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Jannik paces back and forth in his hotel room, the buzz of victory still thrumming through his veins. After the near loss against Dimitrov, the pain echoing in his elbow for the last few days, the quarter- and semi-final against Shelton and Djokovic… It seems unreal that he’s still standing in his room at the Wimbledon accommodations, now part of the last two standing.

Of course, what isn’t a surprise is the name, dark and daunting, etched proudly on the other side of the final bracket. Carlos’s name has been echoing down the halls for the past two weeks, haunting him as Jannik made his way through the rounds in a less-than-seamless way. But then, Carlos has been struggling as well. That first round, watching him nearly lose before Jannik could even…

Perhaps that would have been the easier option. Because now, Jannik is left with the dread of their first match since, well…

Jannik and Carlos agreed, the night before Wimbledon started, that it would be easier to give each other the space they needed to put their tennis first. It had been hard, and there were more than one evening when Jannik had longed to pick up the phone, or better yet, find his way to Carlos’s room, to bury himself in his arms and wait for the storm to pass.

Well, the storm hasn’t passed. And Jannik is standing in the eye of it, feeling the strange calm before he is hit with full force tomorrow, the questions all up in the air. And his phone, face down on the table, is pulling him in. Jannik has been so very good these two weeks, hasn’t crossed any boundaries. He has allowed Carlos his space. But he needs to know where they stand now. What tomorrow means, where they go from here.

So, with a defeated breath, Jannik grabs his phone and dials the number. He waits, hears the long and deafening rings, feels the sweat building on the back of his neck as he starts to wonder if Carlos will even pick up. He hadn’t considered the possibility of being ignored-

“Hello?” Carlos’s voice breaks through the distance between them, staticky and low.

“Hi,” Jannik breathes out, feeling the weight leave his shoulders for a split second.

“Hi,” Carlos answers, and there is undeniable fondness in his voice. He’s relieved, too, and Jannik could run to him right now. But he stays still, standing on shaking legs and holding his breath.

They let the silence stretch and warp, neither sure where to even start. This is what they had both convinced themselves wouldn’t matter, the moment they had refused to consider when they started… Well, when they started blurring lines that stood between rivals for very good reasons.

“So, this is happening,” Carlos finally says. “It’s really happening.”

“I didn’t think we’d be here so soon,” Jannik murmurs. He’s trying to ignore the shivers raising the hairs on his arms at the sound of Carlos’s voice. They haven’t spoken in days, haven’t kissed or touched for so much more. Idiot that he is, he hadn’t realized how much he would miss it.

“I know,” Carlos sighs. “But we knew it would happen.”

“We did,” Jannik nods.

Another silence. Heavier this time. Sentences start and die on Jannik’s tongue. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Hey,” Carlos says. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“How can it not?” Jannik breathes out, scared for the first time. But he hears Carlos clear his throat, shuffle around like he might be lying in bed, and chuckle softly. And something in Jannik’s stomach loosens.

“Jannik, this is who we are,” Carlos says. “Not just you, and not just me. Us. We were made for this. For finals on the biggest stages. It’s where we belong.”

“But what about… You know… Us?” A very different us. A much newer, much more fragile us.

“What about it? Will you hate me if I beat you?” Carlos asks.

“I- No,” Jannik scoffs, strangled. “I mean… But what if I do?” he whispers.

“Then you wouldn’t be who I thought you were,” Carlos says, steady. “But you won’t hate me. You didn’t hate me in Paris. And it’s one of the first things we learn, isn’t it? Play the ball, not the opponent.”

“So, you’re saying that tomorrow, you’re going to step out on Central Court, and you’re going to pretend like I’m not the one standing on the other side of that net?” Jannik’s mind is swimming. This isn’t what he had expected. He’s not sure he likes Carlos’s carelessness.

“Of course not,” Carlos sighs. “It’s not going to be easy. But it was never easy for me, Jannik,” he says. “I’ve never stepped on a court with you and not cared that it was you. That hasn’t changed for me.”

Jannik feels the blush burning his cheeks. And a singular type of guilt, one he knows he shouldn’t feel, at the fact that it took him much longer to get to where they are today.

“And it’s okay if it’s new for you,” Carlos adds, ever the mind reader. “But… Well, do you want us to stop?” he asks, and his voice is more distant now. Smaller.

“Stop what? Competing?”

“No, you idiot,” Carlos says, fond smile obvious in his warm voice. “Do you want us to call it quits? You know, off the court?”

“Of course not,” Jannik shakes his head and takes a step back, as if to distance himself from the idea.

“Then now is when we learn to live with it. The duality of us. Because I can’t let you go, either.”

Jannik is in awe. There is certainty in Carlos’s voice, as if they will emerge on the other side of this final as a better version of what their relationship has been so far. And perhaps they will. Perhaps tomorrow, they prove to themselves that they can still compete during the day, and meet again at night, with nothing changed between them save for meaningless statistics and their ever-growing thirst for more – more of winning, more of each other.

“Alright,” Jannik nods.

“Alright,” Carlos says back.

“I’ve missed you,” Jannik dares after a beat.

“So have I,” Carlos sighs. “Maybe we only stay apart during Slams. I can’t do this every time we have a tournament,” he says, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“Fair,” Jannik nods. “I…” He hesitates.

“Hmm?”

“I just… I can’t wait to see you again,” Jannik murmurs, heat swirling in his stomach. He hears Carlos’s breath hitch, hears him readjust.

“Jannik, we shouldn’t…”

“I know, I just…”

“Me, too,” Carlos says, quiet. His voice, thanks to the phone, is directly in Jannik’s ear, just like when Carlos holds him near, hands on his waist and chin on his shoulder. When Carlos pulls Jannik’s head down to rest his forehead in his neck, to murmur sweet nothings with his honeyed tones. Jannik can almost feel his breath, the ghost of it sending shivers running down his spine. Carlos clears his voice. “I’m going to hang up, now.”

“Yeah, alright,” Jannik nods.

“Hey,” Carlos chuckles.

“Yeah?”

“Take a shower,” he says, teasing. “A cold one. And focus. I want tomorrow to be a good one.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jannik growls, and all he hears is echoes of Carlos’s laugh before the line cuts off.

Jannik stands still, staring at his screen, and finds that the fear is gone. With the certainty of their relationship – whatever one might call it – firmly established, Jannik can focus on the match ahead, on his thirst for redemption, brewing in the back of his mind since Paris.

Still, just as Jannik is about to step into the shower, as suggested, his phone dings. When Jannik picks it up, he hears himself gasp at the picture waiting there. It’s a mirror, foggy from a hot shower, but through the blur, the very, very distinctive silhouette of Carlos’s body, naked save for the dark, skin-tight underwear. His face is hidden by the phone, his free hand rests on his hip, dangerously close to… A simple phrase is attached, “Proof I care,” along with a couple of Carlos’s usual, nonsensical emojis.

Jannik puts the phone down, picks it up again, guiltily zooms in on the faint, blurry outline of Carlos’s shoulders, stomach, thighs… And laughs at his own reflection in the mirror when he looks up. He finds himself flushed, lips curling, eyes shining with renewed hunger.

Jannik doesn’t send anything back. Silence, he quickly found, always works best to tease Carlos. He steps into the shower, chuckling at the thought of him, desperate for a response, all hot and bothered from his own trap.

There is a unique rush of silence that comes with the precipice of victory, when it is within reach, and yet not caught. Tennis, in that way, is a cruel sport, one that demands that the victor cross the finish line with sheer determination and mental strength, instead of patiently waiting for it to meet him halfway.

Jannik knows this well. And he stands now almost exactly where he stood in Paris. He has three championship points, and he feels the pressure ready to split him in half. But the points are on his racket this time, and for all of Carlos’s greatness these past months, the fight has run out of him. Jannik can feel it; he can almost taste the surrender.

The first match point is gone before Jannik can really understand it, but he refuses to think back to Paris. Everything is working today. His serve, his speed, his accuracy. Even the pain in his elbow is distant, faint with the growing promise of victory.

Jannik walks up to the baseline with ice in his veins, the sound of “forty-fifteen” crackling through the speakers, his mind focused on the point ahead, and none of the ones already played. He blows on his fingers, checks that Carlos is ready to return, feels the hum of the crowd die down, picks a target, tosses the ball…

Jannik sees the chalk fly as the ball kisses the line, watches Carlos dive for it, and waits with dazed stupor as the ball lands before the net, firmly on the wrong side of it. Somewhere, far, far away, he hears the crowd erupt. The umpire announces the results, lists the sets off, numbers Jannik can barely remember.

Because he won. Carlos is walking to the net first, head hanging and a tight smile on his face, and Jannik feels the rush of victory wash over him like so many bottles of champagne poured over him, cold and sparkling and warm and intoxicating.

He makes his way to the net, to Carlos, with his hands on his head in disbelief. He tries to soak in the moment, the feeling he can’t even name. And Jannik wishes he had room in his heart for more compassion than what he feels right now. But he has won against Carlos for the first time in literal years, and he did it all when so many expected him to be at his lowest. All he feels is pride, and such profound respect for the man who seems to keep all his promises. Because Carlos wasn’t at his best today, but he put up a fight. He left no room for confused feelings and reticence. He gave Jannik all he had today.

Still, something sits uncomfortably in his chest as he approaches Carlos. It’s uncertainty, fear of what they should do now, when they are expected to embrace each other in front of millions. It’s the first time they’ll do so with such a monumental secret to hide, and Jannik wonders what it would feel like to have Carlos hold him with cold distance again. They haven’t discussed this, and it seems painfully obvious now that they should have.

But Carlos is waiting with an inviting hand, and Jannik feels the discomfort settle when Carlos pulls him in without hesitation, and then pulls him closer still with a hand on his back. It’s not cold. It’s not distant. And Jannik feels it all, the victory, the euphoria, the warmth in his chest that only Carlos’s skin on his can stir, with delicious, delirious confusion. Jannik is tentative; he knows he is, afraid to give himself away to people watching. He tries to return the physical affection. He feels Carlos’s chest, the erratic pulse beneath his ribs, and they hold each other until they must let go. He can’t remember the words; he can only hope he found the right ones.

But he remembers Carlos’s voice in his ear once more, the warmth of their cheeks brushing, the promise of something more.

And selfishly, Jannik pushes it all away. He leaves Carlos behind at the umpire’s chair and moves to receive the crowd’s cheers. He crouches to the grass and feels it, his domain for the year. He bathes in it all, absorbs every ounce of what he has accomplished. And it’s glorious.

Jannik quickly finds out that winning Wimbledon is a terribly tiring ordeal. There are traditions to every tournament, but this one seems to have an endless circus of them. He is paraded by tournament officials in every room of the clubhouse, in front of literal royalty, shown every way that they will honor his victory today… And he is grateful for it all, high as he is on the sweetness of his win today.

Still, he feels it all fall back again a little bit. The trophy, heavy in his arms, was such a grounding tool to remind him of what mattered the most in those moments. The moments he shared with his family were wonderful, those with his team, rewarding and well-earned.

But then came the speeches, and all he wanted was to see Carlos laugh, to make him smile again with genuine joy in his eyes. And warmth stirred more firmly in his stomach at their coded words, poorly veiled hints about building their relationship off the court, fleeting touches at every chance, glances that meant the world to them and nothing to the world. And all Jannik wants now is to run through the halls of the clubhouse and find Carlos again.

But, alas, tradition.

And tradition demands that he stand here, on this stage, wearing a suit and tie, holding out his hand for Iga Świątek, inviting her to dance. He felt relief when the host announced they were short on time, and mild annoyance when Iga proved determined to go through with it.

But thankfully, she’s being a very good sport about it. He takes her hand, does the best he can to lead her into a few clumsy steps, and even spins her despite their slight lack of chemistry.

It turns out to be a cute tradition, if he’s honest. Jannik feels the champagne warm his blood, and he does end up finding the dance funny. He claps for her when they’re done, and steps off the stage with another happy memory of this day. And he knows, from the looks on his team’s face, that they won’t let him live this down.

When he sits next to them and feels their elbows against his ribs, he downs another flute and starts to count the minutes again.

And then, after what seems like a small eternity, the night ends.

Finalists have the option to stay in their hotel rooms one more night after the end of the championship, for recovery and as thanks. They didn’t discuss it in their two weeks of silence, but Jannik really hopes that Carlos had the same idea and took them up on their offer.

Because he has been pacing for the past fifteen minutes now, back and forth in the corridor, in front of room #1. Rooms are assigned according to ranking, so it should have gone to him, but as the defending champion, Carlos has enjoyed quite a few perks this year that Jannik sort of looks forward to now.

But in his haste to get here from the ridiculous, celebratory event, Jannik hadn’t noticed how nervous he had slowly been getting all evening. The alcohol slowly fades from his system, and he’s left with the sinking realization that while he has been celebrating, Carlos has had a very different evening – a different day altogether.

Only when Jannik stands, frozen in front of the imposing number 1, does he realize he still doesn’t know how to do this.

He had Carlos’s word, before this all started, that they would be ok no matter what. Brief flashes of a Parisian conversation, words he has not allowed himself to think of until now, promises born of the heat of passion, echo in his ears. Would he ever dare bring that up?

But what if things have changed? What if Jannik knocks on the heavy door and finds a different Carlos behind it, one who has decided that it’s not worth it, that Jannik isn’t worth losing Slams? What if Carlos opens the door and laughs in his face at his stupidity, tears his hopes to shreds, and leaves him with nothing but broken memories to show for this gambit?

Jannik watches the door, heavier by the second, and feels the paralyzed muscles of his arm refuse to move. He’s still in his suit, tie and all, and he feels the nervous sweat building under the layer.

When Jannik is about to convince himself that Carlos might not even be there, that he might have left for Spain the moment he had left the court, he hears a loud bang behind the door. Some shuffling, very muffled curses, and before Jannik can react, the door swings wide open.

And there he is. Carlos stands in the doorway, in a sweater, hair untamed, his eyes… Jannik swallows painfully. Carlos’s eyes are still red, his face flushed and slightly puffy. He’s been crying.

“I was starting to think you might ghost me again,” Carlos chuckles, but it’s self-deprecating, almost like he isn’t joking at all. Like he might have been waiting for Jannik, scared too and only one door away.

Without a word, because Jannik can never find them, he raises a shaking hand, ever so lightly brushing Carlos’s brow and pressing his index to the outer corner of his eye.

“I’m okay,” Carlos smiles. It’s small, but it’s true. It’s also calm, something Carlos so very rarely is. And, search as he might, Jannik finds not a hint of resentment in his gaze. Only… something beautifully akin to relief, but sweeter.

“Carlos…” Jannik whispers. He doesn’t know what to say. He wonders briefly about an apology, but he isn’t sorry. He can’t be. The day Jannik becomes sorry for winning fair and square, he will have truly lost himself. But he won’t taunt him, not like Carlos might; he doesn’t know how to do that. And flirting doesn’t seem right. Not when he isn’t yet convinced that Carlos really is fine.

“Yeah, it sucks. I’ll get over it,” Carlos shrugs before Jannik has to come up with words of his own. “Are you coming in?”

“Only if you’ll have me,” Jannik says, in more ways than one.

“That’s ridiculous,” Carlos rolls his eyes. He reaches out, grabs the lapel of Jannik’s jacket, and pulls him into the room.

The door shuts, heavy, and they are alone once more. It’s weeks later, and the absence has been torture. But Jannik feels something settle in his chest immediately, something that has been longing for exactly this: Carlos, alone, and a closed, locked door between them and the world.

It's the first time Jannik really notices their height difference, he realizes. Carlos has always seemed larger than life, especially on the tennis court. Win or lose, there is no doubt that every match he’s ever participated in has been his to make. His audience, his sport, his territory. But not today. Today, Jannik felt the differences in his attitude, the gap between him and his usual self, the tiny sliver of space that Jannik invaded without a second thought. But now that the trophy is his, that gap feels unnatural, like a pebble in his shoe he can’t ignore.

“So, how does it feel?” Carlos asks, a smirk on his face. “Wimbledon Champion Jannik Sinner? How does it taste?”

“Like freshly mown grass,” Jannik jokes.

“Mhmm. And how boring was that dinner?”

Jannik laughs at that. “Yeah, you could have warned me about that,” he says, hoping that the jokes are working.

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Carlos asks, moving to an armchair. He falls into it more heavily than Jannik has ever seen him move. “It’s the best-kept secret in the world. How boring it is to win Wimbledon,” he chuckles.

“Hmm, well, I wouldn’t say I won’t try it again anyway,” Jannik says, smiling even as he considers the complicated emotions playing on Carlos’s face.

“Yeah, that’s the second half of the secret. That you’d do it all again in a heartbeat,” Carlos sighs. “How about that dance?”

“We weren’t gonna do it, but Iga insisted,” Jannik giggles. He can’t really feel his face. Maybe the alcohol is lingering after all.

“Yeah, I don’t blame her,” Carlos rolls his eyes. There is a spark in his gaze again that Jannik has been looking for. But it’s like he’s sharing a joke only with himself, one that Jannik can’t quite catch up with.

“What do you mean?” Jannik frowns. Carlos gives him a look, like that question was ridiculous. “What?”

“A dance with you? Looking like that?” Carlos says with a vague gesture to the ridiculous suit and tie Jannik is still wearing. “It’s her reward, and it’s a good one. Makes sense she wouldn’t let it go.”

Jannik considers that. He’d have to be in a serious state of denial not to know that, at least on some level, Carlos wants him. He has told him so, several times, and even if he hadn’t, Jannik has the memories to prove it, enough to last him a lifetime. But does he want him tonight, so soon after his defeat? Is he right to read the heat in Carlos’s eyes as desire, and not resentment? Is it want that has lit up his face since Jannik walked in, or simple amusement?

There are very few ways to know for sure. Jannik could ask, of course, if Carlos would have him. But that would mean finding the words. The only other option he can see, which Jannik takes without thinking too much about it, is to quietly pull out his phone. He scrolls through his music app and selects a jazzy playlist, something lively enough that he can easily find and (try to) follow the beat.

Carlos watches him with interest, his brows slightly furrowed in confusion. But understanding clearly starts to dawn on him when Jannik sets his phone down, takes off his suit jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and walks to him with an inviting hand stretched out.

“No,” Carlos shakes his head, though there’s a smile on his face. So Jannik insists.

“Come on,” Jannik chuckles. He feels relief flood his veins as Carlos sighs and takes his hand. He lets Jannik pull him to his feet, grumbling something about his aching legs. But he follows Jannik when he takes a couple of steps back, and Carlos’s hand rests lightly on his waist.

And maybe Carlos really did mean it when he promised they would be ok.

Jannik doesn’t say anything when they find themselves standing, toe to toe, hand in hand, with nothing but their height difference to separate them. He suspects Carlos might be hiding, what with the way that he lowers his head and nearly buries his face in Jannik’s chest.

“It’s a nice cologne,” he murmurs, his hand gripping the fabric of Jannik’s suit.

“You like it?” When Carlos hums, Jannik chuckles. “I’ll ask them for the name, then,” he says easily. He places a hand on Carlos’s heart and feels it fluttering through the fabric of his crewneck, the fragile, stuttering speed of it. It feels too private to know, so he drags his hand up, finds the slope of his neck instead, and reaches for his shoulder.

And he pulls them into slow steps, sideways and back, sideways and forward, finding the beat and following it. Carlos lets him lead, and Jannik feels a new kind of warmth at how pliant he has become in his arms. They switch without a word, Jannik looping an arm around Carlos’s waist, Carlos finding the hair at the back of Jannik’s neck.

“I thought losing would at least spare me this,” Carlos snorts after stepping on Jannik’s foot. They’re clumsy, unsure how to move so close to each other. They’ve never shared moments like these, not without want and need cutting through the distance for them.

“Call this my reward, then?” Jannik smiles and buries his nose in Carlos’s hair for a second. He can’t help it, and the scent of his shampoo soothes the frightened ache in his heart a bit more.

“You crush my dreams, and I’m meant to reward you?” Carlos scoffs, but his nose brushes against Jannik’s throat, taking the bite out of it.

The rhythm of the music picks up before Jannik can answer, some jibe about a month-old deal dying on his tongue. He feels anticipation burning under his skin, sending tingles down his limbs. He spins Carlos around to shake them off. But Carlos looks at him with humor in his eyes, and something more, something warmer. He’s too quick to step back into Jannik’s space, back to their attempt at proper ballroom form. Jannik hasn’t had time to breathe before he is once again drowning in the scent of Carlos’s shampoo.

And Jannik starts to see the appeal of dancing. He feels Carlos move against him, the way they might not quite be following the music, but they move as one, all the same. He feels the deep rumble of Carlos’s laughs in his chest before he hears them, can see the shade of green of his eyes when they dare to make eye contact… And when Carlos’s hair brushes against his cheek or neck, the softness of the moment threatens to overwhelm him.

Until the music changes to something so much slower, too slow to keep up their vaguely waltz-y dancing. So Jannik lets go of Carlos’s hand and takes hold of his waist with both hands instead. Carlos follows, though he’s fleeing Jannik’s gaze now. He reaches to wrap his hands around the back of Jannik’s neck, and has to step a little closer to manage it.

“Is this how you danced with her?” Carlos asks, biting his lip as he stares intently at Jannik’s chest. It’s almost like he couldn’t help asking, annoyed at the jealousy it reveals. Jannik smiles.

“Of course not,” Jannik shakes his head, squeezing Carlos’s waist in reassurance.

“Why not?”

“Because… It wouldn’t feel right with her,” Jannik murmurs.

“But it feels right with me?” Carlos asks, and he meets Jannik’s gaze for the first time since they’ve started swaying like this. He’s so close that Jannik would only have to dip his head to taste his lips. He’s not sure why he hasn’t done that already. They have waited long enough.

“Almost as right as this,” Jannik whispers, and places a soft, short kiss on the corner of Carlos’s mouth. He wouldn’t have heard Carlos’s quiet sigh if they hadn’t been so close. It’s like a homecoming.

“I was wondering when you’d do that,” Carlos says with a growing smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carlos nods.

“I know you said you were fine,” Jannik says, looking away. “But… Well, I wasn’t sure how fine.”

He hears Carlos chuckle and looks back at him, finding him amused and almost endeared. There’s a secret dancing in his eyes, too.

“I have been waiting for you all night,” Carlos says with a wicked smile. “You show up in a suit and tie, smelling like absolute sin, glowing with victory… Do you really not know by now?”

“Know what?” Jannik frowns.

“How badly I want you,” Carlos whispers against Jannik’s lips. He kisses him before Jannik can respond.

They moan as one as soon as their mouths meet, the weight of two weeks of distance lifting instantly. Jannik feels Carlos’s tongue brush against his bottom lip, his fingers digging into his hair. He’d forgotten exactly how good it felt. With their chests pressed together, hearts drumming fast enough to ring in his ears, Jannik drowns in the feeling.

“You should remind me,” Jannik moans, spreading kisses across Carlos’s cheekbone, and he hears him snort.

Carlos guides them back to the bed and pulls away from the kiss to start working off Jannik’s tie with sharp, impatient tugs. He mumbles something about wearing them more often, but Jannik can’t say he’d consider it. It’s been strangling him all evening, just another reminder that he was so far from where he really wanted to be.

He watches with fascinated awe as Carlos’s fingers work the tiny buttons open with surprising ease. He slides his hands across Jannik’s chest to push it off, sighing when the shirt falls to the floor and he can start pressing kisses along Jannik’s collarbone. Jannik only tangles his fingers in Carlos’s hair, letting him mark him up with moans and hisses. Carlos is being a bit of a bitch about it, biting harder than he needs to, and there is lingering anger in it; he’s sure of it. Jannik is happy to take it, feeling the heat building between his hips and urging him to push Carlos on the bed and have his way with him.

But Carlos is still wearing too many clothes, and Jannik certainly wants them out of the way. He pulls back, presses a kiss to Carlos’s jaw, just because he can, and pulls his sweater off. Carlos’s skin is more golden than he remembered, or maybe it’s the fact that they’re now halfway through summer and he’s sporting a bit of a sunburn of his own.

Just as Jannik is about to push him back onto the bed, Carlos grabs Jannik’s hips and flips them around, and Jannik lets himself fall when Carlos presses his hips back.

“What are you doing?” Jannik whispers, watching carefully as Carlos places his hands on his shoulders and straddles him.

Jannik’s hands fly to Carlos’s waist to hold him in place, and his nose brushes his pulse point before he can really decide to. He tastes his skin, licking a long strip of blushing skin and reveling in the moan vibrating there. Jannik decides to pay him back, sucking the sensitive spot under the corner of Carlos’s jaw, and groans when Carlos’s hips buck against his own.

“You know, you beat me today…,” Carlos moans, holding Jannik’s head to his neck and grabbing his shoulder for support.

“I think I remember that,” Jannik nods, pressing warmth turning to unbearable heat in his veins. He hangs onto Carlos’s every breath, biting his jaw and reveling in the scratch of his beard on his lips.

“Hmm… So, I was thinking,” Carlos pants, digging his nails into Jannik’s back when he sucks on the lobe of his ear. Jannik chuckles when Carlos stutters, forgetting his words.

“Yes?” Jannik encourages him, though he starts to run his hands along Carlos’s ribs, feeling the goosebumps spreading there.

When Jannik flicks a thumb over his nipple, Carlos’s breath hitches, and he drops his head to Jannik’s shoulder. And Jannik hadn’t quite expected the rush he feels at having Carlos melting in his lap from a few touches and well-placed kisses. It’s new and heady and wonderful. He blushes to realize that he knows what Carlos likes now, he anticipates the shivers when he kisses him just right, knows that a moan will come when he grips his waist and pulls him closer.

“I know I said… After Halle,” Carlos tries again. “I know I said that I didn’t expect anything from you despite our deal,” he gasps. Jannik’s hands freeze, and he hides his face in Carlos’s neck, running his teeth on the fresh bruises there. “Wait,” Carlos says, grabbing his shoulders to still him.

“I don’t expect anything either,” Jannik murmurs, because he truly doesn’t. Carlos blew his mind in Paris, and again – several times, he blushes to remember – in the weeks before Wimbledon. He’s more than happy to continue as they have done so far. In truth, his blood has been rushing in his ears all day at the thought of having Carlos once more inside him, feeling him move on top of him, and hearing him whisper unrepeatable words in his ears. He longs for it. When Carlos won that first set, the competitive side of Jannik demanded revenge. But another part of him entirely, buried somewhere between his heart and the pit of his stomach, reveled in the impending defeat, only two sets away from falling back into bed with him.

“No, you beat me today. And I want you to fuck me for it,” Carlos says with a darkness in his eyes Jannik has never seen before.

Jannik goes deaf. And maybe a little blind. Carlos is in his lap, hips slowly grinding down on him, and asking for him to…

“Oh. That… Yeah, I can do that,” he whispers distantly.

“Yeah?” Carlos asks, chuckling.

“Yeah…” Jannik nods, breathless.

“Alright,” Carlos nods back. He slides his fingers deep into Jannik’s curls, grips them tightly at the back of his head, and pulls Jannik’s face back to meet his gaze. “Then do it,” he whispers against Jannik’s lips.

Jannik comes alive with the command, reaching up to capture Carlos’s parted lips in a heated kiss and splaying his hands as wide as he can against his back. He stands up, swallowing Carlos’s gasp and feeling him tighten his thighs at his waist to keep from falling. He spins them around to lay him back down on the bed, distant ache in his elbow long forgotten with the urgency of this.

Jannik can’t bear to break the kiss, only loops one arm around Carlos’s waist to pull him higher up on the bed, and finally settles between his parted thighs. They moan in each other’s mouths, the pressure of their hips lining up giving them a split moment of relief, only to demand more, always more. Jannik feels himself grind down, chasing the friction, encouraged when Carlos’s thighs pull him closer still.

“Been waiting for this,” Carlos gasps, licking into Jannik’s mouth when his words pull a moan from him.

“Yeah?”

Carlos doesn’t answer, but his hand travels down Jannik’s back and finds his ass, pushing him down to make his point. Jannik chuckles and pulls away to remove his remaining clothes. It’s a bit of a struggle, what with Carlos lying there, glowing against the white sheets, blush spreading to his chest. He’s whiny with impatient need, tugging off his own pants and underwear and urging Jannik to “Hurry up.” Jannik is delighted to find out how demanding Carlos can get when he’s not quite so in charge.

“You’re gonna have to be patient, my love,” Jannik murmurs with a soft chuckle, placing a lingering kiss on the inside of Carlos’s thigh, where the tan hasn’t quite reached up. He’s focused on the way the thick muscle jumps with sensitivity and doesn’t notice his choice of words until he feels fingers push his chin up. He finds Carlos looking at him with a funny look on his face.

“What did you just call me?” he asks, so quiet Jannik can barely hear him.

“Uh… Nothing, I…” Jannik shakes his head, panic replacing everything else.

But Carlos sits up, takes Jannik’s face between both his hands, and kisses him, slower and more tender.

“Say it again,” he whispers with a fond smile.

“I…”

“Say it again,” Carlos repeats, tightening his hold.

“My love,” Jannik murmurs, his voice sickly sweet even to his own ears. But Carlos’s face lights up, and it’s enough to warm Jannik’s chest with something very far from embarrassment.

“Never use that for anyone else,” Carlos says. “That’s mine,” he whispers, and Jannik can’t help it. He feels the warmth spread through his chest, and lets the fondness grow into something more, something neither of them has quite named yet.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jannik murmurs, and kisses him again. But before Carlos can pull him back down, Jannik stops him.

“Lube and condom?” he asks, eager to get that out of the way. He’s not sure he’ll find the strength to get away from the pressure of Carlos’s thighs around his waist again, or the grip of his hands scratching his back.

“Um, in the nightstand,” Carlos says distractedly. “Although…”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too. And, well, I’m clean.”

“Okay?” Jannik frowns.

“Yeah… And um. Well, there’s no one else,” Carlos whispers. “For me. Not since Paris.”

“Oh,” Jannik nods. He shouldn’t be this pleased, not when they haven’t discussed any of this, and he has no right to expect it. Still.

“Well?” Carlos asks, growing more nervous as Jannik scrambles to force the words to let him know that there hasn’t been anyone else, that there would never be anyone else again if Carlos will let him stay. The admission chokes him up, but there is such hope in Carlos’s eyes, and he can’t bear to leave him hanging.

“There’s only you for me, too,” he manages. It’s so quiet he barely hears himself. Still, Carlos’s blush deepens a little, pleased, and he brings their lips together again, a kiss so quick and soft that Jannik can’t even kiss him back.

 “Get the lube, then,” he whispers, and Jannik chuckles from the rude words after such tenderness. Still, he doesn’t need to be told twice.

When he turns back, travel-sized bottle in hand, Carlos is watching him move with something so fond in his eyes that Jannik almost can’t bear it. He focuses on his body instead, the way he’s lying there, everything about him so inviting that Jannik can’t stay away. He moves to cover him again, feeling once more the slide of Carlos’s thighs along his hips, the run of his fingers at the nape of his neck, the gasps and panting as they kiss, and bite, and lick, and mark.

There is something almost suspended about the moment. Jannik kisses down Carlos’s chest, runs his tongue along the valleys of his abs, bites the soft curve of his hip. He’s aware, almost exaggeratedly so, of the want tightening Carlos’s limbs, the urgency with which he’s mumbling about Jannik torturing him, with his usual softness, “always so fucking gentle about this.”

But Jannik doesn’t feel gentle, or soft. Only, there is fire in his veins where passion usually feels like ice, and he’s not sure what to do with it. Jannik feels himself melt into instincts, running possessive hands and rough nails along the outside of his thighs, finding his calves, and pulling his legs to rest on his shoulders.

The kisses he presses along the inside of his thighs, edging closer to his burning need, pull impatient moans from Carlos, who tightens his grip on the sheets. Jannik chuckles, amused to see him try to be patient, to let Jannik lead for once. His hips buck, demanding attention, and Jannik wraps his mouth around him only to hear the relieved, dragged-out whine that tumbles from his bitten lips.

“That’s not what we agreed on,” Carlos stutters, breathless, but he curls his fingers in Jannik’s hair and accompanies his movements all the same.

Jannik ignores his half-complaint, only stopping when he feels the tension in Carlos’s thighs almost change, when his moans start to sound desperate instead of pleased. Carlos whines, something incoherent about “always a fucking tease,” but he lets himself flip to his stomach when Jannik guides him.

He watches fondly as Carlos buries his head in a pillow and spreads his legs to give him space. There is something so indecent about the curves of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the dip of his back, the swell of his ass and thighs. Jannik bends to bite the flesh of his cheek, privately admits he has fantasized about doing that for months, if not years, and reaches for the lube.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly against the small of Carlos’s back as he starts to run his fingers closer to his entrance, letting the lube warm and spread.

“Very,” Carlos mumbles, bucking his hips back to urge Jannik on.

Jannik chuckles, gently slaps his ass just because he can, and eases a first finger in. He’s surprised, and slightly overwhelmed, to find that the glide is easy, as if…

“I got impatient,” Carlos chuckles, turning his head to find Jannik’s gaze over his shoulder. He adjusts, brings a knee up to leave more room for Jannik, but there are nerves in his fidgeting. Jannik starts stroking his hip reassuringly, moving his finger in slow slides.

“You got impatient?” Jannik asks, amused.

“You were taking forever, and I… I didn’t want to wait longer than I had to,” Carlos says, but he’s burying his face in the pillow again.

“You were touching yourself, making yourself ready for when I would come here to fuck you,” Jannik says, not a hint of a question in his tone. He surprises himself a little, the rudeness of his words far beyond what he’s used to. But the images playing in his mind, pictures of a half-naked Carlos writhing on this bed, prepping himself and holding back an orgasm he was reserving for Jannik…

“Yes,” Carlos breathes out, quiet and hot.

Jannik doesn’t have the words. So, he pulls his finger out and bends down to run his tongue directly over Carlos’s hole. He holds him down when he flinches away with a surprised gasp, and ignores his half-hearted protests when he does it again, and again.

“What are you doing?” Carlos pants, holding the pillow as tight as he can and failing to wiggle out of Jannik’s hold on him.

“Rewarding you,” Jannik whispers, and blows cool air on the streaks of saliva, watching Carlos twitch and shiver.

“We’re meant to be rewarding you,” Carlos shakes his head.

“Hmm. Rewarding myself, then,” Jannik nods and returns to his task.

By the time he’s satisfied, he has to reach for more lube, and Carlos is shaking with his denied pleasure, his muscles jumping along his back and ass with edged sensitivity. It’s delightful, and pride swells in Jannik’s chest. Carlos looks positively fucked out before they’ve truly started, and there is nothing he loves more than a job well done. Except maybe….

Jannik shakes his head, pushes the dangerous thoughts away, and focuses on his need, firmly demanding his attention.

“You ready?” he asks, lubing himself up absentmindedly as he watches the puffy, red skin of Carlos’s hole and wonders whether he should test him with his fingers first. But Carlos is nodding fervently, shuffling and arching his back a little more, and Jannik doesn’t have the patience to wait.

The first slide inside Carlos is heavenly. His body welcomes Jannik’s with ease; all the preparation is worth it when his drawn-out moan betrays no discomfort. And the pleasure of it… Jannik wonders how he’ll ever get anything done again.

He drapes himself over Carlos, skin against bare, sweat-slicked skin, and presses a heated kiss to the nape of his neck. Carlos’s chin twitches to the side, almost as if he wants to look at him, but he reaches for his hand instead. Jannik intertwines their fingers and firmly plants them above Carlos’s head for support. He grips Carlos’s hip with his other hand, angling him just right, and sets his pace.

Every thrust of his hips is met with an answering moan, and Jannik is privately glad they waited for the end of the tournament for this. He can’t guarantee that Carlos’s voice isn’t carrying beyond the confines of his room. And Jannik doesn’t want him to be quiet, not when he finds himself so hyper-focused on Carlos’s pleasure, every evidence of it increasing the building pressure in his own body.

Jannik feels the tension tightening Carlos’s limbs, hears him getting closer, and finds that he suddenly needs to be closer to him, needs it like he’s never needed anything before. He dips his head, biting Carlos’s shoulder before burying his nose in his neck. He licks strips of sweaty skin there, breathes the same air as him, echoes his moans with groans of his own. He pulls his hips up more, angles himself better, searches for those precious, overwhelmed, muffled screams, and rolls his hips harder, deeper. There is pleasure, of course, blinding, addictive pleasure. But Carlos’s orgasm is between his hands, at his mercy, and he wants it more than anything.

“Fuck, Jan…” Carlos gasps when Jannik reaches for his nipple, twisting it gently. The nickname, the one Carlos only ever uses when his pleasure threatens to overflow, warms his chest. They have habits now, and he falls a little bit in love with that fact.

“Are you gonna come for me?” Jannik asks, begging for the validation of it, the certainty that he’s doing this right. The frenzied need for it would surprise him if he could think at all.

“Yes, please, yes,” Carlos nods frantically. And he’s close. Jannik can hear it, attuned as he is to the signs.

When Carlos does come, he does so without warning. Jannik is in the middle of sucking yet another bruise into his neck when he feels him flutter around his length, his gasped sobs echoing in Jannik’s ringing ears. He spills onto the sheets, his hips stuttering under Jannik’s weight, his fingers tightening to a painful hold on Jannik’s hand, and it’s like everything about this moment echoes along Jannik’s body in waves.

“Get off,” Carlos groans after a beat, and ice water on Jannik’s head could not have stifled his pleasure quicker. He shuffles, pulls out and away, and feels dread building as he watches Carlos get up as well.

But he turns around, pushes Jannik back so he sits fully on his ass, and straddles him with almost clumsy speed.

“What are you-”

“Your turn,” Carlos murmurs against his lips. He’s kissing him deeply before Jannik can answer, and reaches between them to line them up. He lets himself sit fully in Jannik’s lap, his length buried inside him again, and they moan as one, Jannik needy, Carlos overwhelmed.

Soon, Carlos is moving, strong legs straining to keep up the rhythm. Jannik wraps his arm around his waist and latches his lips onto his chest. Carlos’s hands find his hair when he runs his tongue along a nipple, tightening in warning. But Jannik feels his own pleasure reaching its pinnacle, and lets himself topple with encouraging words tumbling from Carlos’s lips.

It's a second and forever before they catch their breath, and Carlos climbs off of Jannik on shaky legs. He shuffles back, lets himself fall into the pillows, and reaches a lazy hand out to beckon Jannik closer.

Jannik only blinks, still dizzy with his orgasm, and decides to make his way to the bathroom before anything else. He cleans himself off quickly before bringing a towel back for Carlos. He cleans him too, batting away Carlos’s attempts to do it himself. Carlos hides his blush behind his hands, but Jannik feels a unique sense of possessive satisfaction at cleaning traces of himself off his body.

When he falls into bed again, his limbs are heavy with a delicious burn, the exhaustion of the day and the vigor of his effort catching up with him.

“You should win more often,” Carlos finally says after a while, breaking the silence with his usual teasing tones. His voice is raspy, and it brings a new wave of satisfaction to Jannik’s chest.

“Are you trying to say, in your usual bitchy way, that you liked it?” Jannik asks, turning over to his side to watch the bliss relaxing Carlos’s face. His eyes are closed, but his lips are permanently curled and his cheeks, deliciously blushed.

“I’m not bitchy,” Carlos frowns, before turning as well. Jannik hadn’t expected the awkwardness of looking into his eyes so soon after… But there is nothing but fond amusement there, and he tries to relax into the intimacy.

“No,” Jannik shakes his head. “But you can be a brat,” he adds with a smirk.

“That, I’ll take,” Carlos nods with pride.

“Hmm…”

Jannik waits, watches cockiness morph into thoughtfulness, and observes Carlos’s softly green eyes run along Jannik’s features. He’s considering something, and Jannik almost holds his breath.

“Are we okay?” Jannik asks when he can’t bear the tension anymore. Carlos meets his gaze, and it takes his breath away for real this time.

“I can’t imagine that I could hate you for anything,” Carlos whispers. "I thought I might. I know I said… But when I understood I would lose today, I thought maybe all my good intentions wouldn’t hold against the sting of it.”

“Okay,” Jannik whispers back. He’s lying very, very still, hanging onto Carlos’s every word.

“But… Now I know,” Carlos nods. “Now, I really, really mean it.”

“I’m glad,” Jannik chuckles softly. When Carlos raises a brow expectantly, he laughs again. “Hey,” Jannik says, reaching out to grab Carlos’s waist and pull him closer. Their legs tangle, and Carlos buries his nose in Jannik’s chest. “If I didn’t hate you in Paris, you can be pretty sure I won’t hate you the next time you beat me,” he murmurs in Carlos’s hair. He feels his snort, his breath tickling his still-sensitive skin.

“I like the bet, though,” Carlos admits, running fingers along Jannik’s ribs and sending shivers down his spine.

“Yeah?” Jannik asks, holding him tighter.

“Oh, yeah,” Carlos nods. “You’ve been holding back on me. That was…”

“I had to earn it, remember?” Jannik laughs.

“Yeah, I remember. You didn’t waste your time either. Can’t beat me for two years, but promise him my ass, and look at him go,” Carlos grumbles, and Jannik bursts out laughing.

“I didn’t do it for your ass,” Jannik snorts. He laughs harder when Carlos pushes him away.

“Now you’re just being rude. It’s a fantastic ass, thank you very much. Worth at least three Slams,” Carlos pouts, crossing his arms.

“Three is underselling it. Your ass is easily worth a Calendar Slam,” Jannik says, and reaches to grab the ass in question firmly, pulling Carlos back to him. “What I really wanted was that dance, though,” he adds cheekily.

“Right. Well, you’re not allowed to win Wimbledon anymore. No more winner’s dance for you,” he says, and bites Jannik’s collarbone for good measure.

“But I like it when you’re jealous. Makes you feisty.”

“Yeah, I’ll show you feisty,” Carlos huffs and turns around, his back firmly to Jannik.

Jannik scoots closer, wraps himself around Carlos, and smiles warmly when Carlos brings his arm closer to his chest and cuddles back into him with a pleased sigh.

They slowly drift off to sleep like that, tangled in the damp sheets and not quite caring about it. But Jannik feels it creep in, the new brand of softness that seems to accompany every single one of their moments. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating, and he can’t think about it now. He can only feel it, warming his chest with every one of Carlos’s slowing breaths, and hope it will take its time. They’ve only just found this haven, and Jannik wants to slowly burn in it forever.