Chapter Text
Carlos arrives at the stadium in Turin thirty minutes early, knowing he'll need the time to prepare and ground himself before he spends the next hour and a half in Jannik's presence. Normally, he knows Juanki would be surprised by the sudden punctuality but at dinner last night his coach commented on not needing to drag Carlos out of bed in the morning because practicing with Jannik at the ATP Finals is a dream he can experience without sleeping, for once. The knowing look in Juanki's eyes had made Carlos duck his head, suddenly very interested in his pasta.
Sitting in his rental car outside the venue, Carlos allows himself one quick check of his phone—just to confirm the practice time, he tells himself, though his thumb automatically opens Instagram first. Jannik's latest post appears at the top of his feed: a simple shot of Turin's morning skyline with no caption, posted fifteen minutes ago. Carlos's heart does that familiar flutter, knowing Jannik is already here, already warming up, probably creating those perfect arcs of motion Carlos can't seem to stop watching.
A WhatsApp notification catches his eye—a message from Jannik sent an hour ago: "Court 3 today." Simple and straightforward, a message that you could expect from a practice partner. Carlos types and deletes three different responses before settling on a simple "👍" that feels painfully inadequate but safer than the other responses he wants to write.
The November morning is crisp, his breath visible in little puffs as he makes his way through the Pala Alpitour's winding corridors. The familiar smell of indoor courts fills his lungs - a mixture of rubber and tension and possibility that he's known since childhood. He's grown familiar with this venue over the past couple of years, but something feels different now. Maybe it's because they both qualified so convincingly this year, maybe it's the way the Italian media has been buzzing about their practice sessions, or maybe—and this is the thought he's been trying to ignore—it's because of how things have been shifting between them this season. Every interaction seems to carry more weight, like they're speaking in a language that goes beyond their usual tennis shorthand.
He hears the distinctive pop of a ball against strings before he sees the court, and his heart does that familiar skip that he's stopped trying to fight. The sound draws him forward like a magnet, his feet moving of their own accord. When he rounds the corner, he has to pause for a moment just to watch, letting himself indulge in these few precious seconds of observation.
Jannik is hitting against the ball machine, his movements fluid and precise in the early morning light filtering through the high windows. The autumn sun catches his hair when he moves, creating brief halos of auburn that make Carlos's breath catch. He's wearing a black long-sleeve training shirt that Carlos definitely hasn't been thinking about since he first saw it in Paris, the one that makes his shoulders look particularly broad when he sets up for his backhand. The fabric stretches across his back as he reaches for a wide ball, and Carlos has to remind himself to breathe. His curls are perfectly tousled beneath his hat despite the early hour, and Carlos finds himself wondering, not for the first time, if they're as soft as they look.
"Are you going to stand there and watch all morning, or are you going to help me warm up?" Jannik calls out without turning around, and Carlos feels heat rush to his face at being caught staring. He should have known better—Jannik always seems to sense when he's nearby, like they're connected by some invisible thread that pulls taut whenever they share a space. It's been this way for over a year now, this awareness that thrums between them like a perfectly struck string.
"Maybe I like watching," Carlos says before his brain can catch up with his mouth. The words hang in the air, too honest for this early hour—too honest for any hour, perhaps. He covers his embarrassment by quickly walking over to the unoccupied bench, dropping his bag, and starting to unpack his racquets with more focus than the task requires. He doesn't miss the way Jannik's next return goes wide, or how the tips of his ears turn pink—a tell that Carlos has cataloged along with all his other little reactions, stored away like precious secrets.
"Your technique needs work if you're going to be a stalker," Jannik replies, finally turning to face him with that small, private smile that always makes Carlos's stomach flip. It's different from the polite one he gives in press conferences, or the bright one he shares with his team after victories. This one feels like it belongs to Carlos alone, though he tries not to read too much into that. "I heard you coming five minutes ago. You were humming that song again."
"What song?" Carlos asks, though he knows exactly which one—the Spanish love song that's been stuck in his head ever since he heard it on the radio and realized perhaps he relates to the lyrics a little too much. He's been careful not to translate it for anyone, not ready to admit how perfectly it captures the way his heart races whenever Jannik is near, how even their simplest interactions feel charged with possibility.
"The one about love and destiny." Jannik's accent wraps around the words carefully, like he's tasted them before saying them out loud. His Italian accent makes even these simple English words sound like poetry, and Carlos wonders if Jannik knows what the Spanish lyrics mean, if he's looked them up in one of those quiet moments between matches. "You were humming it all around Paris too."
Carlos's hands fumble with his wristband, nearly dropping it. He hadn't realized Jannik had noticed, hadn't thought he was paying that much attention to Carlos's absent-minded habits. The thought of Jannik tracking these small details makes his pulse quicken. "You remember that?"
Jannik shrugs, but there's something soft in his expression that makes Carlos's heart race, a gentleness that seems at odds with his usual composed demeanor. "I remember a lot of things."
The words feel weighted with meaning, but before Carlos can ask what else Jannik remembers—before he can let himself hope that Jannik catalogs their moments together the same way he does—their coaches arrive, voices echoing in the still-empty arena. Juanki gives Carlos a knowing look, barely containing a triumphant smirk that makes Carlos reach down and retie his shoes rather than feel like his thoughts can be read. The familiar routine of practice takes over: discussing their plan for the session, starting with easy groundstrokes to warm up and gradually build intensity.
As Carlos and Jannik rally from the baselines, their coaches huddle at the sideline, their conversation carrying across the court in fragments. Carlos catches pieces of it between shots—something about approach shots, about net positioning, about the way their games complement each other. He sees Juanki gesturing animatedly, the way he does when he's particularly excited about something, and then notices how Darren nods thoughtfully, glancing between them with that knowing look that makes Carlos's stomach twist.
"They're good for each other," he hears Juanki say, and nearly frames his forehand. "Push each other to be better."
Carlos tries not to read too much into the way Darren responds, "In many ways," or how both men share a meaningful look that seems to carry weight beyond tennis strategy.
Throughout practice, Carlos finds himself hyperaware of every detail: how Jannik's accent gets thicker when he's concentrating, the way his fingers drum against his thigh between points in a rhythm that matches Carlos's heartbeat, how his eyes linger a fraction too long whenever their gazes meet across the net, holding contact until one of them has to look away. The air between them feels heavy, full of things neither of them is ready to say, possibilities that dance just out of reach.
Their rallies have always had a special quality, but today feels different. Each shot seems to carry extra weight, like they're having a conversation in a language only they understand. Carlos can read Jannik's intentions in the way he sets up his feet, in the slight adjustment of his grip before a backhand down the line. They move together like dancers who have memorized each other's steps, anticipating and responding in perfect harmony.
"Your forehand is different," Jannik observes during their first water break. He's leaning against the net post in a way that draws Carlos's eyes to the long lines of his body, the elegant slope of his shoulders. A drop of water escapes from his bottle, trailing down his neck, and Carlos has to force himself to look away. "More spin than in Paris."
"You noticed?" Carlos tries to keep his voice casual, but warmth blooms in his chest. Of course Jannik noticed—he notices everything, stores away details like he's building a catalog of Carlos's game, his habits, his essence. Sometimes Carlos wonders what that catalog looks like, what other details Jannik has collected and filed away.
"I always notice with you," Jannik says softly, then seems to realize what he's admitted. Color spreads across his cheeks as he quickly adds, "For strategy, you know? Since we play so often." He busies himself with his towel, but Carlos catches the way his hands tremble slightly.
"Right," Carlos agrees, though his heart is racing. Personally, he doesn't think they play nearly enough. Each match feels like a gift, a chance to exist in this space where they can communicate through serves and returns, where the weight of expectation lifts just enough for them to be themselves. "Strategy."
They return to hitting, but Carlos can't shake the weight of Jannik's words. I always notice with you. Five words that shouldn't make his pulse jump like this, shouldn't make him feel like he's floating and drowning at the same time. But they do, just like everything about Jannik affects him more strongly than it should. He tries to focus on the ball, on the familiar rhythm of their rally, but his mind keeps drifting to the way Jannik's voice softened on those words, how his eyes held Carlos's for a heartbeat too long before looking away.
Between points, Carlos finds himself analyzing every interaction, second-guessing every interpretation. Maybe he's reading too much into the way Jannik's eyes linger on him during changeovers. Maybe that soft smile doesn't mean what he hopes it means. Maybe he's projecting his own feelings onto simple professional courtesy, turning normal practice session chemistry into something it's not. But then Jannik will do something—adjust Carlos's wristband, stand a fraction closer than necessary during their water breaks, let his gaze drift to Carlos's lips mid-conversation—and all that careful rationalization crumbles. The uncertainty is maddening: this constant dance between hope and doubt, between seeing signs everywhere and convincing himself he's seeing nothing at all.
The rally they fall into is familiar but electric, each shot carrying the weight of words they haven’t said, feelings they haven’t expressed. Carlos knows exactly how Jannik likes to set up his backhand, knows the slight tell in his shoulder when he's going to change direction, has memorized the way he shifts his weight just before attempting a drop shot. Jannik anticipates Carlos's drop shots before he even starts the motion, reading his intentions like they're written in the air between them. It's a dance they've perfected over the years, but lately it feels like they're adding new steps, creating something that exists beyond the boundaries of professional courtesy.
"Remember the first time we practiced together?" Carlos asks during their next break, watching as Jannik runs his fingers through his curls in that way that always makes Carlos's hands itch to do the same. The gesture is so familiar now, but it still affects him just as strongly as it did the first time he saw it.
Jannik's lips curl into a fond smile, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "You were so nervous. I could hear you rearranging your water bottles for ten minutes before I arrived." His voice carries a warmth that makes Carlos's stomach flip, even as he tries to maintain his composure.
"I wasn't nervous!" Carlos protests, though his cheeks heat at the memory. He remembers that day perfectly—how his hands had shaken as he lined up his bottles, how he'd changed his shirt twice before Jannik arrived, how his heart had threatened to beat out of his chest when Jannik had first smiled at him. "I was just... being thorough."
"Mhmm." Jannik's eyes sparkle with amusement, and Carlos has to look away before he gets lost in them. "That's why your first three serves went into the back fence?"
"The sun was in my eyes!" The defense is automatic, though they both know it's not true. Carlos remembers being so distracted by Jannik's presence that he could barely focus on the ball.
"It was cloudy that day."
"You remember the weather?" Carlos asks, something warm unfurling in his chest at the thought of Jannik holding onto that memory as carefully as he has. He's replayed that practice in his mind countless times, examining every interaction, every smile, every accidental brush of hands when they both reached for the same ball.
"I remember the weather," Jannik says simply, adjusting his grip on his racquet. His expression remains carefully neutral, but Carlos notices the slight tension in his shoulders that appears whenever conversations drift toward something more personal. "It affected the court speed."
Of course he would remember it that way, Carlos thinks—technical, analytical. Sometimes he wishes he could read beyond Jannik's composed exterior, understand what lies beneath those thoughtful pauses and measured responses. It feels like Jannik is always holding something back, guarding his true feelings the way he guards the lines on the court.
They return to practice, falling into the familiar rhythm of groundstrokes. Carlos finds himself stealing glances between points, trying to decipher the slight furrow in Jannik's brow, the way his fingers drum against his thigh when they break between long rallies. Each interaction feels loaded with possibility, but Jannik remains frustratingly difficult to read.
"Your timing is getting better, I think," Jannik observes during their water break, his voice carrying that professional tone he uses during official practices. But then his eyes linger on Carlos for a moment longer than necessary, and Carlos feels that familiar flutter in his chest, the one that makes him question whether he's seeing things that aren't there.
"Thanks," Carlos manages, wiping his face with a towel to hide the warmth in his cheeks. "I've been working on it."
Jannik nods, and for a split second, something soft crosses his features before it's replaced by his usual composed expression. "It shows."
They continue hitting, and Carlos loses himself in trying to decode the subtle shifts in Jannik's game. The way he sets up his shots feels more deliberate, like he's holding something back. Or maybe Carlos is just projecting, seeing hesitation where there's only concentration, reading meaning into ordinary pauses between points.
The song slips out again while Carlos is collecting balls, a few quiet notes that echo in the quietness of the morning. He catches Jannik watching him, head tilted slightly, but when their eyes meet, Jannik quickly looks away, focusing intently on adjusting his strings.
"That song," Jannik says after a moment, his accent carefully controlled. "You've been humming it a lot lately."
Carlos's heart skips. "Have I?"
Jannik shrugs, the gesture somehow elegant even in its casualness. "It's... nice." He pauses, then adds quietly, "Familiar."
Before Carlos can ask what he means—before he can gather the courage to explain why that particular love song has been stuck in his head for weeks—their coaches call them back to discuss tomorrow's schedule. Jannik walks away with that characteristic grace that always draws Carlos's eyes, leaving him with more questions than answers.
As they pack up their bags, Carlos finds himself analyzing every interaction, every small gesture. The way Jannik's hand hesitated near his when they both reached for the same ball. The subtle softening around his eyes when Carlos made him laugh. The almost imperceptible catch in his breath when Carlos stood close during their cool-down stretches.
"Good practice," Jannik says as they head toward the locker rooms, his voice carrying that particular tone that Carlos still can't quite decipher—something caught between professional courtesy and something else, something warmer.
"Yeah," Carlos agrees, trying to ignore how his skin tingles when their shoulders accidentally brush. "Yeah, it was."
The locker room feels smaller somehow when they're the only two in it, the space between them charged with unspoken words. Carlos takes longer than necessary organizing his bag, hyperaware of Jannik's presence behind him, the soft sounds of him changing his shirt, the quiet rhythm of his breathing. When he finally turns around, Jannik is standing closer than he expected, close enough that Carlos can see the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes from splashing his face.
“See you tomorrow?” Carlos asks, for a lack of anything else to say.
Jannik nods, adjusting his bag strap in the way he does when he's thinking about saying something more. But in the end, he just offers that small, enigmatic smile that haunts Carlos's dreams, and walks away.
In the showers, Carlos catches himself humming that song again, the one about love and destiny. He thinks about Jannik's measured words, his careful distances, the moments when his composure seems to crack just slightly. He thinks about how sometimes their rallies feel like conversations, carrying meanings he can't quite grasp but desperately wants to understand.
The water runs cold before he admits to himself that he's no closer to understanding what any of it means—the lingering looks, the almost-touches, the way Jannik seems to simultaneously draw closer and maintain his distance. For now, all he has is a Spanish love song stuck in his head and a collection of moments that might mean everything or nothing at all.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. Maybe tomorrow he'll figure out if he's the only one feeling this way. But as he gets dressed, he can't help but wonder if some questions are better left unasked, if some distances are meant to remain uncrossed. After all, not every practice can be about more than just tennis, and hoping otherwise can be treacherous.