Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

carlos just won his 7th grand slam, which is great. truly. spectacular. whatever.

he is currently dissociating in the green room waiting for his presscon, scrolling through a wall of congratulatory texts he has 0 intention of opening because his social battery is somewhere deep in negative digits. winning is a high, sure, but the comedown is a total mindfuck.

on the wall, a tv is flickering with some winter olympics coverage that he could not care less about. he has 0 interest in sports that are basically just, “let’s see how fast you can go down a mountain without dying.” at least, until the broadcast cuts to the finish line.

the screen is suddenly filled with a guy in a red and white speed suit, lungs heaving, goggles pushed up to reveal a face carlos hasn’t seen in a decade but would recognize in a dark alley at 3 a.m.

then, someone in the hallway turns the volume up. “…e ora, un momento storico per l’italia,” the commentator’s voice booms, “il ritorno del nostro prodigio d’oro, jannik sinner!” (and now, a historic moment for italy, the return of our golden prodigy, jannik sinner!)

that is when carlos’s head snaps toward the screen so fast he actually hears his neck crack. he lunges for the tv, his face inches from the glass. he is squinting so hard his eyes hurt.

everything goes quiet. it is the tunnel effect. the walls of the room seem to stretch away, leaving carlos alone with the image of a boy who once lived 3 houses down.

suddenly he is 13 again. he is standing by the lemon tree with a scraped knee, watching the back of a red headed boy’s shirt as he loses another race down the street, feeling that dizzying mix of ‘i hate you’ and absolute, idiot devotion. jannik. the neighbor who moved away to the mountains and took the color out of the neighborhood with him.

that boy is on the screen, the only person who ever made carlos feel like coming in second was actually fine as long as they were together. same freckles. same mouth. same defiant grin. except now, he is a grown man. he remembers every stupid, perfect memory of jannik he was convinced he would never see again.

"carlos? press is waiting," his pr manager says, stepping into the room. "i don't know him," carlos blurts out, despite his pr manager not saying a single word about the tv.

she squints at the screen, then at carlos’s flaming red ears. "i didn't ask."

carlos blinks, spinning his phone in his hand and trying to look like he is just casually checking his stats. “oh, uh… i’m just… appreciating… yes. general admiration for… winter sports.”

“mmm,” she says, sounding approximately 0 percent convinced. “do you know him?”

“no!” carlos says quickly, his hands flying up like he is fending off a swarm of invisible bees. “no i don’t know that person on the screen. that… that man. italian skier. i never met him like 0 history. total stranger he's um... completely unrelated to my life.”

his pr manager tilts her head, her gaze shifting from the tv where jannik is currently biting his gold medal back to carlos’s flaming red ears. “really? is that why your pulse is almost audible from here?”

carlos swallows, his cheeks heating up so fast he is actually worried about spontaneous combustion. he needs to be calm and composed.

instead, he just looks at the screen again, at the lopsided smile and the messy hair and his brain just… 404s. “look, if i had seen that face before… believe me, i would never forget. like, that is a very… memorable facial structure.”

his pr manager raises an eyebrow. “right.”

carlos fiddles with his phone, thumbing through his lock screen with a feral intensity. he nods once, very sharply, and whispers to himself, “i'm a stranger to him. he is a stranger to me. we are strangers.”

“carlos, you’re up. press conference in 5 minutes.”

he stands up, his legs feeling like actual jelly. he looks at the tv one last time, at jannik is waving at the crowd now, looking too perfect, and carlos feels his soul leave his body.

the press conference is, in a word, a crime scene. carlos is shoved onto the stage 5 minutes later. he is pale and sweating.

journalist: “carlos, 7 slams at 22. you’re rewriting history. what was your strategy today?”

carlos stares at the reporter. he blinks once. twice. his brain is just a 24 hour loop of jannik’s freckles and the way those goggles pushed up his hair.

carlos: “uh, yes. for sure, i, i try to play my best jann-. i mean! my best tennis. i mean, i try… uh… to enjoy… the… moment. very… special. yes… dream… uh… come true. for sure. uh…”

the journalists look at each other as if silently saying, tf is this mf talking about?

he grabs his water bottle and drinks half of it in one go, praying for a sinkhole to open up under the table and swallow him whole.

journalist: “and… um… people keep talking about how grounded you seem despite all the success. how do you stay grounded?”

carlos: i think the key to tennis is staying… um… on the ground. like, literally. i don't know why anyone would choose to slide down a mountain on sticks. it is a hard pass for me. i'm very grounded, yes i'm extremely pro ground.

before the moderator can even ask for the next question, carlos pushes his chair back and sprints out of the room like he is chasing a drop shot at 40-40.

carlos is in the back of the car before the engine even turns over. his team is in the front yapping about “recovery protocols” and “media training,” but carlos is currently in a different dimension.

"how does he not have an instagram?" carlos mutters. "is he too fast for the internet? does the wifi freeze?"

he goes to his teammate’s ‘following’ list. he finds a post from the italian olympic team. he clicks a tag.

there. the profile is maddeningly cool. snow, medals, magazine shots, more snow. carlos scrolls with a feral, obsessive energy. he goes past the sleek brand deals and the “thank you italy” posts. he goes deep. 2021. 2020. 2019.

he finds it. it is a photo of jannik at a village fair. he is 17, his hair a mess, and he is holding a massive slice of pizza with a smudge of flour on his nose. he looks so much like the boy from the lemon tree that carlos feels a physical ache in his chest.

did you know? carlos wonders, his eyes stinging. did you watch me win my first slam? did you see me on tv and remember me?

he is staring so hard at jannik’s freckles that his motor skills simply quit. his thumb slips. the heart under the photo turns red.

carlos drops the phone on the floor of the car like it is a live grenade. “oh my god,” he whimpers, burying his face in his hands. praying to every god he knew that jannik’s notifications were off.

he unlikes it in 0.5 seconds, but the damage is done.

the death

they weren't. 

jannik is lying on a massage table, his gold medal hanging from the corner of a nearby chair. he is scrolling through his phone, ignoring his 5000 unread dms.

a notification pops up. it disappears almost instantly.

there is a ghost of a name. a name that has not been in his phone in a decade, but has been on every headline in his newsfeed for years.

jannik opens the app. he sees the unlike, the ultimate “i was never here” move, but he knows. a slow, quiet smirk spreads across his face.

carlos’s heart stops. it actually stops. he opens the message with a shaking thumb and nearly drops the phone again. it is a screenshot. jannik had screenshotted the notification in the 2 seconds it existed. the evidence is right there.

carlos’s brain goes into full blown emergency lockdown mode. there is no “replying.” there is no “being cool.” there is only the survival instinct of a man who has just been perceived in his most vulnerable state. “oh my god,” carlos breathes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “nope. no, we are not doing this. i'm opting out.” his thumb moves with the precision of a world class athlete, not to reply, but to eliminate the threat.

“block,” carlos whimpers, slamming his thumb down on the screen. “yes, please. save me from myself.”

jannik is still on the massage table, waiting for the ‘typing…’ bubble to appear. he has his witty follow up ready.

he taps the profile icon for @carlitosalcarazz to see if he has posted any trophy pictures yet.
[user not found]

jannik blinks. he refreshes. [user not found] he switches to his burner account. the profile is there. he switches back to his main. gone.
jannik stares at the empty screen, a look of pure, bewildered amusement crossing his face. he actually starts to laugh, a sharp, genuine sound that startles the physio.

“did he just…” jannik mutters, shaking his head. “he actually blocked me. 10 years and he is still a little runner.”

jannik sits up, his eyes gleaming with a competitive fire. blocking him might work on the internet, but he knows that nike is announcing their newest global ambassador at their private party in 2 weeks. carlos is the face of the brand, and jannik just signed a massive deal. “okay, carlitos,” jannik murmurs, a smirk playing on his lips.

“run all you want. i’m much faster on the downhill.”