. 

He feels happy. 

He is happy. 

His heart tightens a bit and he takes a deep breath. 

At least, he will be. 

He takes his phone out discreetly, and he doesn’t think further ; opens his text app, writes quickly, and sends the text.

are you still up?

Carlos doesn’t take ages to respond. Jannik’s hand tightens around his phone. 

Sì 😊👍🏼

Told you I would wait for you.

He smiles at his phone and lifts his head. His mother is watching him, a knowing smile on her lips. He looks at her, cheeks burning up, and then he babbles: 

“Devo…” 

She nods, her hand cupping Jannik’s cheek and caressing it kindly. 

“Mio piccolo campione, lui ha il tuo cuore, vero?” 

He closes his eyes and presses his eyelids until he sees white. 

His mom is still caressing his cheek, and he feels tears gathering in his eyes. 

His voice is broken when he murmurs: “Mamma, credi que sia debole?”

His eyes are still shut when he feels his mom kissing his check, so delicately that it feels like he’s back in his room, in Italy, being just a child. 

“No, amore. Solo penso che ti sia innamorato, ma questo è la forza più pura del mondo.”

He lets himself be held by his mother for a while, eyes closed, basking in her comforting presence. 

When he opens his eyes again, there’s something inhabiting him. 

He stands up, and his mother looks at him with a proud face. Maybe even prouder than when he won. 

“Devo andare,” he tells his table, and nobody seems surprised. They all smile at him, and he feels his chest warming up. 

He’s outside the ballroom a few minutes later. 

i’m coming

The morning after the night they spent together in Paris, they did not really talk. At least, not about what had happened. They exchanged a few words, telling the other what their plans would be for the next few weeks, and realized quickly that they were not set to see each other again before Wimbledon. Right after noon, Jannik had told Carlos that he needed to meet with his team, and Carlos had let him go, his face pouting a bit.

Jannik had seen Carlos’ stories in Alicante, and the few videos of him celebrating. He had tried not to scan every detail of those videos, and failed miserably. At one point, during the week that had followed, he had thought about texting him, just to know how he was doing. But Carlos looked happy, and he did not want to ruin that. So he had stayed silent. 

Then, Halles and Queen’s tournaments had begun, and he hadn’t found the time to think about how they could talk about that. Or, at least, he could have found it, as he had been eliminated in the round of 16, but Carlos had still been battling for the win, and he hadn’t dared to distract him with something close to Hey, so, remember how you told me you liked me? Was it only to get in my pants or did you really mean it? 

He had watched Carlos be crowned Prince of Queen’s and had felt like crying a bit. 

How did Carlos always manage to make everything look so easy?

The point is, they hadn’t talked about what had happened between them. At least, not before the scene on the Center Court, earlier in the day. 

So it explains why Jannik feels like throwing up when he knocks on Carlos’ door. His heart is beating so fast and so loudly that it feels like it’s reverberating on the walls. Thankfully for him, the Spaniard opens the door quite quickly. 

He has changed clothes, Jannik thinks. He looks at the purple hoodie Carlos is wearing, and takes a deep breath.

Carlos is smiling, his hand still on the door, holding it open, and Jannik feels dizzy. It gets worse when the Spaniard’s eyes roam over his body, enveloped in the suit, and when he sees how they shine brighter and brighter, until they reach Jannik’s face. 

“You look good.”

Jannik chuckles awkwardly — it is more of a huff of air. 

“You’ve already said that,” he says simply, swaying on his feet. Carlos’ smile widens. 

“I’ve said a lot of things already, but I still mean them all.” 

Suddenly, there’s silence surrounding them, and he can only hear his own heart. 

He knows he has a choice to make. 

He knows what it means if he crosses the door. 

He knows Carlos is letting him decide whether he wants it, just like the first time. 

He crosses the doorstep and enters the room, goosebumps on his arms. 

He hears the door closing behind him, and when he turns his head towards it, he sees Carlos has leaned on it. 

The Spaniard is still smiling. Jannik smiles back. 

“Watched you dance with Iga,” Carlos says. “You looked like you had fun.” 

The Italian giggles and shakes his head, getting his shoes off. “I had the most awkward evening. But I’m happy for Iga.” 

Carlos watches his shoes be left in a corner of the bed, and his eyes are a bit darker when they cross Jannik’s. “You two make a really good Champion pairing,” he tells him, and Jannik nods, amused, his lean fingers getting to his tie to try to get it off too.

“Are you trying to convince yourself you’re not disappointed?” he asks, while he lets the fabric slide on his neck. He rolls it and puts it in one of his shoes, still looking at Carlos, still noticing how the Spaniard is looking at him — like he’s a prey.

”I’m not disappointed,” responds Carlos. His voice is clear, albeit a bit deeper than normal, and Jannik lifts a brow. 

“Aren’t you?” he asks while he unbuttons his vest suit.

Carlos watches his every movement, but he doesn’t flinch. Only shakes his head. “I’ve already told you, Jan. You’re a wonderful player, and you make me play my best tennis. Losing against you hurts, but I’m never disappointed.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Jannik’s hand freezes. His movements waver for a moment, his heart loud, and then he gets back to undressing himself, getting his vest out of the way. “Is that why you cannot stop smiling?” he asks, unbuttoning his shirt next. 

Carlos takes a moment to answer, watching his hand travel south, revealing a bit more skin with every button undone. 

They’ve not addressed the elephant in the room yet.

Until Carlos chuckles, tight, and lifts his hand until it’s on his face, and then in his hair, and then behind his skull, and his body is tensed at the door, and Jannik lets his eyes wander on him until they reach between his legs and it’s so obvious how Carlos is turned on. 

“I’m smiling because you won, and because you’ve never been prettier,” Carlos huffs a laugh, his eyes roaming over Jannik’s body, not stopping anywhere, just taking everything in, “and because you’re here, in a suit, glowing, and undressing in the middle of my room and I don’t care about losing because, right now, I really feel like the biggest winner ever.” 

It makes Jannik’s body shiver, and he can’t believe Carlos has such a hold on his body that he is capable of making him shiver with only his voice and his eyes, even while being so far away. He feels how warm his cheeks are, might be as red as a Ferrari right now, but he doesn’t care, keeps unbuttoning his shirt, because he’s making the choice to, because he can, because he’s the Winner tonight, and if he chooses to celebrate with his rival and the guy he just won against, then he can. 

“I told you I’d beat your ass in Wimbledon,” he whispers, loud enough for Carlos to hear and to chuckle and then he’s getting to the last button of his shirt, getting it off his shoulders, and he sees how that unlocks something in the Spaniard. 

Carlos is smiling so widely one can barely see his eyes when he finally moves from the door and progresses in his room. “And I prayed for it, honestly, fuck, come here.” 

Next thing he knows, Carlos’ hands are grabbing his waist and their mouths meet in the middle. 

Jannik can’t help the whine that escapes his throat. It has been a long time coming, after all. He lets himself be kissed, and something in his chest settles in the right way because of how Carlos is kissing him, his mouth hungry, his lips desperate, and Jannik puts one of his hands under Carlos’ skull and pushes even more, adding pressure to their kiss, and he thinks Yeah. That’s what it’s all about.

Then, they’re on the bed, naked, his back flushed against the sheets, and he’s letting Carlos’ mouth traveling his body, and it feels even better than the first time when he gives him a head, his fingers still caressing his skin, his abs screaming with the tension he gets him through, but even if his body is exhausted, he still feels like he’s floating. 

And maybe he had time to forget how skilled Carlos is with his fingers, or maybe he’s so whipped that it feels like a first time again, but he fingers him with such reverence, with such attention, muttering some mix of English and Spanish against his skin, that Jannik tries not to listen to because how is he supposed to survive You’re the best I’ve ever had without combusting right there and then? 

Nothing beats the feeling of Carlos’ body on top of his while he bottoms up, nothing beats the sensation of his hands wandering on the big and broad shoulders, and then stopping on Carlos’ biceps, tensed with the way he’s holding himself above him, not to crush him. Jannik whines, mouth open, head thrown back: “Ah, Carlos,” he says, and he’s greeted with a roll of hips that makes him shiver.

He doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes, until he feels Carlos kissing his eyelids, his fingers delicately brushing his hair away, and keeping his hands there, circling Jannik’s face, gently, kissing his face over and over and over again, hips moving slowly. 

“Eres tan guapo,” Carlos whispers, and Jannik moans. “Tan bueno,” the Spaniard tells him, and Jannik moans again, shaking his head, feeling pleasure build up in his belly way too rapidly.

“Carlos,” he whines, not really knowing what he’s asking for. Certainly pity. 

Carlos chuckles quietly: “I wish it was only us, all the time. I wish I could play against you everyday,” he says, and he licks Jannik’s skin on his neck, and Jannik lifts one of his legs to wrap it up around Carlos’ middle, his body arching. “You make me so happy, the way you play, the way I’m unable to- to predict your next move, you’re so, so—“ Carlos whines, his hips jerking, and Jannik thinks Finally, he’s going to move quicker, but no, rhythm stays the same, deliberately slow, “You make my head a mess, but I’m never more alive than when I’m playing against you, you make me feel like— like tennis is worth everything.” 

Jannik opens his eyes, suddenly, his heart tightening in his chest, and he looks at Carlos, at how close they are, and his eyes flutter, and something twists inside his body. 

They’re looking at each other in the eyes, Carlos’ hips moving slowly, his body half hovering, half pressed on his, one of Jannik’s legs wrapped around him, and there’s a few seconds during which Jannik finally understands what making love means. Because they are. 

His eyes gather tears, and he lifts his hand to cup Carlos’ cheek. Delicately, he kisses him, slowly on his lips, and Carlos makes a noise that isn’t a moan but more like a desperate sound. They kiss for a bit, slowly moving against each other, not even really trying to pleasure themselves, just feeling close, one around another, their hearts only separated by their skin.

Then, Carlos’ forehead sticks to his, and the Spaniard chuckles: “You’re so hot when you win, I think you’ve ruined me.” 

Jannik giggles, his hand roaming over Carlos’ back, until it reaches his ass, and he pushes delicately, making him move inside. He feels every inch of him, and it makes his toes curl: “Does that mean you’ll let me win, now?” 

Carlos shakes his head in a heartbeat, his teeth grazing Jannik’s skin. “No way,” and Jannik can hear him smile, “You’re even hotter when you’re mad at me.” He chuckles, hips twitching and hitting a sweet spot that makes Jannik moan loudly. 

His hands tighten on Carlos’ body, and the Spaniard whimpers at how Jannik grabs his ass. He bites delicately his neck, his moves quickening a bit, and for a long moment, neither of them talks, the only noises in the room being their heavy breaths and the way their skins slide. Jannik lets himself feel everything, the way Carlos is hitting his prostate regularly, the way his own dick is still flushed between them, stimulated by the way their bodies grin. He feels pleasure rising and rising, overflowing his body, his skin tingling, his head buzzing, and he whines loudly, on the edge. 

“Jannik,” he hears, and his legs shake with how desperate Carlos sounds. Carlos’ head moves until his nose reaches his curls, and Jannik feels overwhelmed, suddenly, but in the good way, because he can feel Carlos everywhere: on him, inside him, his toned body covering his lean one, and it makes him whine again, and he knows Carlos is there too, on the edge with him, because his hips are more and more disorganized, and his voice is broken: “Estoy enamorado de ti, like, like como un loco,” Jannik is already too far gone, his body trembling and tensing and he knows he’s going to come like, right now, and he notices how Carlos’ arms are shaking, still supporting his body above him to not crush it, but he wants to be crushed, so bad, so he reaches for Carlos’ neck with the hand that isn’t on his ass and groans: “Scopami.”

That might be what Carlos was waiting for, for him to talk Italian, because his hips slap against his ass, and then he’s fucking into him at a regular rhythm, a rhythm Jannik doesn’t even need, because he’s coming on his torso as soon as Carlos grabs his hips and starts moving quickly and harshly. He’s not realizing the loud cry he lets out until his throat is hurting him, and then he’s letting out another when Carlos pushes out and he feels himself contracting around nothing, and he’s shaking. He opens wide eyes, panicked about the fact Carlos isn’t fucking him anymore, and his face burns up when he sees his partner on his knees, hand between his legs, and he realizes Carlos is going to finish himself on him. His face is tense, his brows furrowed, and his large mouth contracted but opened. His eyes are fixed on Jannik, staring directly at him, and he says, voice barely functioning: “There’s nothing I love more than losing to you,” and then his body jerks and he’s coming on Jannik’s skin, his load joining and mixing up with the Italian’s, warm. 

Jannik cannot believe what just happened, because his brain hasn’t caught up with everything yet. He just knows a huge part of him is pleased when Carlos’ body falls on his, totally broken by the orgasm that just went through it, and he’s finally getting crushed under him, his body smaller than him but way broader. He circles Carlos’ body with his arms and legs, hugging the trembling body, kissing and caressing every ounce of skin he can reach, his heart beating like crazy in his chest. He’s having trouble breathing, but he doesn’t care. That’s what he needed. Carlos on top of him, without any restraint. 

They stay like that until Carlos’ body stops shaking, and then he circles Jannik’s body too, and they’re properly hugging. 

It’s enough time for Jannik’s brain to catch up, though, and when it does, his breath catches. 

Estoy enamorado de ti.

That’s what Carlos said. 

He feels goosebumps on his skin.

His body is tingling, and he flinches, trying to whisk it away. 

Carlos’ arms hug him tighter. “If you’re trying to go, I’m not letting you,” he hears him say, his voice muffled because of the way he’s talking in his neck. 

“I’m not,” Jannik breathes out. He keeps still, then, but his eyes are staring at the ceiling, and he can feel his brain on a loop. 

Estoy enamorado de ti. Estoy enamorado de ti. Estoy enamorado de ti. Estoy enamorado de ti.

 He knows what it means, but there’s a part of him that thinks maybe it was all in my head because that’s not something you say to a situationship, while fucking, and right after playing a final, right? 

Carlos is still on top of him, still breathing in his neck. He moves slightly, and whispers: “You know, you’re the first one to defeat me in a Grand Slam final.” 

Jannik gulps, his hand still caressing Carlos’ back. He nods slowly. He knows this statistic: Carlos was the first one to defeat him in a Grand Slam final, just a few weeks ago. 

Carlos’ nose pokes his neck, and he feels lips being pressed to his skin: “I like the idea of you being my first.” 

There’s something burning in Jannik’s belly suddenly, and he cannot breathe, his throat constricted. His cheeks flame up, and his eyes open up widely, and he waits until Carlos moves again. The Spaniard lifts his head up and their eyes meet. His are shining, with so much emotion that Jannik feels his head spinning. 

“I know it’s too late for you to be my real first, and I know I’ll never be yours, but I think I wanna be your next first in everything.”

Carlos smiles, a bit shyer than usual. 

“I love you, Jan. I thought you knew that already, but maybe I should have been clearer.” 

Jannik’s eyes are starting to water, and he blinks the tears away. Carlos chuckles, a bit awkwardly. 

“And if you don’t feel the same, it’s alright. I’m fine with loving you from afar.” 

There’s a thunder in Jannik’s heart, and he shakes his head, leaning forward to cup Carlos’ cheeks: “I love you, I love you too, stop saying that,” he pleads, right before he kisses him, and Carlos whines against his lips. 

“I love you,” he repeats between two kisses, his hands pushing Carlos’ against his, to feel his lips, to feel his body, even though he’s still all over him, literally. He wants Carlos to feel loved, to feel every ounce of sentiment he has for him, he’s been nursing for weeks, for years even. He’s kissing him the way he wanted to since the French Open, like he wants to for the rest of his life. 

“I’m sorry I’m not as good with words as you are,” he murmurs against Carlos’ cheek, kissing it. 

Carlos chuckles, “It’s okay,” he says, letting himself be kissed, “I think you showed how truly you mean it, anyway.” 

Jannik frowns, and he blinks at him. “How?” 

The Spaniard smiles widely and lets one of his hands reach Jannik’s hair: “By not giving up, even after the French Open. By keeping your head up and giving me a real fight.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Carlos reaches for his mouth again, kissing him slowly. 

“By being ruthless but also self-forgiving. By— by being the player that you are.”

He pulls delicately on his curls and smiles widely: “That’s the best love proof you could ever give me.” 

Jannik closes his eyes, feeling his whole body loosen up, and he smiles, eyes still closed. 

He feels Carlos kissing him again, and smiles wider. 

“You look good, Wimbledon winner,” he murmurs against Jannik’s lips, and the Italian giggles. 

”You’ve already said that.” 

“And I still mean it.”