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Assistant: Title: Makeshift Gaze
        Author: deliriouslyshipping deliriouslyshipping 
        Chapter: 1/1 
        Summary: “Can I come in?”“I don’t think that is a good idea."
        Contents: Summary:
            
              “Can I come in?”“I don’t think that is a good idea."
            
        


  





    
        
          A knock comes at the door late, and Jannik is thankful he peeks through the peephole before he opens the door because it gives him enough time to prepare for  him. The Roland Garros champion sports a soft, hesitant smile when he takes in Jannik like they had not seen each other hours ago. Hours ago, it could’ve been him holding up that trophy. Hours ago, all he was worried about was the next point, the next game, and now…“Can I come in?” Carlos asks, but he still carries the pride and joy of his victory, his confident tone overpowering the essence of his inquiry. Jannik feels his face shift and he hopes it is still neutral when he says, “I don’t think that is a good idea.” His smile falters for a split second, and it reminds him of seeing the empty space on the court where he should have hit the ball. Somewhere Carlos wasn’t, somewhere Carlos shouldn’t be - like here. “Please?” Jannik doesn’t have it in him to argue too much, so he steps out of the way wordlessly for the Spaniard to enter, lugging a bottle of champagne. Carlos doesn’t step too far into the room, aligning himself to where Jannik is. The room is messy anyway, both from his frustrations and from packing. Jannik takes in the back of his head, fighting off the negative tension filling his body. No one should be visited by the person who beat them. It doesn’t seem conducive. Carlos turns around, extending the bottle of champagne. “They, uh, had an extra one so I thought-” He shuts up, sensing it was probably not the best thing to say. Jannik is nowhere close to an alcoholic, but this is one of those days you’d drink away. It’s disheartening that his own rival would give him that sort of distraction from the pain. Jannik reaches out and grabs the neck of the bottle, supporting it from the bottom when it’s out of Carlos’ grip. He sets it on the nearest safe surface, eyeing it for only a moment. “Thanks,” he says, trying to mean it. There’s not a lot he feels thankful for in the moment. A dark silence overwhelms, like the illumination in the room. Carlos puts his hands behind his back while Jannik fidgets with his. He should tell the man to leave so he can grieve his defeat in peace, but he waits like a fool. “I really liked playing with you today,” Carlos starts, ripping the band-aid off before the blood seeps through. Carlos doesn’t say sorry. He doesn’t need to. Jannik does get it, he does, but it doesn’t stop the ache in his chest, the  almosts. Jannik nods once, pinching his lips to stop them from trembling or from saying something unlike him. “I thought it was over. You were playing so good - the whole time.” It should’ve been over. He had it. He was two sets up. He had 3 championship points. The taste of the trophy was on the tip of his lips. “I don’t think I am the person to talk to about this.” His voice is harder than what seems respectful. “This - I’m not in a good head space for this.” Jannik takes a step to the door, prepared to ask him kindly to exit and leave him to his misery, but Carlos reaches out and grips his wrist. “Jannik,” Carlos calls out, exasperated, “wait. I don’t know how to say what I am trying to say. Please.” Jannik shouldn’t have to hear him out at all. Yet this is his friend - sometimes. It’s hard to be friendly with someone who makes you feel like this. 5 times in a row, he has fallen to him. No one else has made him feel so inadequate on a court; no one who keeps coming back, at least. He steps back to his original place, right at the entrance of the hallway, the space between the bedroom and the door. Carlos looks like he breathes out a sigh of relief, releasing his hold on him. That’s what Jannik is good for: giving him relief. “Okay.” “I am not trying to make this about winning or losing. I don’t want to do that to you.” What a horrible start. Jannik takes an instinctive step backwards, unseen by the Spaniard. “I..missed you. I missed playing with you and having moments like this with you.” “You miss beating me.” Carlos’ eyes widen in panic. “No! No. Not about winning. It’s you, Jannik.” The Italian thinks the bitter pain offsets his ability to process, for all he can think about is how Carlos has won the last five meetings. Even when Jannik is up and ahead.. Carlos Alcaraz. Always Carlos Alcaraz. “I didn’t play good tennis with you gone. I - I did really bad.”  You won two titles, Jannik thinks offhandedly. “But when you come back, I feel it again.” He doesn’t ask what it is; he saw it today. “I’m good for your tennis,” Jannik assesses, finding another wound in his appendix from that statement alone. The champion shakes his head, his hair shaking with the force of it. “Not just tennis, Jannik, for me. I need you for both.” Carlos looks at him in a way that begs for Jannik to see him. He’s blinded; correction: he is blurred by the tears he has cried. “I don’t understand why you come to tell me this.” He heard the interviews when Carlos spoke of his praises. He tries to ignore them; they get in his head. Carlos anticipated this kind of rivalry and he got it out of him. It makes him feel used sometimes, like he is only there for a good story. He’s there for Carlos to walk on when he feels like feeling good about himself, regardless of its genuine nature. “I am trying to figure it out too.” The confession feels like twisting the knife in his abdomen and he needs to remove the assailant so he can stop the bleeding. “This is not a good-”“Please, Jannik.” It’s sharp, desperate, but not as much as he was hours ago. “Please,” Carlos repeats, softer. “No.” Jannik surprises both of them by saying it. “I am upset, not with you, but I am upset. I don’t want to be upset with you.” “I don’t want you to be-” “I know that. That’s why I am saying this has to wait.”“It can’t.” Part of Jannik wants to tell him to f@ck off, to take his audacity from victory somewhere else where it’s wanted. The other part, the one that wins, only takes another step back so he can lean against a wall, crossing his arms over his chest, hiding the inflicting wounds and guarding from any more. “I tried, Jannik, I-I tried to figure out how to be friends with you. I didn’t do a good job, I know. I can’t take when you look like this, when you look at me like this.” If he looks as broken as he feels, Jannik has a good sense of what his facial expression is. “I tried to play good tennis without you and to not talk about you and I didn’t message you and I’m sorry-” This is running away, whatever point Carlos was trying to make. “-Carlos.” That makes the man stop, but only for a second. “I’m sorry I can’t be better for you.” But Carlos is better. “You were better today-” The Spaniard cuts him off with a loud, biting sound, frustrated. That makes two of them. “It’s not about tennis!” It’s always about tennis. “It’s about you and me.” Jannik and Carlos is tennis. Jannik doesn’t quite know what to say, not without arguing this more, but Carlos takes one large step up to him. Their eyes clash and he remembers winking at the man today, a weird habit he has picked up. He wonders if it would help if he did it sometime throughout this conversation, just to offset the thick fog of tension. “Carlos..I don’t know what you want from me.” The Spaniard’s eyes flicker down briefly before they haze out of focus. “I don’t want you to hate me.” The words are layered with emotions that Jannik can’t filter through. “I don’t,” Jannik confirms, dropping his arms, “I hate losing to you, but I don’t hate you.” His response doesn’t snap Carlos out of whatever trance he is in, so he puts his hand on his shoulder with a soft  hey. Carlos blinks into lucidity, his hand wrapping around his wrists. He is unsure if it is to keep him there or push him off at first, but Carlos squeezes to stop him from leaving, and he gets his answer. “I missed you,” repeats Carlos with more inflection, like trying to get under the abrasions and into him. “I need you.” Jannik tilts his head, jerkily, trying and failing to find anything to say back. “I need you in tennis. I need you not in tennis, too. I-” Carlos cuts himself off with a huff, shaking his head at himself again. This is excruciating. Even in Carlos’ frustration with himself, he refuses to let go of Jannik’s wrists, refuses to let him go.“I watched you play,” Jannik admits, hoping it would ease something. “I didn’t want to watch tennis or play after everything, but I watched you.” “You watched me fail.” He watched him succeed, too, which makes this all the more confusing. “I waited for you to text.”“I’m sorry.”“I know.” Silence stretches with Carlos’ calloused hand holding him there, not like he planned to leave anymore. “Jannik, we made history today. I want to keep making history with you.” It feels like more than tennis and perhaps he is starting to get it now. “We will,” Jannik promises, and Carlos is looking at him again, looking through him. The blade in his abdomen doesn’t twist anymore. “I don’t want you to hate me,” the Spaniard tries again, and Jannik squeezes onto his shoulder. “I won’t.” He’s not sure if he can keep that promise, but he will try. “We’re not like everyone else. You and me, we’re different.” There’s no doubt in the statement. They are different. “Yeah.” The confirmation is breathless, like Carlos had dropped the weight of expectation on him again. Carlos has a ghost of a smile, and if it were full and wide, Jannik would take it to heart. “I will do better. Message more. Maybe a practice.” It’s a conviction that doesn’t require Jannik’s input, so he only nods. “Thank you.” For today? For the match? For right now? He doesn’t have it in him so say ‘you’re welcome,’ so what comes out is, “of course.” Carlos inhales deeply and exhales quickly, reminiscent of the seconds before he serves, and lets go of Jannik’s arm and steps back. Jannik leans forward by instinct. The tension in Carlos’ shoulders has not left, but something seems settled, the fog marginally a bit clearer. The Italian’s eyesight is not as blurred. Their business seems to be concluded.“I will see you at Wimbledon, yeah?” Carlos perks up. “In the final?” Jannik grimaces, and Carlos immediately looks remorseful. “I’m sorry. That was sh@tty of me.” “Let’s see how it goes,” he answers instead. “I don’t want to keep losing to you.”“You won’t,” the champion promises, like he knows. “You played so good today. If I thought for a second you were going to win, you were.” He gets that. Can’t think for a second that the other person has it, otherwise you’ve already lost the mental battle before the physical toll sets in. Speaking of - “You should get some rest. We played a lot today.” Even now, Carlos hesitates, his eyes flickering to the door, but this is Jannik’s second attempt of ending their time. “I will see you soon?” His eyes are hopeful and a sick part of him wants to squash that hope. That’s the hurt talking. “Yes.” “Good, that’s good, yeah.” The Spaniard is fighting a smile, he can tell, then his head turns to the door and it remains there longer. Finally, Carlos takes a side step to the entrance, Jannik following. Always following. Carlos opens the door and Jannik holds it open when he steps out into the hall. Still, there is delay in his departure. There’s something else. There’s always been something else. “Congratulations,” Jannik says, meaning it more than he did earlier. He really did deserve it. Carlos nods, but he doesn’t seem happy. “Goodnight, Jannik.” He watches Carlos go until he can’t anymore, the man so far ahead and out of sight. When Jannik closes the door, he feels heavy. It’s as if he is carrying a trophy that isn’t his.'
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