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"The true opponent, the enfolding boundary, is the player himself. Always and only the self out there, on court, to be met, fought, brought to the table to hammer out terms. The competing boy on the net's other side: he is not the foe: he is more the partner in the dance. He is what is the word excuse or occasion for meeting the self. As you are his occasion." - Infinite Jest. DFW
Jannik is seventeen. He's not sure he grasps all-encompassingly the whole thing that is a highway to adulthood, but he gets the feeling. His career is slowly picking up and he doesn't feel like a kid anymore, but he's not sure what he should feel now. The path he's created for himself, this road to greatness is put into balance when he enters a supposedly easy Challenger and ends up facing some fifteen year old guy, still round in the cheeks, a kid who makes him feel scared. Alive. For the first time in a while. Jannik feels it, this push and pull. It's overwhelming.
A match is like a discussion, a relative once tells Jannik. Sometimes you argue, sometimes you make love, but the gist of it is always the same: you give and you take, you share. Jannik nods, and keeps training. Tennis isn't like skiing, there's a human component to it that he keeps having trouble dealing with. Understanding is easier than communicating so Jannik absorbs it all— the techniques, the gestures, the stances. He builds lean muscles, grounds himself and learns how to find the flaw in the person he faces.
The robot. That's what they call him. It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. He just doesn't get it. He needs to learn how to be better.
[Eschaton bit]
Carlos Alcaraz.
Shaping him, each blow makes him who he's becoming. There's no hesitant step into adulthood, only harshly becoming a man under the too-bright lights of courts, the altercations for greatness, fame, money. There's no shame to have when you're laying everything on the line.
He just has to analyze, to process.
It's late in the evening, Jannik is at a gala; most of them are there. Jannik's not looking, he busies himself trying to catch up with the London Open's main organizers. Exchanging platitudes, he lets the organizer's wife tell him everything about her poodle. He coos at the pictures, grins at her. It's a nice moment; it truly is. But then, he catches it, this scent, permeating every honeycombed alveolar corner of his lungs; someone Jannik would like to forget about, someone he sometimes seems fated to.
Maybe he's getting ahead of himself.
Under his stare, Jannik feels scrutinized. On the other side of the net, Carlos is licking his teeth with a dangerous smile — a predator's stance with the way he moves balance from one foot to another, raptly observing him. Jannik feels pinned down by his gaze, pried open by someone he wants to stray away from. Jannik holds secrets close to his heart, tries shying away from the man who could burn him alive if he simply knew about what unfurls in his chest every single time Jannik's gaze lands upon Carlos: the lines at the corners of his eyes from smiling so much, the fullness of his lips, the sturdiness of his stomach when he wipes away the sweat off of his face with the hem of his shirt.
Maybe Carlos scrutinizes Jannik, but hasn't he done the same thing in return? The only difference is that one does it openly.
[Aren't you glad you didn't get the Eschaton monologue?]
Jannik doesn't know. He doesn't like it when he doesn't have an answer to a mystery, and, right now, Carlos is withholding information from him. He sees the signs of it in the way he quirks his lips and stares at him with, well, amusement and somewhere between the lines: an invitation. Jannik doesn't understand how Carlos texts him at 2am, during every tournament where they'll see each other. He’s amicable in front of the crowd, never deterred by Jannik's silence to his calls, his refusal to meet up and hang. Jannik doesn't want to hang , he wants Carlos's hands on him and he's tired of hoping for something. Anything.
He doesn't want to admit that he's desperate.
It still feels astonishing to think that, wherever Jannik goes, Carlos is never far behind. His presence is unyielding and he stands proud—as he should. He stands proud and Jannik has to stare at his back, lost in his shadow, when he lifts the trophy.
They're not great friends; journalists try pressing for a story, something to nibble on, a bone to chew to add a layer to Jannik's humiliation. He plays the other’s words on a loop, an unfurling of feelings, the hurt in his voice when he confirms they don't spend time together, they don't talk that much. Jannik hurts, heart heavy in his chest. If he wanted to, he could be close with him; but Jannik doesn't want to be close, he wants to be devoured, wants to lose himself in the feeling of the one man he struggles against.
The thing is, well—the thing is that Jannik would yield as soon as Carlos would look his way. He would fold for him at the hint of proximity: a hand wrapped around his elbow, the flutter of fingers running between his shoulder blades and an arm wrapped around his shoulder. The mere idea of friendly closeness is enough for Jannik to frown, nervously jittering.
Jannik can't help but wonder, watching recorded games where Carlos encourages himself, where he hypes himself up to do better, to be better, if he does the same thing with his lovers. When he closes his eyes at night, fingers grazing at his body, if Carlos would tell him he's doing well, to keep on going, to be good for him. It makes Jannik gasp in the silence of his room.
The first thing that comes to Jannik's mind when asked about getting to know Carlos is the sound of the players' balls around them; tan, the hint of a smile like he knows something others don't. Maybe he does, given the way he plays.
He doesn't know what he would really do, given the chance to actually lean into Carlos' friendliness. He doesn't know what but he knows he would beg for more, for anything he would concede in giving in.
A match is like a discussion, he remembers as he plays against him on the clay court of Roland Garros. For five and a half hours, nothing but Carlos exists. He analyzes his body language and responds accordingly. Jannik is in control, leading, until he isn't— until he has to grind for the ball, to run behind him. During this match Jannik feels tethered to Carlos. He’s the only man in his life, the only one that matters. As harrowing as it is to lose, there's a fire in Jannik that won't be put out, the drive to bring him to his knees, to beat him fair and square.
Next time. There will be a next time.
The thing is, Jannik is the best. He's the best, except when it comes to Carlos.
Jannik leans back against the shower tiles. He sighs, water trickling down his hair, rolling down his eyebrows and falling into his eyes. He doesn't care. Carlos’ struggle against him, his moans on his side of the net, the heavy gaze on him; Jannik pinches a nipple, breath hitching. There's no one else but him in the changing rooms is what he tells himself when he takes his half-hard dick into his palm. It still makes him shudder. Carlos's spit slicked lips, the vision of his stomach as he swipes some sweat off of his face. Jannik speeds up, he doesn't need much, not when he's still reeling hard from Carlos' hug, the way he embraced him, the flat of his palm pressing him closer, almost possessively. Sometimes Jannik would agree with that, playing around with the idea of being Carlos' one and only. Jannik hiccups into his fist, coming down the drain, feeling somewhat pathetic for having come to romance rather than sex.
It's too late in the evening, too early in the morning, way too irresponsible when he'll be training a few hours from now, but he's just won another 500 ATP and his coach will understand. He's past tipsy, but he's not drunk; he's lost in thought, observing the party before him. If he'll be tired in the morning, so will the rest of the players. He's sitting outside, the music muffled by the patio door and he lets himself bask in the joy he feels, the calm he's surrounded with.
"Cheer up," a voice says from behind, a drink appearing in his peripheral vision.
"I'm plenty cheerful," Jannik replies, and Carlos scoffs, sitting next to him on the stone bench.
He sits close, his knee touching Jannik's. It lights his whole body aflame.
"Had you won against Novak, you maybe would've been crowned today, partying with everyone." Jannik tells him, a little too honest, too revealing of the standard he holds Carlos against.
"Ah," Carlos laughs, short and breathy, "I'm already partying with everyone."
Jannik smiles lopsidedly, looking at Carlos. His hair is disheveled and he looks a little flushed under the moonlight. He definitely had fun tonight.
"You always are." Jannik answers and Carlos grins.
"And yet I always come find you." Carlos presses his knee harder into Jannik's.
"Foolish of you." Jannik rolls his eyes but he can't help the giddiness, the sheer joy of Carlos looking for him specifically.
In this liminal pocket of time, Jannik does something he would never do normally: he wraps his fingers around Carlos's thigh. His opponent doesn't hesitate. A game of push and pull, scoring against his adversary; his hand closes around Jannik's.
"Aren't you tired?" Carlos asks and Jannik has to force himself to breathe again.
Jannik learns what he needs to when Carlos presses him against a wall, his thigh pressing into him, and he can't do anything but chase friction. When he realizes what he's done, he stills, going pale. "You're allowed to take." Carlos murmurs against his skin, and Jannik chases after his touch, parched.
In between dusk and dawn, Carlos makes him come in a hotel corridor, teeth biting into his neck, body pressed against his, breath hot against his burning body. Lit aflame, Jannik whimpers in the silence of padded halls.
"Lovely." Carlos professes against his skin, finishes walking him to his room.
Carlos loves so brightly, with all of himself. Jannik has basked under his sun, but Carlos had other people to give attention to. He doesn't love unrightfully. He simply has too much affection and care to offer the world.
Jannik's by himself in the practicioner's waiting room— regular blood tests to prove he's cleared for playing. The doctor is late, as usual, and he picks a book from his bag. He found it in a bookshop's window a few days before, the vendor's note sparking something within him. It said "What is the point of becoming the best if you end up all alone?" He's been engrossed in the story, but he realizes that is not a question he asks himself, he knows he'll never be alone on the court.
The party unlocks something between them, a hunger they've held back from for so long—too long.
Jannik is defeated at Halle, shaken to his core, still reeling back from his defeat in Paris, elbow injured. It's not his day, not his time to shine. He's traveling to England the next day to start training for Wimbledon. He barely has time to train for a day before Carlos finds him. Carlos who won in London, looking fresh and happy, sitting in the bleachers and staring at Jannik hitting ball after ball, focusing on doing better, on being better.
Still, when he goes back to his hotel, Carlos' following in tow, wrapping around his back, braced around his stomach once the elevator doors close around them.
"You'll do better." Carlos promises, and Jannik deflates in his arms.
He gets into his room and kisses the ridges of his spine, hands traveling down the expanse of his stomach.
"My champion." he tells him and Jannik can't help the way he bats the compliment away.
"And yet I lost." he replies, extending his neck, Carlos kissing the expanse of offered skin.
"You keep improving, there will come a time when no one can run after you." He assuredly answers.
Jannik grins, turning around. He realizes he's never kissed Carlos.
"Except you." He says and Carlos grins.
"Of course." He hits his hip lightly. "Strip and get down on your stomach." He asks. Who's Jannik not to comply?
Once he obeys, he tries peering back. "What are you going to do?" he asks, and Carlos sits at the bottom of the bed, pinching Jannik's calf.
"Take care of you." He's quick to reply. "Stop moving and just enjoy yourself, please?"
Carlos uncaps something, and starts massaging Jannik's feet. The feeling of his thumb pressing into his sole has Jannik shivering.
"Did you bring fucking massage oil?" He asks, and Carlos laughs, soft and muted.
"Nothing but the best for my mortal enemy." He runs smooth circles against his heel.
"You're fucking around with him." Jannik laughs in return, and he can hear the grin in Carlos' voice when he replies:
"Doesn't it make it better?"
Jannik hums, trying not to moan at the feeling of Carlos' fingers massaging the meat of his feet.
Once he's done with them, he moves to his calves, melting away the tension from the day, the week—the tension he's been feeling since Carlos beat him fair and square at the French Open.
They've never kissed.
Carlos massages his thighs, his back. He turns Jannik into a puddle, and finishes by opening him up, massaging his prostate until Jannik comes rutting against the sheets. He cleans him up and kisses his shoulder blades as Jannik slowly drifts out into sleep.
"Sleep well," Carlos says, muted, while Jannik is still floating close to sleep, but not yet lost to slumber.
They have breakfast together the next morning and Jannik says "I didn't touch you yesterday".
Carlos smiles privately.
"'T'wasn't the point."
"But I wanted to make you feel good." Jannik insists.
"Making you unwind made me feel plenty good."
It makes Jannik blush. He knows he's beet red when Carlos offers him a wide grin. He slaps his thigh a little too forcefully, fingers closing around his skin, a little too high for a friend, clearly not high enough for the lover he was the day before.
A rivalry that is written before it gets woven into the tapestry of matches they've played; later, the number of times Jannik can make Carlos pronounce his name in the cold and pristine intimacy of his hotel room. Jannik is bound to be by his side. It could be something harassing but Carlos never stops smiling when he sees him on the other side of the court, neither does Jannik.
Jannik is on the other side of the drawing board. He's finished training for the day, out from the court early enough to catch Carlos' game. He's entranced with the say he plays: laid back, having fun, like he's practicing and not playing for a Grand Slam title at the end of the road.
As he often does, he endangers himself, going for the spectacular point instead of a precise and controlled game. That's where they truly part sides, him and Jannik. Carlos runs around, going for something foolish, something insane. It works. The crowd erupts, cheering, and Jannik can't help but answer Carlos' grin, the impish look he has after doing something that shouldn't be allowed in the first place.
The thing is, as amazing as it is, ballsy playing has a cost and Carlos is running behind. He's losing, until he's not anymore.
Jannik sees it, the shift, the way Carlos locks in, predatory gaze trained on the ball, a shot of adrenaline running down Jannik's spine. He wants to be pinned down by this stare, hopes he'll get to see it if he gets to the final—when he gets to it.
The feeling isn't so different when Carlos wraps his body around Jannik, pressing into him, breaching him so slow and potent that Jannik stutters, breathlessly moaning when Carlos' hand wraps around his throat. No one but him. In these moments, Carlos gets that gaze, the one he has when he is serious about a match. Jannik sees it, hoping, desperate, almost asking, but then it disappears, replaced with this gleeful expression he gets whenever he draws a particularly good moan out of Jannik.
Jannik finds Carlos is the sun incarnate. He basks under him and only feels the burn afterwards.
The sound of the ball being hit, the forcefulness of it hitting Jannik's racket, the balance of his body tipping forward as he hits back, as the ball flies across the field, as Carlos moans hitting his return. Jannik is blazing through the match. He's burning crimson, nothing in the world existing aside from Carlos, from the tethering link between them that are the balls going back and forth.
No mercy.
A match is like a conversation, he thinks distantly about. You give and you take. Jannik is feeling greedy. He takes and takes until he overpowers Carlos, until he wins against him for the first time in years.
Fucking finally.
The hunger in Carlos' eyes is almost as good as winning.
They get interviewed. Carlos, as always, is fair play, generous in his compliments.
"Honestly? I need him" and Jannik's heart stutters, lodged in his throat. For Carlos to say this so confidently, with a freedom of self that Jannik still fails to maintain as perfectly as he wishes he would. One of the things Jannik loves about Carlos is that he isn't afraid to tackle his fears, his own limitations; he works at them relentlessly, until everything has been said and done.
Jannik realizes it with his trophy in his hands, scrutinizing Carlos' body language, the way he looks sincerely happy for him, open and inviting. He gets it. He's been in love with Carlos for a while now.
They say he's a robot; a robot, he thinks, chasing after Carlos after Wimbledon's after-party. He's speechless and Carlos only watches him with a curiosity that turns into hunger, the way he carefully lifts his hand up to Jannik's face, waiting, curling his fingers into his hair when Jannik nods minutely, palm on his cheek. Jannik is burning. Would a robot's heart crawl out its mouth as well? He's barely breathing, panicked, lonely, in love.
"I was looking for you," Carlos tells him.
When Carlos looks at him, Jannik is aflame. No one, not even tennis, makes Jannik feel more alive than him.
The way Carlos parts Jannik's legs open, back in Carlos' room, fingers trailing on the inside of Jannik's thighs, making him shiver; the way his mouth follows in tow, teeth grazing at sensitive skin.
Jannik sharply breathes in.
Carlos looks at him with an amused smile, and Jannik can swear he's still smiling when he presses a kiss to his hip, shoulder pressing into the fabric of his straining shorts.
A great relationship off the court and great bravery on the court , a journalist had said— and, well, when you put it like that, Jannik thinks as Carlos takes him into his mouth.
Jannik loses track of time. He comes down Carlos's throat, distractedly making grabby hands at Carlos until he has him sitting on his chest. This time, he's thought of bringing lube with him. Carlos' moans as he opens him up are entrancing enough for Jannik to get hard again embarrassingly fast, leaking onto his stomach.
He's transfixed with the feeling of his fingers pressing into the tight heat of Carlos' hole, dizzy with the vision of Carlos taking him so beautifully, chest flushed. Jannik can't help but lean forward to take one of his nipples into his mouth, nibbling at the pert nub, moaning when he feels Carlos' shiver above him.
He fucks into him slowly, his dick seared into him. He could come from that alone; thank god Carlos sucked him off beforehand. If only he knew the effect he has on him.
"You drive me insane." He concedes, kissing Carlos’ jaw.
"I don't intend on stopping." Carlos replies. Of course he knows the effect he has on him, he has to.
"Kiss me." He selfishly asks. "You've never kissed me." He confesses.
Carlos clenches around him, head falling in the crook of Jannik's neck.
"You've never asked." he answers.
"I feel like I've been obvious." Jannik retorts, and Carlos laughs, a little choked up.
"If you're obvious, what am I? A fucking neon sign?"
Jannik laughs, but it's his turs to be breathless. Carlos wants to kiss him, has wanted to for a while.
"You're a very friendly guy." Jannik tries and Carlos barks out laughing, slowly fucking himself, eyes closing. Jannik's hands find his waist.
"Friendly doesn't extend to urgent flights to take care of your friend."
Jannik hums, hips stuttering into Carlos.
"You want to kiss me." He states.
"If me fucking you more often than not wasn't obvious enough."
"Shut up, I get it. Can you kiss me now?"
Carlos cracks an eye open, breathing heavily, lips quirking in a wide smile.
"Of course, my champion."
The feeling of Carlos' lips against his is earth-shattering, plush lips pressing into his with an urgency he's only felt on the receiving ends of his hits, a solar crushing force that leaves him whining, bucking up into him, fingers fisting into his hair. His tongue is scalding, soft, unyielding. Jannik meets him in the middle.
He doesn't know where he ends and where he begins. All he knows is that Carlos may be his as much as he's been Carlos' for as long as he remembers. Carlos scratches his back as Jannik sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, picking up his speed.
Carlos comes with a choked moan, professed into Jannik's mouth; a secret he will keep close to his heart.
"Come inside." Carlos asks, and who is Jannik to refuse Carlos anything?
Once Jannik's pulled out, he maneuvers Carlos onto his back, kissing his closed eyelids, his stretched out cheeks as Carlos tiredly grins, the corner of his lips, his jaw, the shell of his ears.
"Can you be mine?" Jannik asks, covering Carlos's body with his. "Maybe not exclusively if that's something you'd like but... I'd really like you to be mine too."
Carlos hums, still grinning, eyes slitting open.
"You want to claim me." He states and Jannik breathes out, frustrated.
"Don't tease me." He asks and Carlos laughs.
"I'm not teasing. That's hot."
"You're drawing this out." Jannik sighs.
"Making you squirm a little is hot too. Can't help it. Let the loser have his fun."
"So you're teasing." Jannik pokes at his ribs, grinning, and Carlos laughs again.
"Maybe a little. You should get used to it if you wanna be my boyfriend."
"It's on the table then." Jannik states.
"Of course it's on the table." Carlos opens his eyes, only to give him a berating stare. "For someone as smart as you, you can be a little stupid."
"I'm taking it back," Jannik teases and Carlos slaps his shoulder.
"Are you going to be as infuriating if I say yes?"
"Only if you're as annoying as you are right now." Jannik can't help but grin.
"Hmm. Kiss me."
Jannik leans forwards and complies, lips grazing, tongues brushing as he breathes in Carlos' exhale.
"A deal's a deal." Carlos finally says after a while.
A match is like a discussion, someone once told Jannik and he realizes he's been talking about love for a while now, only for his confession to be returned. Match point.