In Basel, Julian is queuing for an espresso at the players' café, his laptop tucked under his arm. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the rain is coming down in a thick curtain, dark and grey as if it was already ushering November in. Inside, in the warm glow, there's soft chatter and then, suddenly in the foreground, Julian hears that laugh. Loud and clear, so bright, he could pick it out from a mile away. 

He turns his head to look — at a table in the corner, Fabio is sitting with Jasper and Mario, entertaining them with a story punctuated with animated hand gestures. All three of them are doubled over with laughter.

Julian's lips curl into a smile, and Fabio must have sensed his gaze because he looks up. His grin spreads even wider and he lifts his hand up in a wave.

"Julian! Come here! I was telling them about when we missed the flight in Beijing!"

It's a funny story about a language misunderstanding with a taxi driver that ended up costing them a lot of money, but Julian can't afford to get sucked into Fabio's never-ending storytelling right now. He lifts his laptop a little.

"Carry on. I need to work."

"Suit yourself," Fabio pouts and turns back to his friends.

Later in the evening, with the rain still drumming against the windows, Julian is hunched uncomfortably over the too-small desk in their hotel room, stuck in an email back-and-forth with the tournament admin, trying to figure out the mess that is the practice court schedule.

He hears the shower click off in the bathroom, and a few minutes later Fabio emerges, and Julian catches a whiff of his own shampoo as he arrives square into Julian's personal space. He hops up on the edge of the desk in one fluid movement, forcing Julian further back in his chair. His left leg is swinging off the table lazily; he balances his right foot on Julian's knee.

"You're working all the time," he says, sounding decidedly unimpressed.

Julian tries to refocus on his inbox, but suddenly he finds Fabio's physical presence too distracting — the long line of his calf, the newly defined muscles in his thigh with the sun tattoo stretching across them when he shifts, his stupid knee, are all just so there, it makes Julian's brain skip like a scratched-up record. He pushes the screen of the laptop down with a soft click.

"Someone has to keep things running while you're out there doing stand-up comedy."

Fabio shoves the laptop further out of the way with the heel of his palm.

"You can have fun too. You don't have to think about coaching things all the time."

Julian huffs. "It's literally my job."

"Is it too much?" Fabio asks, his head tilted to the side. His voice is so earnest, it catches Julian completely off guard.

Is it? Julian considers it. The constant admin, the running around, the obsessively keeping track of everything that they need to do just to get on the court. And then the tennis itself, the hours spent drilling on the practice court, the books, the strategising. The psychology of it, always having to know the right thing to say, always being attuned to Fabio's slightest shifts of mood. Being a mentor, being a friend or whatever the fuck — the line between the two has blurred well past recognition in his head. But in one way or another, he needs to be on 24/7.

"It's a lot," he says after a pause, "but not too much, no. You don't have to worry about it."

"I won't worry then," Fabio says, his eyes creasing with a soft smile. "But you know you can talk to me about it. I can listen."

"I doubt it," Julian grumbles, scrambling to reign his malfunctioning brain back into a steady state. "That would involve you shutting up."

Fabio laughs mischievously, then leans forward looks Julian square in the eye.

"When the season is over," he says, dropping a hand on Julian's shoulder, his voice measured as if his leg wasn't bouncing wildly up and down, "I want you to call Luca. We're gonna write a new contract. I'm gonna cover your fees from next year."

Julian takes a second to process.

"Jesus Christ, Fabio."

"I know," Fabio grins at him, delighted. "It's the two of us against the world."

His hands move to cup Julian's face, all his bodyweight suddenly balanced on the foot resting on Julian's knee, and for a horrible second Julian thinks Fabio might kiss him. His pulse starts kicking like a wild horse under his ribs.

But he doesn't, why would he? He just holds on to Julian's face gently, tilts it upwards as if to get a better look at it, as if to memorise his expression in this moment. That grin is still there, blinding, wiping Julian's head completely clear of thought.

"I'm gonna be your boss," Fabio says, looking so happy he might burst.

Then, with the same momentum, he lets go and shifts back. Still smiling to himself, he gently kicks Julian in the knee before bouncing off the desk. Julian follows him with his eyes as he slides on his headphones, thumbs at his phone, and starts humming a stupid melody.

○

Fabio finishes the season close to breaking 50. In the off-season, Julian has to force him to relax and puts him on a plane back to Sicily. As usual, Fabio bombards him with texts, including pictures of the four-bedroom house he's just bought for his parents, outside Taormina, with his Eastbourne prize money.

"It's old and it needs to be renovated," he tells Julian over FaceTime. For some reason he's shirtless and he looks like he's just gotten a fresh haircut. He flips the camera to show Julian some of the peeling paint in the large living room, otherwise empty. "My dad insisted on this one, he wants to do it all by himself. Good luck to him, I guess, the plumbing fucking sucks." Julian laughs and Fabio, pleased with the reaction, grins and runs a lazy hand through his curls, cut short. "Anyway, can you pick me up at the airport on Monday night?"

At Arrivals, Julian spots Fabio first. He has his headphones on, and there's something loose and graceful about his movements as he weaves through the crowd. He navigates Stansted like a Londoner. When he sees Julian, his face lights up and he pushes the headphones down around his neck. They greet each other with a hug, firm and familiar by now. Julian tosses Fabio the keys to the Range Rover.

"You drive."

Fabio holds the keys in his hand like some sort of rare treasure. "Really?"

"Come on, you've earned it," Julian smiles. 

Fabio handles the car with care, his face drawn tight in complete concentration. He hesitates at the first roundabout. Julian reaches out with his hand, taps his fingertips against Fabio's shoulder as if he was correcting his backhand stance.

"Go," he says softly. "Now." Fabio steers to the left with a pale face, then swears and bursts out laughing. He handles the next one without flinching, and soon they are pulling into Julian's drive. Julian decides not to comment on the lopsided parking job.

That night, they don't talk about tennis. They sit at the kitchen island and open a bottle of wine, an expensive red from Julian's collection that he's been saving for some vague special occasion.

And Fabio talks. He tells Julian about everything going on at home — about how things are with his family now that he can send some money home, his dad's plans for the new house, conversations he's had with Luca at the academy, all the paperwork they had done. Instead of his usual childish bravado, there's a quiet confidence laced through his words.

"Look at you," Julian teases, feeling soft on the inside, both from the wine and a sudden surge of pride. "Having meetings with accountants, who would have thought? Like an adult."

"I am an adult," Fabio grins at him, impossibly bright. "I do grown-up stuff all the time." He winks, and heat rises to Julian's cheeks.

But he is, isn't he, the little fucker? He's been one all along. The realisation clicks like a key in the lock for Julian, that this is Fabio. Not just the magnet for chaos, not just the easy, superficial charm that draws people in like moths to a flame.

But the thoughtful, caring person he's been from the start. The way he puts his family first and only then begins to think about himself. The enormous amount of responsibility he's been shouldering for years, with his reckless willingness to take on more and more. The way he wears that infectious smile exactly because it is infectious. When he's happy, he wants the people around him to feel the same.

Even the fact that he's so keen and eager to learn from Julian doesn't feel like something owed or automatic anymore. Not something prescribed by the brand new contract bearing both of their names either.

It feels, rather, like a massive act of trust and generosity on Fabio's part, and Julian is suddenly unsure he even deserves it. But here he is, Fabio, gripping Julian by the hand and dragging him along this path that's so much bigger than both of them, leading him happily into the unknown.

The next realisation follows, another piece of the puzzle locking into place. That Julian isn't really the teacher, and Fabio is not the student anymore. They are something altogether different now, something mutual, something built on trust. A team. 

"Are you even listening to me?" Fabio asks, his voice rising in mock outrage like it always does.

Julian laughs, caught out. "You're talking about taxes. This is boring even by my standards."

Fabio snorts, swinging his foot forward. Julian sees it coming and pulls his leg away just in time, dodging the kick. Their feet come to rest on the crossbar of each others' chairs, their legs crossed between them. They continue talking well into the night.

They fall into a quiet routine for their off-season training — early morning drives to the tennis club through the thick fog clinging to the streets. Gym session, never-ending, the treadmill pounding out a steady rhythm under Fabio's feet, box jumps one after another, weights, muscles straining against resistance bands.

Then the tennis, endless drills and drills and perfecting the shots to millimetres, Julian adjusting Fabio's body as if it was a Swiss watch. In the afternoon, he plays for points against the boys at the tennis club, Julian watching from the sideline, making notes. In the evenings, exhausted, they do their stretches on the floor with Netflix on, or watch highlight reels of other players' best shots, trying to keep their lagging brains sharp.

But the weekends are theirs. They sleep in, no alarms, although it's always Fabio who emerges last from his room, his hair tousled with sleep and the lines of the pillow imprinted into his cheek. They luxuriate in faffing about in the kitchen, make breakfast together. Fabio makes a face into his espresso cup.

"This coffee is like dirty water. You need better beans. And a better machine."

"You've never complained before," Julian laughs. "Getting expensive tastes, are you?"

"I'm Italian," Fabio scoffs, mock-aghast. "I've always known good coffee. I just didn't think you could take the criticism."

"You're such a brat," Julian retorts. He gently pushes him away from the stove with a hand on the small of his back. "You're burning the eggs."

"I'm not!" Fabio protests, scandalised, and pushes back against Julian, refusing to give in. He grabs Julian's wrists, wedges a knee between Julian's legs, puts his entire bodyweight in it.

"Seriously?" Julian pushes back, but Fabio is stronger. He shoves Julian lightly and pins him back against the counter, their legs tangled up, their hips colliding.

It's the violent sizzling of the pan that brings them out of it.

They take an alarmed look at the same time, fingers still pressed into each other's wrists. The edges of the omelette have crinkled up, charcoal black. They double over laughing, hands over their knees. Julian exiles Fabio to the kitchen island and breaks some fresh eggs into the pan.

As they're finally eating quietly, Julian zones out. Fabio is leaning over his phone, chewing on his eggs and toast slowly as he scrolls. His new haircut has grown out already, and his dark curls are casting a shadow above his half-lidded eyes, cool green like a pool of water in a clearing. His bare foot is swinging a few inches above the floor, relaxed as ever. He's still and serene now, as if he hadn't been an absolute menace just five minutes ago.

Julian couldn't take his eyes off him if he tried.

Fabio looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

Julian has the urge to tear his eyes away as if he wasn't looking. He pulls it back at the last moment and turns it into an eye-roll.

"You're insufferable," he says. "One day you're gonna burn my house down."

Fabio gives him a disarming grin. "No, no, I'm careful." He takes a sip from his glass of water as if this conversation was nothing. "I live here too now, no?"

"You certainly do," Julian quips back. "The house looks like a fucking war zone."

But it's not just the house, Julian knows it all too well. Not just his beautiful car either, once pristine inside and out, now carrying the remnants of every practice session like a wound. It's his entire fucking life that this stupid idiot with his gorgeous face has moved into – it's how he has Julian's time and attention, his every conscious thought orbiting him in ways Julian never really signed up for and doesn't quite understand.

"Do you want more tea?" Fabio asks, oblivious, already reaching for Julian's mug.

Something stretches in Julian's chest like a resistance band.

○

A/N: The boys survived their first full season together, but someone should check in on Julian.

Next year, some changes to the team are due as bigger things await. And will Julian learn to take a hint?