Chapter Text
I still remember that day clearly. What I learned that day. The ache in my chest that day. How cold it was that day. The beauty of the sky that day. The despair of that day. The day I realized I must never cry in front of anyone again. The day I swore I would never shed tears again.
ー
“We have to go now, Jan!”
His brother’s voice echoes from downstairs. The three-month suspension has ended. On the day he set out to stand on the court again, he was glad his brother would come with him.
“I’ll be right there.”
He gets into the car and takes the wheel. From home to the airport, it’s just the two of them. No matter how long the distance, he’s always enjoyed driving. He has always liked things he could control with his own hands. These past few months have been nothing but pain. He wants to, no he needs —to take back control as quickly as possible. Control over his life. Control over the ache in his chest that feels like it’s about to spill over. They board the plane and land in Rome. He never thought this city, so different from his hometown , would ever love him back.
——
The match was over.
It should have been Jannik’s match.
It was the match he should have won.
And yet, the trophy wasn’t in his hands. The trophy is not in his hands. He’s long since grown used to pain. And still, the bitter taste of defeat feels as if it’s saying-You don’t deserve happiness.
Carlos was saying something. Jannik can’t even remember what he had said in front of the microphone. He’s sure he was smiling—because he remembers Darren’s gaze wasn’t accusing but worried. Well, he just wants to go back to his hotel room as soon as possible. He feels like he’s drowning in people’s eyes. Condemnation, disappointment, contempt.
Is this really reality?
Ah, yes, surely it is.
Because his heart aches.
Because in dreams he’s not such a miserable loser. He thinks he’s seen this dream before.
Back in the locker room, he texts his brother to leave him alone until morning. Darren and Simone know how to handle him after a loss without needing words. Before he realizes it, he’s standing in the bedroom of his hotel suite.
Did he act rude toward the taxi driver or the hotel staff? He’ll have to apologize to them tomorrow morning. His feet ache. He’ll never grow to like that sensation of sliding on the clay. Did he properly do the media stuff? There’s no message from his team. It’s 11 p.m.—so probably no problem. Blinding orange. His opponent’s victorious roar. The crowd’s joy rose with his defeat. The sympathetic faces of journalists apologetically asking questions.
The warmth of Carlos’s body when they touched across the net.
His voice calling “There’s two bottles, Janni!!”
The way he says Jannik’s name, almost swallowing the k.
Those hazel eyes looking up at him like a puppy. Ah, maybe none of that was real, either. Even just thinking is so exhausting.
ーー
Jannik had fallen asleep, slumped in the hallway leading to the living room. He woke up at the sharp sound of knocking on the door. Could he have caused some trouble? Has he forced his team to work this late? He must apologize. They always work so hard for him. He never wanted to burden them further. He has to apologize. He opens the door quickly. But it isn’t his social media team. It isn’t his coach.
“Hey, Jannik.”
Hazel eyes. A gaze full of expectation.
A modest smile. Dazzling. Orange brightness blinds him. Strange—Carlos is dressed in black, and yet the orange flickers in his vision. Too bright. The light is hurting his eyes. Unbearable.
“Go away.”
The words come out smoother than he thought they would.
“I just wanted to talk! Just for a minute. Five minutes, that’s all. Please. I’ve missed you so much.”
Please, just leave me alone tonight. Please. I only want to rest. His chest aches. His fingertips are growing colder by the second.
Why do you even care about me?
You’re the one who never reached out.
“Will you let me in?”
At least it means he hasn’t caused trouble for his team. Relieved, he pulls the doorknob to let the younger man inside. But has the doorknob always felt this cold? His fingertips are freezing. Ah, not a good sign.
“So… how are you feeling?”
Not good.
He feels sick. His head aches. His heart is about to burst from his chest. He can’t even tell anymore if this is a dream or reality.
“…Do you want to know what it feels like to lose to you?”
Wasn’t the speech after the match good enough? Wasn’t watching him crushed in the press conference—saying he wanted to erase his own memory—enough?
“No! You know that’s not what I mean…”
So, not that.
“I don’t understand.”
He doesn’t understand. He can’t possibly understand. They are too different. And besides, Carlos was the one who never reached out. Jannik had taken it as a sign:We’re over. What would make Carlos leave sooner? What does he want Jannik to say? He said he wanted to talk. About what?
Ah—champagne? Was it wrong to leave so Carlos could celebrate his win with others?
“I’m sorry.”
I should have celebrated your victory with more of a smile. I should have praised you more openly.
“Sorry for what?”
Why is there urgency in Carlos’s voice? Why is he irritated about something? He won a Grand Slam today.
“Because… I didn’t join you for the champagne fight.”
That’s the one thing Jannik remembers clearly. That moment’s voice lodged itself in his brain as pure regret.
“…? You’re apologizing for that? Now, of all times?”
Why is Carlos frowning? He’s just apologizing for earlier. Did Jannik do something else to trouble him? There are too many possibilities—was his wink too friendly? Was the hug at the net too long? He made Carlos uncomfortable yeah? That’s so wrong. He should apologize.
“Is something wrong? Sorry, I don’t understand, why are you—”
“Jannik… That was Rome.”
“…? This is Rome.”
This is Rome. A place completely different from his hometown. No snow, no comforting chill.
“Jannik, have you been drinking? Are you that drunk? Or did someone slip you something?”
What is Carlos even saying?
“This is Paris. We’re in Paris, Jannik.”
Ah. I see. So he really should have spent the night alone.
——
“So what on earth did you take?”
“And if I did take something, why would you even care?”
“Why!? Because I care about you, that’s why!”
“Three months of silence. And those words in the press conference, pushing me away, denying our friendship—none of that shows you care.”
“No!! That’s—!”
Carlos’s eyes darken. Jannik knows this color well. It is the color of malice. The color of anger. The color of pain.
“You have no right to say that—after you slept with me even though your doping test came back positive!!”
So he finally said it. It hurts.
“You’re the one who put me in a risky situation without saying a word!!”
His heart aches.
ーー
Carlos is shouting something. Jannik can’t understand. Only fragments of words reach him. Doping. Suspension. Three months. Contact. Instagram. Vacation. Ah, Carlos must have had a wonderful vacation. Surely that’s what he wants to talk about—his friends, those bright young men who belong under the sun.
“You have friends.”
Friends to share jokes with. To go clubbing with. To fool around and make a scene. To throw an arm around, to exchange handshakes so firm they hurt.
“What—what are you saying? Why are you suddenly talking about friends? Jannik, have you finally lost your mind?!”
“You have friends you can spend happy times with.”
“So what!? Are you saying you don’t have good friends!? That’s a lie and we both know it! And besides, I wanted to be your friend!”
Yes. Or… is that true? Could they really fit into the frame of “friends”?
Does he—do you—share nights, share beds, with “friends”? He doesn’t know. His breath only grows tighter. The anger in Carlos’s eyes makes him afraid.
“You don’t understand, I—”
I, I… what? I, with you, with him, with Carlos, with…
“No! You’re the one who doesn’t understand! You keep asking me all these questions like you’ve lost your mind, but I’m the one who wants answers! Do you know how much I’ve wanted to understand you? How much I’ve cared about you? How much I’ve—!”
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand.”
What did he even want to be?
“Then explain it to me!!”
…? He doesn’t know.
What explanation would satisfy Carlos? Suddenly Carlos steps forward and grabs him by the collar. But instead of violence, what comes next is a warm press of lips. Unexpected softness, and the desperate ache in Carlos’s hazel eyes makes Jannik’s throat burn with tears. Panic floods his body. Flashes—hazel eyes twisted in pain, a shorter figure clutching his left eye, black hair shaking as he groans.
And then—
Carlos is on the floor, knocked back, sitting dazed.
There’s no warmth left in those eyes. Only a wounded heart laid bare.
“See? You’re a coward.”
Ah. It’s always like this.
He can never shape his feelings into words. His mind understands them, but they won’t turn into language. He wants to say it’s not his fault. He wants to say he matters to him too. He wants to say he loves him. But the words never come.
He always swats away the hands that try to love him.
Because if he says it out loud, he’ll cry. If he accepts it, he’ll cry.
And he cannot cry.
He cannot hurt him. If it means hurting you— —then better to endure the pain of losing you alone.
“You fucking cold machine.”
Carlos spits the words out.
Through the haze, Jannik sees the younger man’s hazel eyes shimmering with tears.
He cannot answer.
No words fall from his lips. Carlos leaves. The door slams violently shut. It isn’t the first time he’s lost a friend. But was he ever truly a friend to Carlos in the first place?
Ah… He doesn’t know anything anymore.
Why does his chest hurt so much? Is he even standing properly on two feet right now? His heart pounds too hard. His whole body aches. Every joint burns with heat. He can’t breathe. Has the world always been this twisted, this blackened? He doesn’t know. Water. He needs water. Mark had told him to drink water. Had told him: If you can’t breathe, call me. Yes—the phone. Where’s his phone? Water. Lie down on the bed and close your eyes, his mother used to say.
No—no, first the phone.
He can’t breathe. His throat hurts.
Maybe water really is better.
He sees his mother’s worried face. Strange—she shouldn’t be here. He needs to walk down the hall to the kitchen. To drink water. Mark told him to. He wants to go back into his mother’s warm embrace. The floor is cold beneath him. Cold.
He needs to call.
Call Mark.
The floor is cold.
Cold. Water—yes,
he has to get water… Cold.
Everything around him is white.
Cold air stings his skin.
And before his eyes— a dark-haired man crouches, clutching his eye in pain. His voice twisted by agony.