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If Carlos clicks that pen one more time, Jannik is going to strangle him. Study hall is supposed to be mostly quiet, occasional conversation, a request for help here and there, but otherwise, radio silence. Jannik’s trying to be patient, especially since Carlos is working, even if it’s something vague and wordless in his sketchbook. There's a flicker of curiosity about what he's drawing, but not enough to pull Jannik away from his MCAT prep. Not yet.
He stares at the page for a moments longer, trying to retain the information on the page, but the fucking pen clicks again. Jannik groans, putting a pencil in his prep book before closing it, turning to face the offending man.
“Carlos,” he warns, tired and wound up. Carlos stops staring at his sheet, casting his eyes up. The pen slides into the corner of his mouth instead, and some of that anger fizzles away at Carlos’ incisor next to the cap of the pen.
“What?”
“Stop clicking the pen.”
“Oh. My bad.” He’s not remorseful, but Carlos sets the pen down and grabs one that doesn’t have a clicker from his bag, his apology more of an action than a word. That’s why Jannik can tolerate him in this space. Jannik leans back in his chair, rubbing his itchy eyes. He’s been at this for hours. Carlos has joined within the last hour - at least with his favorite burger and fries, and this is why he is his best friend: the guy knows what he needs before he even does.
“It’s fine. This is maddening.”
“I don’t know how you do it” lands somewhere between admiration and self-deprecation. Carlos has always been clear about how much he respects Jannik’s ambition to get into med school, but just as often, he uses that respect to highlight his own perceived shortcomings. He’s not laser-focused or science-minded like Jannik, but his brilliance and excellence lies elsewhere: in his art, in the way he moves on a court. A different kind of genius. Only geniuses get into this school, and Carlos often forgets he is one himself.
“Show me what you’re working on,” Jannik changes the subject instead of knocking that elephant again. He reaches his hand out for Carlos to place the sketchbook. Carlos hesitates, a first. He raises a curious eyebrow.
“It’s not that good.” Liar, but he won’t push it too far if Carlos really doesn’t want to share. Jannik will wait a couple of beats before he will decide to drop it. Carlos sighs and turns the sheet over. “You look nice with the glasses so I thought, hey, why not draw you?”
It’s only a rough sketch, just a few raw lines, but it’s unmistakably him. The curve of his jaw, the fucked up curls from all the times he's ran his hands through his hand, the hoodie he stole from Carlos because it was cold outside. Even the glasses perched on his nose. Somehow, Carlos has managed to make his eyes look bright on paper. Alive. Jannik doesn’t know how he pulled it off, but he did. A genius, like he said.
“I can’t draw a sun in the corner of a paper right but you, you can do this.” That’s partly why Jannik didn’t call Carlos out earlier, because he’s just as bad. Maybe worse. Next to Carlos,he feels like small fry. No, boring fry.
Carlos is here on a tennis scholarship, though he played nearly every sport his school and after-school programs had to offer. Tennis just happened to be the one he got the furthest with. But that’s only scratching the surface of what Carlos can do because he’s an artist. Whether it’s on the court, with pen and sketch paper, or behind a camera, Carlos Alcaraz shines. He may not be able to calculate chemical equilibrium or identify every bone in the human body blindfolded by feel alone, but he can do something just as impossible: he can make Jannik Sinner - who often feels like a walking corpse, look alive. Often makes him feel alive, too.
“I’m still getting your nose right,” Carlos says, and Jannik hands the book back. He hadn’t even noticed. This isn’t the first time Carlos has done this either. Jannik has often become Carlos’ temporary muse, the subject of his spurts of inspiration. Carlos’ Instagram has random contributions of his likeness across the years, split between photos and art.
Jannik lets the wind carry him somewhere close to the feeling of home, smiling faintly at the distant scent of fresh bread. It reminds him of his parents. He should probably call them soon and tell them about everything that’s been happening at school. More specifically, the friends he now has and how they managed to convince him to swap dorms with a random person so they could all be in this run-down freshman dorm together. A lot has happened in the last month or two.
Then comes the sound of rapid clicks, a shutter snapping in succession. Jannik opens his eyes to find Carlos standing a few feet away, camera raised and pointed straight at him. “Did you just take a picture of me?” Carlos puts the camera down with a guilty smile, but he has already been caught red-handed.
“Yeah.” Carlos doesn’t even hesitate. He steps forward, presses a few buttons. “Look.” So Jannik looks. The photo captures the sky fading from blue to a nice, warm orange, a similar orange to his hair. He looks.. content. Peaceful, even.
This isn’t something he was expecting to feel after moving so far away from his family for the best education he could get. He expected stress, loneliness, maybe even some anxiety, but he'd carry it the best he could. Throw himself into his work knowing he would do what needs to be done.
Instead he feels - and looks - like this.
“You shouldn’t take pictures of people without asking.” The correction doesn’t seem harsh at all because he’s still staring at the photo like he is waiting for it to stop being him. It almost doesn’t look like him at all.
“It’s a good photo,” Carlos defends, frowning.
“It’s a shit photo,” he responds, not meaning the words at all. He earns a light shove for it.
“Why’d you get into photography anyway? I thought art and sports only go together in the movies.” Carlos loses the lightness in his expression a bit, but he shrugs.
“Don’t know. I think it’s nice to capture a moment. To make you feel something. In tennis, I don’t have a lot of space to feel something. I have to think about winning, but now,” Carlos raises the camera, taking a photo of the sky, “I can take a picture and it’s like taking a feeling.” He shows him the photo: the effortless beauty of the sunset, and it does make him feel something, though he's unsure what.
“You’re so cool,” Jannik admonishes, hating himself a bit for saying the words out loud. He pales - literally and metaphorically - in comparison to him. To all of them, really. Holger is also here on tennis, one of Carlos’ closest friends as they grew up together; he has all of the dreams to go pro, but him and Carlos decided to go to college first as a stepping stone.
Casper is older, but has a full golf scholarship. They all played tennis, but Casper’s real love was driving the golf ball, so he changed direction and hasn’t regretted it since. They wanted to come to school together, some bond between them that Jannik won’t understand. It’s weird enough that he’s practically adopted into their friend group.
“Thanks! So are you.” Jannik thinks to deny it but he doesn’t. It’s late. They need to head back to the dorms soon if there is any hope of getting sleep tonight. Who is he kidding? Since he has moved in with these jocks, there hasn’t been a night where he had uninterrupted rest. They're chaotic, and that's putting it lightly.
“Are we eating pizza again tonight?”
“No, Casp ate the rest. We can get pick up food on the way back?” Carlos puts his camera back in its bag, then jerks his thumb in the direction they came from. It’s going to take them another hour before they make it back to the dorms, as the other man insisted the walk wasn’t that far. His feet hurt because of his choice of shoes and Carlos is unaffected by the level of exercise it took. Fucking athletes.
“Sure. You’re buying.” Carlos is beaming before he starts talking about the rules of tennis again, once again trying to get him to come to one of his matches. Jannik walks off, but the yapping man is always somewhere close. He still hangs onto every word he says.
Carlos has filled out since then, muscle from conditioning, a bit more height too. They both have. He’s figured out his hair looks better grown out, and the attention from girls hasn’t gone unnoticed. Once Carlos realized he was hot, he started testing the waters, which meant their dorm room saw more than its fair share of late-night visitors.
Holger was the worst offender, Carlos a close second. Casper and Jannik had a bit more discretion about who they brought back. The whole place felt like a frat house. It was probably for the best that after freshman year they split - Casper and Holger in one dorm, Carlos and Jannik in the other.
Still, sometimes Jannik wonders how he got roped into this circus in the first place. It’s all Carlos’ fault. He always brings the best and worst out of him.
The pen is clicking again. He snaps out of it.
“I am going to punch you in your dick if you click that pen again.”
“Had to get your attention. You looked like you fell asleep with your eyes open.” Jannik scowls, stacking his study materials. He’s not going to get any more work done today. Might as well go home and spare them from any more torture.
“Let’s go back.” They make it out of the library and into the quiet night. It’s some time past midnight, the lonely Tuesday blending officially into the new day. Occasionally, someone walks by them.
“So, are we going to talk about it?” Leave it to Carlos to address the elephant in the room. Or world. Whatever. Jannik keeps his gaze forward.
“Nothing to talk about.”
“We had sex. Twice.” He remembers vividly. It took a while for the love bites to heal completely, as the fairness of his skin worked against him instead of in his favor.
“Announce it to the world, why don’t you?” Jannik mumbles, checking if anyone was around to hear that. He puts his hands in his pockets, finding some lint to toy with on the inside. “Yes, it happened.”
“Is it going to happen again?”
“Stupid question.” The answer should be no. Fuck no, even. Neither of those responses leaves his mouth.
“I think it should,” Carlos declares boldly, as usual, “we both liked it.”
“It’s a bad idea,” he argues, twisting the tiny ball of lint between his fingers.
“Not the worst idea I’ve had.”
“It’s up there.” The stair surfing had been his worst one to date. The stairs weren’t even carpeted and all he had was a large plastic cat litter box. Carlos was lucky the worst he ended up with was a giant gash on his forehead. Sex with each other is the second worst, for sure.
“Jannik.”
“You have plenty of numbers on your phone if you want to go fuck someone. Or post another Instagram thirst trap. Go find a party to go to. You have options.” There’s a groan from the other man, then he is getting shoved in between two buildings, the space minuscule. “What the fuck, man?”
"You liked it, too,” Carlos reminds, “so what is your issue with it?” Jannik gestures between the two of them.
“This, right here. We have to have dumbass conversations like this where we state the obvious.”
“So if I said we are going to do it again, that would be stating the obvious?” There’s that look again. Jannik can see it in the dimly lit alleyway.
“You said it didn’t change anything.”
“It didn’t.”
“If we have to stand on the side of Forney and Cohen to have this conversation, then something has changed.”
“We’re talking about it here so that I don’t have to explain myself when I get home.”
“Explain what?” Jannik already knows the answer. Carlos takes a step forward. In lieu of a verbal response, Carlos grips him by the hoodie - his own hoodie - and tugs them into a kiss.
A surprised huff escapes and he has nothing to balance himself on but Carlos himself, his too-cold hands clenching on his shoulders. This is exactly why he didn’t want to talk about it, why he kept his distance. Because letting the man get close again meant confronting the truths he already knew but had been trying, hopelessly, to forget:
1. He really likes kissing Carlos.
2. Their dorm room, his own bed, is a constant reminder of how his roommate had fucked him. Not once, but twice. And,
3. He would do it again. It wouldn’t take much, either.
“We should head home,” Carlos directs more than suggests, nipping on his jawline. Incidentally, Jannik rolls his hips, his body betraying him. It sounds oddly domestic, and it breaks him down even further.
“You’re going to have to give me a minute,” Jannik confesses, backing up until he can touch the brick wall, leaning against it. It took one kiss to get him hard, and that should be considered shameful if he wasn’t a man who's been hard from less. “I was supposed to go to bed.”
“You can go to bed after I’m done.” Who knows how long that could be? It’s a good thing his 9 am class was canceled. An incredulous laugh falls from his mouth as his body fights between the heat of tension between them and the crisp night.
“What is this? Some friends with benefits thing for you? You can fuck anyone else.” There’s another question there, something he won’t ever give voice to for as long as he can. Forever, he hopes.
“I want to fuck you.” This is ridiculous. So fucking stupid. Jannik is laughing again incredulously, wondering what fuck-ups he committed that led to him getting ready to fuck his best friend yet again. The fact that he did it at all is bad enough.
“That’s.. So fucked up.”
“That’s a minute, let’s go.” Carlos doesn’t tug at him or shove him forward like he did to get him in the alley. He simply walks, expecting Jannik to follow. And like a fool, Jannik does, knowing even if he said no to what is being laid out in front of him - to the prospect of being laid out, he was going home with Carlos anyway. Jannik tosses the ball of lint from thepocket of Carlos’ hoodie carelessly onto the ground, falling into step with him and adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose. Carlos says nothing. Still, he can already envision his self-satisfied smirk.
Carlos uses his student ID to scan into their dorm building, and they head into the elevator.
“It’s your turn to do dishes,” Jannik comments to keep the air from becoming too stuffy.
“It’s your turn to do laundry,” says the other man, and Jannik curses when he recognizes the truth of it.
“Fuck you.”
“Mhmm.” The elevator opens and Jannik opens the door for them. They step inside, kick their shoes off, then Carlos is shoving him against the door. Jannik’s back hits the door with a thud, the rusting hinges rattling under the weight of both their bodies.
“Hey-” Carlos doesn’t bother wasting time or breath arguing over what they’re doing. He just leans in and fits their mouths together like it’s the only answer he needs. It’s almost endearing, the way he has to stretch up just a little to reach him, though he doesn’t seem to mind one bit.
It’s ridiculous how easy it is for Jannik to give in from a kiss alone, his cold hands reaching out to his waist and holding him there. It’s so simple to push him away and get into his room before Carlos can do anything about it, but he doesn’t. His hands remain at his waist, neither pulling him closer nor pushing away, but resting as if feeling the waters.
The first time, there were mountains of excuses Jannik could’ve had. They were drinking, they were running on the high of a three-way, or even something as idiotic as ‘Halloween makes you do crazy things.’ The second time, there were far fewer excuses. Now, he has none. None at all to explain why he’s kissing back, sliding his tongue against his best friend’s with a newly practiced ease, other than the fact that he wants to. It’s not worth freaking out over.
“Yours or mine,” Carlos asks, kissing on his jawline down to his neck, his finger hooking in his belt loop and pulling their crotches together as he sucks another hickey into his skin. He has a thing for marking. Everything has to be bold with him.
“Yours,” Jannik grits out as their clothed fronts grind, the friction nowhere near enough for his chubbing erection. Fuck, he’s hard for Carlos. As retaliation for the mark, he weaves his hand in Carlos’ hair and tugs hard, an accomplished smile forming on his face when Carlos’ eyes cloud over and he moans loudly. “Oh, you like that, Carlos?” He doesn’t give him time to answer before he tugs again, guiding the man as he wants him. “You do.”
Carlos gets back into focus, eyes narrowing before he does the same, pulling hard on his hair.
He hisses, following the painful direction, his neck craned for another mark on his neck. His hand on Carlos falls away.
“Looks like I’m not alone.” Carlos bites his shoulder, hard. His glasses fall off his face, and it bounces on the floor a couple of times, unneeded and uncared for.
“Fuck. Are you a cannibal or something?” Heat spreads to his shoulder, but it’s not unwelcomed. That’s probably the worst thing: Carlos hasn’t done a thing he hasn’t enjoyed yet.
“No. You look nice bruised.” To that, he licks at the bite mark and steps backwards, dragging Jannik along by the pocket of the hoodie. He swings the door open and gets them both inside.
It’s always been a bit of a surprise- a pleasant contradiction, really - that Carlos is such a clean person. Jannik had always assumed that someone as chaotic as Carlos, someone who moved through life like a whirlwind of impulse and noise, would live in a space that reflected that same energy: messy, cluttered, a kind of controlled disaster. Carlos is postive chaos wrapped up in a single person.
He remembers the first time Carlos invited him over, years ago now. Jannik had braced himself for a room filled with half-unpacked gym bags, empty energy drink cans, and dirty laundry decorating the floor. He had mentally prepared to keep his shoes on. Instead, he walked into something entirely different. Carlos’s room was unpredictably orderly. The bed was made, shoes lined up by the door. Art prints hung with care.
It threw Jannik off more than he liked to admit. Made him feel like maybe there was a version of Carlos not everyone got to see.
The younger crashes into him like a tall wave - sudden, forceful, and almost painful in its intensity. It isn’t soft or careful. It’s the kind of contact that feels like it’s been building for far too long, like something finally giving way. Jannik stumbles back, forced toward the bed, knees buckling when he meets the edge. He sits, breath caught somewhere in his throat, already expecting Carlos to follow, to climb into his lap, straddle him, let the hunger take over. That’s how it usually goes with Carlos.
But he doesn’t.
Carlos just stands there, looking down at him. He’s the one who towers because Jannik is so much taller. There’s something almost surreal in the stillness, in the way he holds himself above Jannik, not immediately dominating the moment and opportunity presented to him.
Jannik tilts his head up, caught somewhere between surprise and anticipation, his pulse loud in his ears. Carlos’s breathing is ragged, but his hands stay at his sides, like he's grounding himself. Like he’s waiting.
“I want to suck your dick,” he says casually, like something inside of Jannik’s brain didn’t turn 90 degrees in the wrong direction. Like he wasn’t just clenching and unclenching his hands in some restraint. Carlos doesn’t phrase it like a question, but it feels like a question.
“You want to suck my dick?” He knows he heard him right the first time, but just in case.
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” If his sarcasm isn’t enough of an answer, Carlos is settling on the floor one knee at a time, his hands spreading across his thighs. “I didn’t get to do it right last time.”
“I think you did fine,” Jannik says, and he has no clue why he says it, but it isn’t a no. Fingers pop the button of his jeans and they don’t bother with the zipper as they both cooperate in getting it off, one person raising their ass off the bed and the other pulling the bottoms down. He’s already tenting in his black underwear. His pants aren’t tossed somewhere random like he would in his own space. It drives Jannik a little crazy to watch him halfway fold the item and set it to the side. Let’s not unpack that.
“Not good enough.” Carlos leans forward and kisses the still-covered erection, flashing a smile when it jumps from the small sensation. “You’re sensitive today.”
“No, I’m not.” There’s no point in denying; his body will tell on him anyway. “I just haven’t done anything since Halloween.” Since them goes unsaid, and that makes the kneeling man smile more. It’s not on purpose whatsoever. Jannik doesn’t believe whatsoever that they have exclusivity to each other, nor is he asking for it. Carlos is his own person, and this - whatever this is - doesn’t have to hold him back from anything he wants to do. Convenience is what Jannik thinks this is to Carlos. He’s here and he’s willing, albeit after a bit of tussling.
“Not getting any?” Carlos tsks at him and Jannik reaches out to smack him upside his head. “I’m going to suck your dick and you hit me. You’re so mean to people you say you like.” He feels a smile spread across his cheeks, and he keeps the expression small.
“I don’t like you,” claims Jannik. No need to admit the truth.
“I say I’m trying to choke on you and you start hitting me. Maybe you should suck me instead.” In spite of his words, Carlos connects to his speaker and turns on a playlist. Jannik recognizes his sex playlist immediately. He snorts.
“Don’t know how.” Like that’s one of the only things stopping him: lack of experience. He just enjoys bickering with Carlos, is all. If he were honest, it’s an expansion of that, it might be because he does not want to disappoint Carlos and he considers the chance of him doing so to be higher than than he is willing to risk.
“Good thing you have me to practice on.” Here he goes again, so certain they’re going to do it again. “Now shut up or I’ll use my teeth.”
“You won’t. You need to update your playlist.” He’s heard all of these songs before, and in this order. Carlos plays the song in the exact order he created the playlist.
“Don’t like it?” It starts with a song by Chris Brown.
“I’ve heard these songs too many times.” Carlos laughs and changes the song. Something random, going against his typical behavior. Something in Spanish but he can sense the vibes by the instrumental alone.
“Want me to turn it off? If the RA comes knocking because you’re too loud, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m not loud,” Jannik defends, and there isn’t more to say as Carlos slides a finger under the elastic of his underwear, pulling it down enough for his erection to reveal itself, a small bit oft ranslucent liquid at the slit.
“Okay,” Carlos says, more to finish the conversation than to keep it going, and he wriggles to get out of those too, finding himself weirded by the one-sidedness of nudity.
“You too.” The artist leans back and strips of his clothes one by one, Jannik watching on with patient, observant eyes. He is muscled, his physique shaped and hardened by relentless physical conditioning. Defined shoulders, taut arms, the kind of build that comes from discipline. It’s obvious he works hard, that his strength is earned, not given.
Jannik can’t help but notice the strange vein that winds across his bicep, a single, raised line that snakes in a peculiar, almost artistic squiggle. It catches the light when he moves, casting a faint shadow over the muscle beneath. Jannik finds himself oddly attached to it, drawn not just to the shape but to the idea of it. He’ll see plenty more veins in his life, but this one has always been fascinating.
He’s strong, yes. Hot, certainly. Wonder if Carlos would ever see himself as striking, as a spectacle to be seen. Surely he must, considering the way he plays on a tennis court. He creates what looks to be a near impossible point and it revs the crowd up like no other, his glowing smile that says I did that. There must be a beauty to that.
It’s odd that Carlos does not see himself as art.
Jannik realizes far too late that he had been caught staring, catching Carlos’ eyes as heat fills his face. “Like what you see?” Like he does when he scores a good point, the athlete flexes his bicep, slightly shaking instead of trying to still pose. Jannik rolls his eyes, though his interest has not gone down whatsoever.
“You don’t need me filling your ego.” Carlos pouts, his chin tucked on his thigh, and Jannik should not be thinking cute. His roommate is about to wrap his lips around him and he’s thinking the man is fucking cute. The fuck is wrong with him? “If I finish quick, it’s not you.” There’s a laugh, the bursts of air brushing his dick.
“If you say so,” but then Carlos is taking him in his mouth. He can tell he is going to finish quickly, just as he predicted. Jannik can blame it on stress or being pent-up or something. It doesn’t matter. He’s lost in the heat surrounding his dick, the various sensations of Carlos in other places. Hands rubbing his thighs like he is appreciating him, the tongue pressing into his flesh, the vibrations of noises. Jannik covers his face with his hands.
He hates how good Carlos is at this. He hates that this isn’t the fastest he has came, but it is pretty damn close. He hates that Carlos doesn’t look offended in the slightest. The need to reciprocate runs rampant, even though Carlos has not mentioned any quid-pro-quo whatsoever.
“Let me do you,” Jannik says breathlessly. Before a proper response could be formed, Carlos elevating to his full height, Jannik gets up and switches their positions, pushing the man to the bed.
“You don’t have to.” Jannik ignores him, settling to his knees. Carlos is still big. It’s not as intimidating the second time seeing it. Or maybe it’s the third. Who cares? He looks at it for awhile, frozen with his level of inexperience. A flick to his forehead draws him back to reality. “You really don’t have to do this.”
It’s not a challenge but it feels like one. He narrows his eyes, a temporary fixture, before he slides closer before the parted legs. For a brief moment, Jannik allows a truth, a vulnerability.
“I don’t know what I am doing,” he warns, like they both don’t know that already. That girl from Halloween - some name with an M - made it look easy. It can’t be too hard, right? Put it in and suck. Right. Jannik’s still hesitating. “You can tell me to stop when I do a bad job.”
“You can’t be that bad.” A thumb hooks in his mouth again, prying his lips apart softly. Jannik glances up at Carlos, their eyes clashing, and he guesses whatever he looks like is worthy of the answering moan. “I wish you could see yourself. Jesus, fuck, Jan.” He closes on the thumb, much like last time, swirling his tongue around the pad. In turn, the digit slides further inside, like he’s getting his mouth fucked with it.
“Mmm.” He hums.
“You sure you haven’t done this before?” Jannik opens his mouth and leans his head back until the finger is out of range, a trail of saliva connecting them together before it breaks with an inaudible pop.
“Not everyone is experienced like you.” Carlos pats his cheek and it feels demeaning. He narrows his eyes, but it probably doesn’t look spectacularly intimidating from this angle.
“Not that experienced.” He doesn’t believe that. Not with the way he fucks. Not with the numerous people he's heard from his own bedroom. Not with the way he talked him through it. That is none of his business. Jannik takes a deep breath and leans forward, one hand bracing on sturdy, muscled thighs and the other gripping the base of Carlos. He parts his lips and takes him in.
It’s nothing he finds life-changing, but something about the intake of breath above him makes him bristle in a good way. Jannik takes him more, moving his tongue to accommodate the girth entering. The adjustment earns another reaction, a hand on his shoulder, an encouragement to continue.
Contradictory, he raises his head with a pop.
“Don’t laugh when I do bad.”
“Jannik, you-” Carlos looks frustrated, and the hand on his shoulder travels to the back of his head, pushing him back down. Jannik swallows him back down without a fight. “Not going to laugh. Promise.” Wishes he said that before filling his mouth, but whatever. The fingers in his hair are nice, so he’ll let it slide.
Jannik tries to think of what he likes. Swirling his tongue around the head. Spit. Fondling the balls. Using the hands in tandem. He tries all of them, too caught up in his own head to know if he’s doing any of it right. The perfectionist in him rises to the surface. He has to be good at this, just like everything else he puts effort into.
Even this. Especially this.
“Jesus, Jan, oh my god.” He hears above him, so he looks up, witnessing Carlos’ head knocked back. Two seconds later, Carlos is looking down at him. “You’re good at this.” The compliment lands just right, tugging a subtle smile from the corner of Jannik’s mouth. He moves with a renewed energy, repeating his earlier actions with a focus and enthusiasm he didn’t know he had. The praise has clearly gone to his head, not that he minds.
He’s just as bad as Carlos when it comes to ego - he just wears his differently. It’s not as boisterous, a quiet confidence that Jannik has no issue in demonstrating at this moment.
“What the fuck?” Carlos asks incredulously, his hips lifting, driving deeper into his mouth. “What the fuck, Jannik?” He likes that he did something seemingly right the first time. Jannik hollows his cheeks and sucks as he raises his head before swallowing down. Carlos thrusts up more, enough that it forces his gag reflex into effect. He fights against it, using his hand where his mouth can’t do enough.
“Good?” His voice is hoarse and he wonders where that came from.
“I’m halfway to cumming in your mouth, and you’re asking me that?”
“You can,” Jannik permits, like it’s not a big deal. It’s such a big deal for him. Carlos still has his hand in his head. They’re full of contradictions.
“Can I fuck your mouth?” And now he’s asking. Jannik feels empowered like this, even if he is the one on his knees, the control somehow in his hands and tongue. He almost wants to laugh because that is what Carlos has been doing for some time, but he nods.
“Sure.” Without waiting, he sinks back down, forcing more saliva from his mouth and onto the hardness filling his mouth. Carlos’ hand in his hair tightens, a stinging sensation to his scalp and that tip is pressing the back of his throat again. Carlos pulls him by his curls until his head tilts a little bit more, and he’s pushing deeper and faster. Jannik chokes, both hands now braces on his thighs. He can’t take it all. That upsets him for reasons unknown. There are times he has to fly backwards to get some break from this, but he shoots forward to try again.
Carlos is moaning or talking - a mixture of both.
“Jannik, fuck,” the word drags out, “I’m going to cum soon if you want to move.” The sentence is broken up in two, but he listens long enough to try to shake his head, sucking harder. It shocks him at first, the taste, but not as much as Jannik trying to take him as deep as he can with enough space for the cum not to choke him. There’s the sound of Carlos flopping on the bed, his legs twitching.
It’s not the greatest taste, but this isn’t his first time with Carlos’ cum in his mouth. He swallows it quickly to try to rid of the aftertaste. It doesn’t really help. Jannik steadies himself against Carlos as he stands, his knees a little sore from the hard floor. The steadiness doesn’t last long with a hand tugging him right back on the bed and lips on his own.
Fine, take the cum back.
Jannik kisses him like that’s exactly what he is trying to do, but there isn’t any complaint from the other man.“How was that?”
“I’m not telling you shit,” Carlos grumbles, “what the fuck was that?” Jannik gets his answer anyway. He shrugs, feigning indifference, even as a rush of triumph floods his veins. It feels a little like winning, though he’s careful not to show it too obviously. It’s likely compounded with the orgasm Carlos already gave him.
“I did what I liked.”
“Do that again.”
“Now?”
“No! I mean later. Again. On me.” Carlos has gone stupid..well, more stupid than usual. Jannik laughs, flopping next to Carlos on the bed. He doesn’t give him a solid answer. Doesn’t nod, doesn’t promise, doesn’t even let the silence linger long enough to be taken mistakenly for a yes. Because offering that kind of yes, even casually, feels dangerous. Jannik’s not even sure what this is. Casual sex? When Carlos gets bored, he’ll sneak into his room for a handjob? Or if they don’t land any dates on the weekends, they’ll get their rocks off with each other instead?
Jannik has no idea if what they’re doing has any significance. He’s not about to ask, either; it feels a little too much like one of those “what are we?” conversations, and Jannik has no interest in opening that door right now. Never, if he can help it.
So he says nothing to the statement. Just enough to keep the moment alive, just enough to avoid killing it. It's a fine line. He sits up, trying to find his pants.
“I have an exam in the morning,” Jannik explains before Carlos questions him, and it’s a truth. It’s not as if staying the night is a big thing. They live in the same space.
“Studying again? We just came from the library.”
“That was MCAT prep.”
“You’re crazy,” but there isn’t further fight, “we are going to Kayla’s party on Friday night.”
“Thanks for asking,” Jannik mutters, faking his anger. “Who’s Kayla?”
“Kayla? From the Shakespeare class we took second semester. Red hair-”
“Ah!” Jannik points his finger, the name and likeness striking him. “Didn’t know you still talk to her.”
“I don’t. Friend of a friend.” He doesn’t ask for the explanation of the web of conversations it took them to get to this point.
“Sure.” It’s an easy acceptance. “You going to bed or do I need my headphones?”
“You saying I’m loud?” Jannik raises an eyebrow and Carlos laughs. “I’ll go to bed. I am going to the gym in the morning.” As if he doesn’t already know that. Jannik could probably recite Carlos’s schedule better than his own. Now fully dressed again, he stalls, trying to figure out how to say goodbye without making it feel clumsy or too final. They’re plenty of the former and nothing of the latter.
The silence stretches just long enough for uncertainty to creep in, his mind cycling through a few awkward options.
Before he can settle on one, Carlos rises, slipping on his underwear with a casual ease. Then, without a word, he leans in, one hand settling gently on Jannik’s back holding him there. The moment is over. They don’t have to do this. Jannik kisses back anyway, grazing his fingers along Carlos’ arm, not trying to keep Carlos there but enjoying his presence nonetheless. He should go before he feels the reckless inclination to stay. The kiss doesn’t seem to have an end in sight, however, so Jannik has to pull away himself.
“Carlos.” It’s tinged with surprise and reverence, and he forces a cough.
“Good luck on your exam.”
“Thanks.” What else can he say? Okay, he needs to go. There’s still a delay because Carlos is still touching him, he’s still touching Carlos. Finally, he takes a step back and exits the room without looking back. It’s a protection.
The party isn’t that great. The music’s decent, the drinks are flowing, and there are just enough people to keep the place alive without it turning into a sweaty mess, but it’s nothing special.
He’s been to better. Parties where the energy felt electric, where people actually danced instead of just standing around pretending not to care. Nights where the chaos was fun and not just loud. But he’s also been to far worse: nights where the vibe was off, the music was bad, the drinks were warm and stale, where he counted down the minutes until he could leave without being rude with Carlos still being his overly friendly self - talking to anyone who wanted to speak with him to pass the time quicker. There’s only been a handful of times where he attended a function without the man, and even then, it was with Casper or Holger.
This is somewhere in the middle. Finals are right around the corner, so this acts more like the final hurrah for many. This is likely the last one Jannik will attend until his exams are done.
Carlos had dragged him somewhere between the corner and the middle of the open dance space because he was talking to someone else from one of his classes. They were discussing their final projects or something, and it reminds him that he should probably be home studying. Not that he blames his roommate for his shitty decision to be here, he is his own person, but he could be doing better as a student. The perfectionist in him, the guilt of not being the sharpest academic instrument that rivals a scalpel, always jabs its dull finger at him.
So Jannik slides past everyone to drink by himself.
They agreed not to play their game this time. It’s a short walk back to the dorm. They’re free to let loose as much as they want, and tonight, Jannik needs that more than he’s willing to admit. The stress of his exam still clings to him, even though he took it thirteen hours ago. It's lodged in his shoulders, coiled tight in his chest, refusing to let go. So he takes two shots in addition, not enough to get drunk, just enough to take the edge off. Enough for the tension in his body to finally start unraveling, like a slow exhale he didn’t realize he was holding.
By the time he locates Carlos again, he feels much better, handing Carlos is own drink.
“Thanks.”
The person Carlos was talking to is nowhere to be found, but it’s not long before the athlete is finding another person to meet, introducing the both of them as if Jannik is going to engage much. He’s not good at making friends. Still, Jannik remains friendly, the bass of the song thrumming the alcohol coursing in his veins.
As time ticks on, the drinks settle deeper into his system, softening the hard edges of his thoughts and loosening his limbs. He’s swaying now, a sort of grooving that follows Carlos’s lead. He’s matching his rhythm, mirroring his words without really thinking. Carlos makes him a bit mindless, doesn’t he?
If he were sober, he might stop to analyze it. He might realize just how closely he’s moving in sync with Carlos, a bit too pressed into him, like he's not quite operating on his own anymore, more an extension of the other man’s energy than his own person. Autonomy is relinquished in favor of comfortability, and Carlos is comfortable.
He might ask himself why his fingers have hooked into the bottom hem of Carlos’s shirt, and why they stay there. Sober Jannik would probably pick it apart, question the intimacy of such a small gesture. But right now, all he knows is that it feels natural. Familiar. Like something that doesn’t need to be explained, and Carlos says nothing, doesn’t pull away either.
“Having fun?” Jannik asks him when the conversations stop. Carlos faces him, drinking another drink that was gifted to him. He’d guess they’re hovering around the same level of tipsy.
“A little.” They’re sharing a smile, something that feels intimately them, an inside joke that only they share and no one in the world could understand. Except it’s nothing, just two people standing in front of each other suspending time for a second.
A few piano notes play, and by the first line, Jannik knows exactly what song it is. There’s a wave of recognition that ripples through the room, a buzz of anticipation, like something big is about to drop. It’s Party in the USA all over again. Everyone holds their breath for the chorus, then erupts, yelling the lyrics they barely remember, but know well enough to scream.
Jannik grins as he takes a sip of his drink, preparing.
I know you wanted me to stay
But I can't ignore the crazy visions of me in LA
And I heard that there's a special place
Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day
“Isn’t this song..?” Carlos doesn’t finish his question as the people join in singing the song, more people joining in as they start to remember the lyrics. Jannik laughs, already feeling plenty loose from how much he has drank.
“What? You don’t like Pink Pony Club?” It’s a tease. Everybody likes Pinky Pony Club. It’s a staple song of rebellion, of choosing your own path for enjoyment rather than expectation. In short, it’s exactly why half of the people at this party are in college in the first place. In a way, college is the Pink Pony Club.
“I don’t know it,” lies Carlos, already bobbing to the music. He’s heard him listen to it before, so Jannik steps closer, smirking. Carlos is lying on purpose, just to be called out. He’ll bite, why not.
“Yes, you do. We all do.”
I'm having wicked dreams of leaving Tennessee
Hear Santa Monica, I swear it's calling me
Won't make my mama proud, it's gonna cause a scene
She sees her baby girl, I know she's gonna scream
Carlos hesitates, but even Jannik starts screaming the lyrics with the rest of the crowd by the last line, far too inebriated to care about how ridiculous he looks or sounds. Jannik hooks his arm over Carlos, drawing him close and pressing their cheeks together for a moment, knowing the man will not push him away.
God, what have you done?
You're a pink pony girl
And you dance at the club
Oh mama, I'm just having fun
On the stage in my heels
It's where I belong down at the
He can feel Carlos smiling, maybe even laughing, against him, before he's swept up in the chaos himself, grabbing an imaginary mic and throwing his head back to belt the chorus. Jannik’s laughing too, catching the eye of a random girl who tries to sing with them. Sure, why not? Join the fun. Her friend turns around too, and now they’re a random group of tipsy idiots singing -
Pink Pony Club
I'm gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony Club
I'm gonna keep on dancing down in
West Hollywood
I'm gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony Club, Pink Pony Club
They’re dancing. They’re shit at it. Always have been, but who cares? It’s more like bouncing around with a few aimless arm flails. Jannik is still wrapped around Carlos, like that’s where he’s meant to be. It’s a natural thing for them when they’re not intentionally trying to find other people in the room. They stick close when it’s not time to separate. Carlos and Jannik. Jannik and Carlos.
The room settles, but they don’t. They’re still tangled up in each other, trading jabs about how terrible the other sings, taking lazy sips from their cups. Then the chorus hits again, and they’re back at it singing-no, screaming- the lyrics at each other like it’s a competition neither of them wants to win. Their faces are so close to each other, but there’s not a singular thought to kiss Carlos. He genuinely just enjoys how fucking stupid they are.
Jannik used to hate it when Carlos dragged him to these parties at the beginning of their blooming friendship. Carlos would insist, over and over, that he needed to lighten up, to stop treating college like all he was paying for was the classes.
“Live a little,” he’d say, always with that maddening grin that made it hard to argue. Jannik would roll his eyes, already dreading the loud music, the strangers, the awkward small talk with people he won’t remember the next day. It took him a couple of weeks to nail Holger and Casper’s names. He assumed that Carlos would ditch him the moment they arrived, leave him to figure it out on his own, but Carlos never did.
Instead, he’d pull Jannik through the crowd, introducing him to his friends, showing him where the drinks were, dancing like a fool until Jannik couldn’t help but laugh. He brought him into each space like he belonged there, and there was never a direct question as to whether he did because he was with Carlos, the social butterfly. The rooms got easier to join over time. The faces more familiar, even if he never remembered their names. Somewhere along the way, what Jannik used to dread became something he secretly looked forward to because Carlos never just brought him to the party. Carlos always made it worth it, even when they’re two idiots singing Pink Pony Club, accidentally ignoring the two girls in front of them.
“Gotta go.” Jannik jerks his thumb towards the direction he assumes the bathroom would be as the song winds down.
“‘Kay,” and Carlos starts a conversation with one of them with that little charming smile. Lovely. He weaves his way through the crowd, his drink spilling onto his hand because someone bumped into him. It’s chill.
Downing the rest of it, he tosses the cup in the overfilled trash can on his way down the hall, searching for the bathroom. It has a line so he waits, scrolling on his phone. It’s comical to be at a party checking your grades or double- checking if he had an assignment due that was late, but he’s got a degree to earn and a near- perfect GPA to maintain. It’s impossible that he was the only one who had done that tonight on a Friday night. It passes the time, anyway.
“Jannik?” A recognizable voice calls out to him, and he knows those shoes too.
“Lia,” he says, greeting his ex with a flicker of a smile as he catches sight of hers still just as pretty as he remembers. Someone squeezes past, forcing her to press against him for a moment, and Jannik instinctively reaches for her arms. Partly to steady her, partly to ease a bit of space between them once the moment passes and the person is gone.
“Sorry, how are you?”
“Good, good.” He’s not good at these kinds of conversations. They didn’t break up on bad terms or on a sour note. There was no bitterness, just a mutual sense of boredom. Jannik was deeply committed to his education, while Lia thrived on the party scene. She was adventurous in ways he simply wasn’t. Their relationship had its fun moments, sparked by that first party where they met, but it gradually died once she realized that lifestyle wasn’t really his. Lia was always more aligned with Carlos. Her energy matched his far better, and they got along in ways Jannik and Lia never quite did. He barely calls her an ex, considering they never went on a date. Had sex a couple of times, hung out around campus, and even stopped by the dorm enough times to get along with Carlos. That was practically it for the two month trial run they had, but she is beautiful. Very.
“You here with Carlos?”
He jerks his head in the direction he came from. “Somewhere on the dance floor talking to someone.” She rolls her eyes playfully.
“Classic Carlos.”
“How are you?”
“Also good. Same as always.” Yeah, this would be more awkward if he weren’t a couple of drinks deep. “Think I should go say hi to Carlos?” She might try to sleep with him. Honestly, that wouldn’t be all that surprising for either of them. Carlos would ask- he’s not a total slut without any boundaries - and Jannik would probably give the green light while trying not to think too much about it. Jannik just doesn’t want to stick around and listen to them both at once. That’s way too much to handle.. He might slip into the bottom floor of the dorm watching YouTube videos until they’re done, but they’re their own person.. Even if he’s fucked both of them.
He's fucked both of them.
An odd, horrifying thought of a three-way slips into his head, and Jannik realizes he has probably drunk way too much.
“Sure,” Jannik finally replies, his brain catching up to what’s happening in the real world.
“It’s good to see you. Maybe we can catch up soon.” She gives him that sweet smile again, the kind that makes him wonder if they ever really ended, or if they’ve just been paused, on some slow-burning loo, doomed to return.. She grazes his arm as a farewell and enters the thick of the crowd to find Carlos, presumably. He watches her go for a moment, then he unlocks his phone again, checking his osteology quiz grade like it has changed from ungraded in the time it took for Lia to make him question himself for a couple of moments. They wouldn’t work. Not then, not now, probably not later.
“There’s another bathroom upstairs,” someone mentions in passing, and Jannik heads that way, finding the silence of the upstairs to be better for him anyway. It’s quiet up here. Their bedroom doors are probably locked. Smart. Jannik locates the bathroom without a long line, and it’s cooler up here too. It sobers him up a little. Songs keep changing and he wonders how long he’s been gone.
Nonetheless, he gets his business done, and someone steps in after him, the last one in line. Carlos is at the bottom of the stairs, two steps up.
“You went missing,” Carlos chides, climbing the steps instead of Jannik descending. That’s cool. It feels nice up here anyway. “Ooh, it’s nice up here.”
“They locked the rooms.” His friend makes a soft ‘ah’ sound and they’re standing in the middle of a hallway doing nothing. There’s an electronic song booming downstairs, but it’s muffled with the space and elevation. “Did you see Lia?”
“Yeah, she said hi.” That’s it? The last person in the bathroom excuses themselves as he slides past them, descending the stairs.
“Nothing else? Didn’t want to fuck you?” It’s weird that this somewhat feels like a soft spot. He’s not getting sober fast enough. Carlos looks as confused as Jannik feels at the moment.
“No? Why? Does she want to?”
“I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”“You could. If you wanted to.. She’s your type. I don’t know.” Jannik slides down a wall, Carlos following him, and they’re now two idiots on the second floor of someone’s house.
“You don’t know my type,” Carlos defends, knocking their shoulders together, “and I don’t want to be with her like that.”
“I do know your type. Brown hair, nice eyes, nice ass, and loud like you.”
“Okay maybe you do know my type, but I still wouldn’t fuck her.” Jannik laughs at the first part
“Yeah.” He doesn’t try to figure out if he believes him or not, but he knows he already does. Jannik trusts Carlos more than he trusts her, naturally.
“Jan,” Carlos calls out, and it sounds so much clearer in this space.
“Yeah?” He barely gets the question out, turning toward Carlos only to find they're already kissing. It should be shocking, but somehow it isn’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just them. Still, this is riskier, kissing out in the open, where anyone could walk by and recognize them, see exactly what’s happening. Jannik’s drunk too much to care.
He leans in, angling his body toward Carlos, kissing him back without hesitation. Carlos palms his cheek, calloused skin rough against his cheek. It’s grounding, in a way.
The kiss is deep, not quick, like they’re still exploring with their mouths. Jannik ignores the pang in his chest when Carlos’ nail scrapes his ear, something so small and distinctly all Carlos. There’s a moan that rumbles between them, and it takes an extra second for Jannik to figure out it came from him. His hand is tight on the black t-shirt Carlos is wearing, unknowingly trying to pull him closer.
“Wanted to kiss you,” admits Carlos, and Jannik finds himself laughing, pushing his best friend away playfully.
“Don’t we need to go home? You have to play tomorrow.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“No.” Carlos pretends to pass away, clutching onto his chest above his heart and slumping on the floor. He kicks him softly. “You need to go to bed, stupid.”
“I’m not stupid, you’re stupid, and it will be fine.”
“I’m not fucking you.”
“No, I’m fucking you.” Jannik kicks him again, harder. “Ow! I’m going to lose tomorrow if you keep beating me. Domestic violence.” Carlos rolls onto his back, then springs to his feet in one fluid motion, like a particularly graceful armadillo. He extends his hand to help Jannik to his feet, then leans in to kiss him, a playful reward for his so-called chivalry. Jannik makes no effort to stop him. Encouraging him, more like, kissing back easily.
Their kisses until this point have always led somewhere: a destination in a tangle of naked limbs. Jannik just denied him, yet he kisses him anyway, without tongue or urgency. It’s the slotting of their mouths, a soothing pressure that makes Jannik want to give in. He’s not even sure what he is giving in to, but the feeling is there, regardless.
“You love me.” There isn’t any denial, the statement unchallenged, and they still haven’t made their way downstairs yet. Jannik is still close, their fingers still loosely tangled from when Carlos pulled him up. This isn’t the moment to dissect what any of it means. Certainly not the look in Carlos’s eyes, not the way Jannik’s heart stutters, not the quiet understanding blooming between them.
“You coming to my practice?” It’s his way of redirecting, of easing tension without dismissing it completely. One of the many things Jannik both loves and curses about him: his ability to deflect with perfect timing, to shift the moment without breaking it. And that’s exactly what Jannik needs right now.
“I promised I would.” They’re getting ready to start the season up again when they return from the holiday break, so they’re trying to keep the players fit. That means practicing like they play. Jannik never goes to the away matches, but Carlos doesn’t have to do much convincing to get him to come to the Saturday matches or practices. Sometimes he is jealous of Carlos when he can travel to all of these places in the middle of the week, missing out on classes without penalty.
Truthfully, he figures Carlos doesn’t miss much, juggling a double major in Photography and Studio Art. Still, he knows there are projects where Carlos misses the chance to create something stronger, pieces that could’ve been better if he had the time or space to dive deeper. He remembers Carlos telling him that when he didn’t get a good grade on a painting he admittedly completed last minute.
Carlos smiles. It’s not flawless like Lia’s, with her perfect teeth, but it’s better. Warmer. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s something unfiltered about it, something real. You know it’s real. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t just sit on a face; it radiates. Jannik can practically feel it, like the joy behind it is being passed directly to him, invisible and electric like a transmitter. And Jannik is tuned in to him. It’s not about symmetry or perfection. It’s about how Carlos’s whole face lights up.
“Making sure. We can go home.” Carlos gives his hand a gentle tug. Oh, they’re still holding hands. Jannik hadn’t even noticed they were still doing it, like it had become the most natural thing in the world. Carlos doesn’t mention it either; he just leads him through the house, nodding and tossing out a few casual greetings to people as they pass.
They slip out the front door, leaving behind the hum of the party, and the sudden bite of the night air is immediate. It’s colder than before, sharper. It makes an honest man out of him in the sense that Jannik would probably fold his arms, tuck his hands into his sleeves like he usually does, but one of them is still wrapped in Carlos’, and it’s warm. He doesn’t think about pulling away. He doesn’t let go of Carlos’ hand.
The walk isn’t long - twenty-five minutes, give or take - but it stretches out in that pleasant, in-between way where neither of them is in a hurry despite the temperature outside. They drift between topics, talking about nothing in particular: hardass professors, how the smallest bone is in your ear, bad cafeteria food, which of their friends is most likely to end up on a reality show (it’s Holger on Love Island, and how terrible he would be). The kind of conversation that doesn’t mean much…but it does.
At one point, Carlos breaks into a hum, Pink Pony Club, again, off-key but distinctive. Jannik groans but can’t hide the grin creeping onto his face.
“I thought you said you didn’t know it.”
“It’s catchy!” They’re laughing, the warmth in their bellies provided by something other than the alcohol in their gut.
It’s unspoken when they get home and kick their shoes off that they settle in one bed. It’s more like Carlos follows him into his room and Jannik says nothing of it, shedding off his shirt and tossing one of his extra water bottles at him while he finds his extra charger for Carlos to use. Carlos sleeps hot, as he found out firsthand, so it’s not surprising when the man is down to his underwear as he climbs into his bed like he belongs there. He does look mighty comfortable in his comforter.
Jannik slips into sweatpants and joins him, and hands already reach to him, heated palms against his cooling skin. Carlos pulls him into another kiss, lazy and feeling, their limbs tangling. It’s beyond Jannik why he continues to indulge like this, to match the man where he is by some automatic, unspoken beckon. Their kiss includes tongue this time, and Carlos all but plasters himself to him, kicking away at the blanket.
“You’re not fucking me,” Jannik reminds him.
“Not trying to.” He doesn’t get the chance to ask what Carlos is doing before Carlos pulls back, shifting down the bed until his head rests against Jannik’s collarbone. He presses an absent-minded kiss to the side of his neck, before settling there, like that’s exactly where he was meant to be. Maybe he is, if Jannik’s arms winding around him was any indication.
Something about his ear pressed a bit awkwardly against him makes him think about the stapes bone again, the smallest bone that is in the ear. It helps transmit sound vibrations, like his elevating heart rate from whatever the fuck they’re doing right now.
“Are you a cuddly drunk?”
“Fuck you,” but it has no bite. But Carlos does have bite, sinking his teeth in his pectoral, another mark to add to the history of Carlos Alcaraz. “You’re warm. Skinny, but warm.”
“You’re going to start sweating in like 10 minutes.”
“Not the first time I’ve been sweaty on you.”
“Shut up.” Also with no bite. Carlos does shut up for a minute or two, long enough for Jannik to consider if he needs to sit up more so he doesn’t get sick in the middle of the night. No, he’s fine. Not enough alcohol to feel sick, just enough to feel things he probably shouldn’t.
“You know I wouldn’t fuck Lia,” Carlos says again, like it’s been on his mind for a while.
Jannik loosens his hug, tilting his chin down so he can try to look at Carlos. It doesn’t work very well.
“I know that. It’s not really you.”
“She say she wants me or something?”
“She’s interested in you. Even when we were together, she always liked you more.” His tongue is still too slippery, saying things he didn’t care to put out in the world. It’s not a big deal. Jannik doesn’t have any personal vendettas or hard feelings about any of it, but he’s being honest nonetheless. It’s Carlos, anyway. If there’s anyone within the next five hundred blocks that he would say this stuff to, it’s him.
“You make it sound like you’re some second choice,” Carlos mumbles, his cheek squished against his chest. “You think she dated you because I didn’t want her?”
“No, I -”
“She’s fucking stupid. Doesn’t matter how hot she is.”
“So you do think she’s hot.” He’s half-joking.
“I think you’re hot, too.”
“That’s different.” Jannik doesn’t elaborate. He could - there’s more he could say, more tangled thoughts sitting behind his teeth - but he doesn’t. He’s not sure if he wants to. The silence feels safer than the explanation. Maybe it’s laziness, maybe it’s fear, or maybe it’s just that saying it out loud would make it too real. What they’re doing becomes too real. It breaks the bubble of the nonchalance between them, the safe degree of friendship that they share. It only confirms what they are doing is changing something, the very thing Jannik anticipated.
Even with that, Jannik hasn’t called it out, unsure if what they’re doing has a destination or stopping point. He’s trapped in the uncertainty of it all. Damned if he brings it up, damned if he doesn’t.
He figures it’s fine if Carlos doesn’t ask, too. In a way, that silence between them becomes its own kind of agreement, both a quiet denial and a subtle acceptance. Like they’re acknowledging something without having to name it. Or maybe not acknowledging at all. That’s too much thinking.
“You had more fun with me than writing,” declares Carlos, not leaving room for argument.
There isn’t one to be had, anyway. Jannik rumbles in laughter, tugging on Carlos’ hair simply because he can.
“Whatever you say, Charlie.” He doesn’t call him that often. Other people call him that, a nickname that separates him from all of the other Carlos’ that attend this campus. He’s not even the only Carlos who plays tennis, so he went by Charlie unofficially. Jannik isn’t a fan; not even sure why he says it, but Carlos is positively buzzing on top of him.
“Charlie!” Jannik grimaces and realizes his mistake too late.
“Don’t yell.”
“You said Charlie.” He’s squirming, shifting in Jannik’s arms like he just can’t settle, and Jannik exhales sharply through his nose, staring up at the ceiling like it personally offended him.This is the last time, Jannik tells himself, absolutely the last time they try cuddling. It’s not worth the chaos. Carlos might be good at a lot of things, but staying still? Not one of them.
Jannik’s pretty sure that if Carlos’s life depended on lying still for five minutes, he’d fail flamboyantly.
Even as he silently swears off cuddling forever, he doesn’t actually pull away. He doesn’t shove Carlos off his body or the bed, though the image of him tumbling to the floor with a dramatic thud is deeply tempting. Jannik entertains the thought for a moment, if only to get a head start on the inevitable back-and-forth they’re about to dive into.
“I’m drunk.”
“Not that drunk,” Carlos smiles, clearly feeling accomplished. “I knew you liked it.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why did you say it?” Jannik groans, both due to Carlos rolling on top of his body as if he could top this conversation physically and the annoying nature of their bickering.
“Carlos,” he warns, the temptation to toss him only growing.
“You’re the one who called me Charlie, so-” He doesn’t toss him off the bed like he anticipated. Jannik lifts his head and kisses him, another first for them. Jannik figures he’s already this deep, he might as well lean into it. Carlos immediately responds, chasing his mouth with an eagerness that catches Jannik off guard. He dips his head, angling himself to make the kiss easier, more natural, bracing his hands on either side of Jannik’s head. It’s not a lazy makeout session like at the party. This one does feel like it’s going somewhere, and Carlos is squirming against him again, their hardening cocks brushing through thin layers of clothing.
Jannik curses softly, inhaling quickly as Carlos’ left hand explores his waist again.
“Carlos,” he calls out, and Carlos moans softly at the mention of his name. It seems he would like that better than Charlie.
“Not fucking you,” is the rasped promise, but it doesn’t look like they’re stopping anytime soon. “Just let me…” Carlos doesn’t finish his sentence, adjusting something with his hips and oh. Oh fuck. Jannik knocks his head back, taking a deep breath because if he doesn’t, he was going to moan because the friction was fucking perfect. A head ducks into his neck, not kissing or sucking the skin initially. It’s like Carlos is taking him in, his teeth brushing his jugular but not doing anything.
Never in his limited experience had he thought that clothed grinding could feel like that. He’s done it before, don’t get him wrong. He doesn’t know what the fuck this is, why he’s canting his hips up desperate to experience it again, now fully erect and wanting. Carlos is now sucking on his neck, tongue darting over his vein with a flick that makes him want to shake. This can’t keep getting better. It’s impossible.
“Fucking hell,” Jannik curses again, doing his best to keep his eyes open, but his fingers are digging into Carlos’ back and they keep moving their bodies against each other. He wonders if they look stupid. Probably.“Do you think you could cum like this?” The question throws him off, but they’re rutting against each other without rhythm. Jannik reaches up to tug the horrible man into another kiss. It’s messy, their teeth banging on accident, but he needs it. He needs to swallow his name falling from Carlos’ lips like water. He’s parched.
“No,” but it feels like a lie when he moans the very next moment, his dick twitching, a silent request he is not going to abide by.
“Okay.” And they’re kissing again, Carlos sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, his eyes glinting in the dark room. It might have something to do with the lightpost outside. It
probably has something to do with how much he genuinely enjoys this. It’s a shared sentiment, scarily enough. It doesn’t seem to deter their grinding in the slightest and he does feel the warmth in his gut, the one that alcohol can’t achieve. Carlos spreads his hand up from his waist, to his abdomen, blunt nail scratching at his nipple. Jannik hisses and jolts.
“Fuck - come on.”
“You want me to fuck you?” Yes -
“No, just - “ Jannik relaxes his body all at once, feeling like he is giving up the fight. What was he fighting against? He reaches under his sweatpants, between their bodies, to grip himself. Carlos tugs him away by his wrist. “Carlos.” It sounds eerily like begging.
“Not fair,” Carlos declares, but replaces Jannik’s hand with his own, moving his body to the side to make more room. He wants to kiss him again, but Jannik stops himself, but panting in his face seems worse. Fuck, and Carlos just stares at him. Observing. Perfecting the twist of his wrist to drive the heat in his gut to its boiling point.
“Shit, Carlos.”
“Yeah?” They’re still grinding, a tanned leg draped over him . Carlos stops looking in favor of sucking another mark into his neck, a place too high for any turtleneck to cover. He’ll sit in the stands, likely in one of Carlos’ Nike hoodies in an attempt to stop people from seeing much Carlos tries ruining him. Tries - that’s scoffable. Jannik releases a long sound, something he will not call a whine, fucking into the hand and tilting his head to give Carlos more room to work with. He feels insanely sober, but drunk on someone instead of something.
“I’m gonna cum.” Carlos laughs softly into his throbbing skin, and it gets him there that much faster.
“Please.” It’s a tease, the asshole, but it works. So fucking well. Too fucking well. Jannik opens his eyes with shaking breath as he cums. Even Carlos moans, stroking him softly until it’s too much.
“Stop, stop. Fuck, stop.” Uncaring if he incidentally makes a mess, he flips them over, spitting into his hand and sliding them in Carlos’ underwear. Carlos says something, but he doesn’t hear it, entirely too focused on getting him there too. A hand grips his nape and they’re kissing again. It tastes saltier. Did Carlos -? Jannik groans into their kiss, knowing he is tasting himself on Carlos’ tongue. Somewhere in that, there’s the feeling of warm cum spreading over his fist too, but Carlos doesn’t stop kissing him.
The moment doesn’t dissipate immediately. It slowly descends in a series of lazier, slower kisses until Jannik finally opens his eyes, finding those orbs already regarding him.
“Thought we weren’t going to fuck.” It should ruin the moment. It doesn’t. Jannik bites on Carlos’ lower lip.
“We didn’t.”
“Close enough,” Carlos says with a higher octave, as if he was singing the argument.
“What does it take to shut you up?”
“Find out.” The challenge rings in the air and his dick gives a half-interested jump in his sweatpants. Not now. Jannik rolls off the bed to clean his hand from the drying cum. By the time he returns, Carlos is back under the covers, looking quite content once more.
“Are you really sleeping in my bed?” He climbs back in, getting himself comfortable.
“It’s like a sleepover.”
“We live together.” For once, there isn’t a witty remark. Maybe he did manage to shut him up. Carlos adorns his arm around his waist like it belongs there. Jannik’s far too tired now to do or say anything about it.
“Goodnight, Jan.”
“Night.” He almost says Charlie, but it’s not because he wants to call him that. He almost says it because it would make Carlos happy. That’s probably worse.
Some lines are better left uncrossed. Even if they’re only made of a name. They’ve crossed one too many lines already.
Speaking of lines: Carlos is annoyingly good at hitting them. If you blink or sit at the wrong angle, you'd swear the ball was out. But no, it's always just barely in, sharp and deliberate. Jannik tries not to look too invested in the practice match, keeping his expression neutral, but it's his best friend out there. Of course he's watching, wearing the light blue hoodie that is his personal favorite, even if it doesn’t belong to him.
A few girls sitting nearby aren’t as subtle, giggling and openly ogling every time Carlos lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. Jannik wants to rolls his eyes. The indoor gym is open to anyone who wants to wander in, and of course Carlos had posted about it on his story, practically begging people to come watch.
Attention whore.
There’s no contest that half of the people sitting on the stands with him are here for Carlos in some way. Carlos is like that; he’s got everyone wrapped around his finger. Jannik doesn’t necessarily care to feel special, but he wonders how many people his roommate had asked to be here specifically. How many eyes does Carlos Alcaraz need on him before he is satisfied?
But the man is insatiable. Jannik is learning that one way or another.
Carlos even flips the racket as a cool little party trick as his opponent, his teammate, sets up the serve. The serve goes in and Carlos darts to the right, and for a moment, Jannik expects him to miss it or the ball to go flying. It doesn’t. Carlos manages to return the ball in and out of reach of his opponent.
There are cheers all around and Carlos is still showboating, flexing his fist like he won a grand slam and not a practice point. That same hand had been all over him hours ago. Jannik claps slowly, not wanting to give the man too much because he needs to be humbled. Then Carlos looks straight at him, radiating joy and excitement, and how could he not try to match that? Something gives in a little bit with Carlos’ unabashed youth.
“Did you see that?” The question is for him, but everyone answers in more cheers in his stead. Jannik flips him off in response, smirking, and somehow Carlos only beams harder, feeding off the attention like sunlight. He really does need to be humbled... just not right now.
Not today.
Jannik cups his hands around his hands around his mouth, yelling, “Vamos, Carlos!” It’s not louder than everyone else, but it’s something that the athlete’s smile falters for a moment before it returns.
“Vamos!” Like he’s the only one he was listening for.
Jannik grins and shakes his head, thinking about how stupid Carlos is. So so stupid. It’s no wonder everyone loves him. Himself included.