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"So, how is Carlos?" Matteo asks as he settles onto the plush couch beside Jannik, the leather creaking softly under his weight. The player's lounge in Paris is bathed in afternoon sunlight, offering a peaceful view of the practice courts where a few players are still working on their serves, the rhythmic pop of tennis balls against strings creating a familiar backdrop.
Jannik's head instinctively turns toward his friend and countryman, but he forces himself to look ahead. If Matteo notices the bright flush spreading across his cheeks at the question—and Jannik knows his fair complexion betrays him every time—he'll never hear the end of it.
"Well, he didn't seem upset after the match in Riyadh," Jannik says, fingers absently picking at a loose thread on his training shorts. "He'll be ready for whatever happens here in Paris. It will be hard for anyone to beat him." He tries to keep his voice steady, professional, like he's giving any other post-match analysis and not thinking about the way Carlos had smiled at him during the trophy ceremony.
"I wasn't talking about tennis." Matteo's tone betrays his barely suppressed smirk, even without Jannik having to look at him. There's something knowing in his voice that makes Jannik's stomach flip.
"Oh? Then what did you mean?" Jannik feels his face twitch. He knows exactly what Matteo meant.
"Well, you think about him first thing in the morning, no?" Matteo leans back, far too casual for the weight of his words. "I figure you know enough to tell me how he is doing, just in general." His tone is dripping with false innocence, like butter melting too sweet over toast.
Jannik's carefully maintained composure crumbles as heat rushes to his face, spreading down his neck and making his collar feel too tight. "That's not— I didn't— I meant tennis. You know, how to beat him on the court. Thinking about our matches. Strategy." The words tumble out too fast, too defensive, and he knows he's only making it worse.
Matteo lets the unconvincing words hang in the silence between them, humming thoughtfully. The sound reminds Jannik of his mother when she catches him in a lie about stealing cookies before dinner. "So you wake up every morning and think about all the matches you and Carlos have played over the past six years? All the long, hard points? The sweat and effort you both put in? This is what you are saying?"
Each question lands like a precise groundstroke, and Jannik feels himself backing further into the corner Matteo is painting him into. "No! I mean— yes! Stop making it sound like that." He sighs, running a hand through his curls in frustration. If this was a tennis match, he'd already be down a set and a break, serving into the wind.
"I am just repeating what you said. Twice now, I think. However I am making it sound is how it sounds already." Matteo shrugs casually, as if he hadn't just sent panic coursing through Jannik's chest like ice water in his veins.
Jannik inhales sharply, his body tensing. His foot bounces frantically against the carpeted floor, a nervous habit he's had since juniors, as he tries to quell the rising anxiety in his stomach. The practiced breathing techniques that usually help him between points seem useless against this particular kind of pressure.
Noticing the shift in Jannik's demeanor, Matteo's expression softens. The teasing glint in his eyes gives way to something gentler, more supportive. "He has said the same about you before, no? It is not creepy if he is thinking of you in the mornings, too. No need to worry!" He pats Jannik's shoulder firmly enough to break through the momentary panic, the familiar gesture grounding him back in the present.
"That was... he was just being nice," Jannik mumbles, though they both know better.
"Ah yes, so nice that he made half the stadium swoon and then went on to talk about the beautiful tennis you play together." Matteo's grin widens. "Very professional talk, that was. Very technical analysis of your game styles."
Movement at the lounge entrance catches Jannik's attention, and his heart performs its familiar flip whenever Carlos appears. He's already smiling as their eyes meet across the room, that bright, genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and Jannik's brain short-circuit. He's wearing that sleeveless pink practice shirt that Jannik secretly admires, the one that shows off his shoulders in a way that's entirely unfair.
"I think this is my cue to leave," Matteo announces, standing with an exaggerated wink that makes Jannik want to disappear into the couch cushions. As he passes Carlos, he claps him on the shoulder. "We were just talking about you!"
Jannik wishes the ground would swallow him whole, or that he could challenge that statement like a line call. His face burns as Carlos approaches, dropping onto the couch beside him with natural grace, settling closer than necessary. Their knees brush, and Jannik struggles to remember how words work, how to form sounds that make sense when all he can focus on is the point of contact between them.
"Talking about me?" Carlos asks, and there's something in his voice—a hint of hope, maybe, or anticipation—that makes Jannik's pulse quicken.
"No! I mean— Matteo was just—" Jannik stammers, then takes a steadying breath, trying to center himself like he does before a big point. "He was being stupid. Making jokes."
"About Riyadh?" Carlos asks softly, and Jannik's breath catches in his throat. He manages a tiny nod, still unable to meet Carlos's eyes, afraid of what his own might give away.
"It was fun, no? Playing with you, just being around you. The ceremony after too. You came to my rescue—the pictures would have looked ridiculous with the confetti in my hair." Carlos laughs, the sound warm and rich like honey, then reaches toward Jannik's curls as if to brush away imaginary confetti. He stops short, his hand hovering in the space between them before returning to his lap. Jannik watches the movement longingly, mourning the almost-touch.
"It does not matter what jokes anyone makes, or what they say. I think I understand what you meant. It is how I feel too." Carlos's brown eyes hold Jannik's gaze with an intensity that makes looking away impossible, like being caught in the spotlight during a night match, but warmer, more intimate.
"You feel the same?" Jannik asks, though he knows the answer. His heart pounds waiting for Carlos's response, every beat seeming to echo in the quiet of the lounge.
"You really need to ask me that question?" Carlos raises an eyebrow, a gentle challenge in his expression. "I figure I had made it clear by now." His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Jannik's eyes follow the movement, helpless not to.
Carlos slowly moves his hand until their pinkies brush, then rests his calloused finger over Jannik's. The heat radiating from Carlos is almost overwhelming, like standing too close to a sun that Jannik never wants to step away from. His breathing quickens, shallow and uneven.
"Maybe you should make it more clear? Just in case." If Jannik's head wasn't foggy with all the Carlosness impeding it, he might be embarrassed by how whiny that came out. Luckily, Carlos doesn't seem to care either way.
"More clear? Yeah, alright." Carlos's voice drops to a whisper, tender and rough at the edges. He leans forward slowly, each movement deliberate, until his nose brushes against Jannik's. Time seems to slow down as Jannik feels the warmth of Carlos's breath ghosting across his lips. His eyes flutter closed, the world narrowing down to just this moment, just them. Perfect, his mind whispers, as the last sliver of space between them begins to disappear.
"Jannik! There you are—oh."
Jannik jerks back so violently that he nearly falls off the couch, his eyes flying open to find Darren standing in the doorway, a practice schedule in hand and his eyebrows somewhere near his hairline. Carlos manages to catch Jannik's arm before he completely loses his balance, strong fingers wrapping around his bicep, though he quickly lets go when he realizes he's still holding on, the phantom warmth of his touch lingering on Jannik's skin.
"I, uh—we were just—" Jannik's voice comes out about two octaves higher than normal, closer to a squeak than actual words. His face feels hot enough to fry an egg, and he's certain he must be glowing like a stoplight.
"Discussing strategy!" Carlos supplies helpfully, though the brilliant red flooding his own cheeks somewhat undermines his attempt at casual explanation. His hair is slightly mussed where Jannik's fingers had almost reached it, and something about that detail makes the whole situation feel even more incriminating.
"Strategy. Right." Darren's voice is carefully neutral, but there's a barely suppressed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Well, when you're done with your... strategy session, we need to get some practice in before your evening hit."
"I'll go now!" Jannik practically leaps to his feet, narrowly avoiding collision with the coffee table. His muscles feel jittery, like after too many espressos. He chances a quick glance at Carlos, who looks equal parts amused and disappointed, and feels his heart do another flip in his chest. That expression—the slight pout of his lips, the warmth still evident in his eyes—nearly makes Jannik sit right back down, practice be damned.
"See you later?" Carlos asks softly, and there's so much promise in those three words, so many unspoken possibilities, that Jannik can only manage a quick nod before hurrying after his coach, not trusting his voice to form actual words.
As they walk down the hallway, their footsteps echoing against the walls, Darren clears his throat. "You know, there are probably better places for strategic discussions than the player's lounge."
"Please don't," Jannik groans, covering his face with his hands, feeling the heat still radiating from his cheeks.
"I'm just saying, maybe next time try somewhere more private. Like the gym storage room. No one ever goes in there after 6 pm." There's a knowing twinkle in Darren's eye that makes Jannik want to crawl into a ball and hide.
"Darren!"
His coach just laughs, patting him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go work on your serve. And maybe your timing."
~~~~~~~~~~
Jannik can't focus during practice. His serves are landing short, his footwork is sloppy, and his mind keeps drifting back to the player's lounge—to the warmth radiating from Carlos's knee against his, the gentle brush of their pinkies, the way Carlos's breath felt against his lips in that endless moment before Darren interrupted. Every time he thinks about it, his stomach does another backflip, making it impossible to find his rhythm on court.
The practice ball machine whirs, sending another yellow sphere arcing through the evening air. Jannik's forehand catches it late, the ball sailing well beyond the baseline to join the growing collection of errant shots. The strings of his racquet vibrate against his palm, an accusatory hum that matches his frustration.
"That's enough for today," Darren finally says, his voice cutting through the quiet of the Paris practice courts. He's been watching from the sideline, arms crossed, with that particular mix of amusement and sympathy that makes Jannik wonder just how transparent he's being. "Get some rest. Clear your head."
But Jannik's head is anything but clear as he makes his way back through the facility. The sun has already set, painting the corridors in shades of deep blue and amber from the overhead lights. His footsteps echo against the polished floors, mixing with the distant sounds of cleaning crews preparing the grounds for tomorrow. Most players have finished their practice sessions by now, leaving the halls desert-quiet except for the occasional rattle of a passing maintenance cart.
He's so lost in thought—replaying that almost-kiss for what must be the hundredth time—that he almost walks right past the gym storage room. Almost.
The door is slightly ajar, a warm stripe of light spilling out into the dim hallway. Jannik's steps slow, his heart beginning its familiar race as the soft notes of Spanish guitar drift through the gap. He recognizes the song—it's one Carlos always plays during his warm-ups, something about amor and destino that makes more sense now than it ever has before.
Before he can second-guess himself, he peers through the gap. The storage room is a maze of exercise equipment: towers of yoga mats, resistance bands hanging like vines, medicine balls stacked in perfect pyramids. And there, in a small cleared space between two weight racks, is Carlos.
He's sitting cross-legged on a purple yoga mat, apparently doing his evening stretches. The pink practice shirt is gone, replaced by a soft gray Nike hoodie that Jannik has definitely not spent time thinking about borrowing. His dark hair is slightly damp, probably from his own practice session, and there's still a faint flush high on his cheeks that makes Jannik's fingers itch to touch.
As if sensing his presence—or maybe hearing the way Jannik's breath caught at the sight of him—Carlos looks up. His whole face brightens, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes Jannik's knees feel weak even after six years.
"I was hoping you would remember what your coach said," Carlos says with a grin that's equal parts shy and mischievous. He pats the space beside him on the mat, the gesture casual but his eyes intense with invitation.
Jannik glances over his shoulder at the empty hallway, his heart thundering against his ribs. The facility feels different at this hour, like they're in their own little world where anything might be possible. He slips inside, letting the door click shut behind him with a soft finality that makes his pulse jump.
"You planned this?" he asks, carefully lowering himself onto the mat. Their knees brush again, and even through two layers of training pants, the contact sends little sparks of electricity up his spine. The mat is still warm where Carlos has been sitting.
"Maybe." Carlos's eyes are dancing with mischief, catching the light from the single overhead lamp. "Or maybe I just like to stretch in storage rooms after practice. Very normal thing to do, no?"
"Right." Jannik tries and fails to suppress his smile, watching the way Carlos's expression softens at the sight. "Very normal."
"Normal is boring, no?" Carlos shifts closer, until their shoulders are touching, until Jannik can smell the familiar mix of his shampoo and that distinctly Carlos scent that always lingers on court after their matches. "I prefer interesting. Exciting."
The air feels thick with possibility, heavy with all the things they haven't said yet—all the lingering looks across practice courts, the touches that lasted longer than necessary, the way they always gravitate toward each other in any room. Jannik turns to face Carlos properly, gathering his courage even as his heart tries to beat its way out of his chest.
"About earlier..." he starts, but Carlos is already moving, one hand coming up to cup Jannik's jaw with impossible gentleness. His palm is warm, slightly calloused from years of gripping tennis racquets, and Jannik can't help leaning into the touch.
"No more interruptions this time," Carlos murmurs, thumb brushing over Jannik's cheekbone in a way that makes his breath hitch. "Just us."
This time, when Carlos leans in, there's no hesitation. Their lips meet soft and sweet, and Jannik's world narrows down to individual sensations: the gentle pressure of Carlos's mouth against his, the way Carlos's other hand finds his waist to pull him closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The small, desperate sound that escapes his own throat when Carlos deepens the kiss, tongue tracing his bottom lip with careful heat.
It's better than winning any tournament. Better than every point they've ever played. Better than all his dreams combined. This, Jannik thinks hazily as his fingers finally, finally tangle in Carlos's hair (softer than he imagined, and he's imagined this more times than he'd ever admit), this is what he's been waiting for without even knowing it.
When they finally break apart, Carlos rests his forehead against Jannik's, both of them breathing heavily in the quiet room. His eyes are sparkling with joy and something deeper, something that makes Jannik's heart stutter and soar all at once. This close, Jannik can count every one of his eyelashes, can see the tiny flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
"So," Carlos says, his voice deliciously rough around the edges, "was that clear enough?"
Jannik pretends to consider it, even as his fingers trace slow patterns on the back of Carlos's neck, feeling the way it makes him shiver. "I don't know. Maybe you should explain it again? Just to be sure."
Carlos laughs, bright and beautiful, before pulling him back in. And if they end up missing dinner because they're too busy with their "strategy session," well—Jannik has never been happier to skip a meal in his life.
"You know," Carlos murmurs against his lips much later, when they're both disheveled and grinning like idiots, Carlos's hoodie somehow having migrated onto Jannik's shoulders (and yes, it smells exactly as good as he imagined), "Matteo is never going to let us hear the end of this."
Jannik groans, hiding his face in Carlos's neck, breathing in the warmth of him. "Don't remind me."
"It's okay," Carlos says, pressing a kiss to his temple, then another to his cheekbone, like now that he's allowed to kiss Jannik, he never wants to stop. "We can always say we were discussing tennis."
"Because that worked so well the first time?"
"Hey, it got us here, no?" Carlos pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, expression softening into something that makes Jannik's chest ache with how much he feels. "I'd say that worked pretty well."
Looking at Carlos's smile—the one that's just for him, the one he's been trying not to dream about for longer than he can remember—Jannik has to agree. Some strategies, it turns out, are perfect just the way they are.
When they finally emerge from the storage room, the facility is truly quiet, the cleaning crews long gone. Carlos's hand finds his in the darkness of the hallway, fingers intertwining like they've been doing this forever. Maybe, in a way, they have been—every rally, every handshake at the net, every casual touch leading them here, to this moment.
"Tomorrow?" Carlos asks softly as they reach the point where they need to part ways, his eyes full of promise.
Jannik squeezes his hand, heart light with possibility. "Tomorrow," he agrees. And every day after, he doesn't say, but from the way Carlos's smile widens, he hears it anyway.