Archive of Our Own

The air around Wimbledon was unusually still the evening before the final. All the courts had been emptied, the echoes of bouncing tennis balls had faded—replaced by distant hums of equipment being packed away, soft voices, and the occasional burst of laughter.

Carlos had just finished his workout and wandered near Court 1. Everything there was silent. The only sound that could be heard was his own footsteps. He wore a grey hoodie, damp from his session, headphones off. All day, his phone had been buzzing with congratulatory messages, but he hadn’t responded to any of them. Usually, he did. But this time was different. This final felt different.

No, he wasn’t talking about the match. He wasn’t even talking about tennis.

He was talking about him.
Jannik Sinner.
His next opponent. His rival.
But he didn’t feel like any of those.

Being rivals had always felt intimate, too intimate. Their connection had grown quietly—during tournaments, press conferences, the occasional looks during breakfast, a hand on the shoulder that lingered too long. He remembered every touch they’d shared so vividly.

They had never defined anything. Never said it out loud.
But there had to be something there.
Maybe something real.

Now, on the eve of one of their biggest matches yet, whatever was going on between them weighed heavily on Carlos.

His phone buzzed again.
This time, it was definitely not a congratulatory message.
Not his coach. Not his family.

“Still awake?”
Jannik Sinner.

Carlos stared at the message, heart pounding. They hadn’t spoken since the Roland Garros final. Why now? What could Jannik possibly want from him?

The idea of seeing him on the edge of their final was definitely not a good idea. Every time they tried to talk, it turned into an argument. And arguing before a final? Not ideal.

“Meet me by the terrace.”
It wasn’t a question.

Carlos started walking around Wimbledon. The place was half-empty—most people had left, and some were asleep. He passed through the glass doors and stepped out onto the terrace.

It wasn’t the first time they had met there. Somehow, it was always empty when they needed it to be.

Jannik was already there.
Just standing.
Hands in his pockets. His hair still damp from the shower.

“Hey,” Carlos said quietly.

Jannik turned and faced him. He didn’t smile, but his eyes looked at him like he wasn’t even really there.

“I thought maybe you’d ghost me,” he murmured.

Carlos was stunned. “Why would I do that?”

“‘Cause tomorrow we have a final. We stop being this and start being that,” Jannik explained.

Carlos looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“Opponents. Rivals.”

Carlos walked closer. “You think that’s all we were?”

And here it was again—the start of another argument.

Jannik looked at him. Really looked at him. Carlos could see the fear in his eyes.

“No,” Jannik said softly. “That’s the problem.”

Carlos didn’t speak for what felt like hours. He could feel the weight of Jannik’s words hanging between them. He stepped closer, uncertain and slow, until only a few inches separated them.

“And why would that be a problem?” Carlos finally asked.

Jannik’s jaw clenched. He was trying so hard to look casual, but it wasn’t working.

“I don’t know how to separate it,” he admitted. Then he paused and continued, “I really don’t know how to step onto that court tomorrow and pretend it’s just tennis.”

Carlos stared at him in disbelief, his heart pounding.

This wasn’t the Jannik he was used to facing across the net—the composed, elegant athlete who played every point like a grandmaster. This Jannik was a mess. His emotions were so raw, so visible.

Carlos finally spoke. “That’s the thing. I don’t want to separate it.”

Jannik’s head snapped toward him. His expression cracked, vulnerability leaking through the surface.

“I tried, Jannik. Okay? I really did. I tried to pretend it was just a game. That we were just athletes. But every single time I saw you—on or off the court—it was different. I don’t feel like that around anyone else.”

“You’re not supposed to feel that way about someone you’re competing against,” Jannik said bitterly.

Carlos took a step closer. “And yet… here we are.”

Silence fell.

Jannik sighed. “I hated how things ended in Paris.”

“I know,” Carlos replied. “I hated it too.”

He remembered the tension after the match. The too-long stare across the locker room. The brush of Jannik’s fingers on his shoulder. The way they didn’t say goodbye.

“I thought,” Jannik said, his voice breaking slightly, “that maybe if I gave us space… if we stopped talking… it would go away. But it didn’t.”

“No,” Carlos said. “It didn’t.”

For what felt like forever, neither of them spoke. Carlos glanced at Jannik’s hands still buried in his hoodie pockets. He wanted to reach out—but didn’t. Not yet.

“I’m scared,” Jannik admitted. “Because if we try to do this… and I lose tomorrow… I’ll wonder if it’s because I let you in.”

Carlos shook his head. “Or maybe,” he said gently, “it’s because we know each other so well. Better than anyone. Maybe that’s why our tennis is the way it is.”

Jannik looked up. “What are you trying to say?”

Carlos hesitated for a moment. Then he stepped closer, until his fingers brushed Jannik’s wrist.

“I’m saying that tomorrow doesn’t change anything. And none of the matches—those you lost, those I lost—ever changed anything between us.”

Jannik didn’t pull away.

“If you don’t want to define what this is, we don’t have to,” Carlos said softly. “But stop pretending it’s not there.”

Jannik looked at him for a long time.

“I’m done pretending,” he whispered.

Carlos exhaled. A long, slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Jannik smiled—for the first time that night.
Carlos smiled back. He couldn’t help it.

They stood there like that for a while.
Tomorrow they would battle.
The world would be watching.

But tonight…
They were just Jannik and Carlos.